Chosen

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/16832419.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Character: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hannah
Abbott, Millicent Bulstrode, Theodore Nott, Severus Snape, Albus
Dumbledore, Ginny Weasley
Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hogwarts Sixth Year,
Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort,
Eventual Fluff, Eventual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Consent,
POV Alternating, dramione - Freeform, Healthy Relationships, Don't
copy to another site
Language: English
Collections: Past read, Dramione Fics I’ve read and loved, God Tier Dramione, The
High Ground, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY!, Dramione__Stuff, Best
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K8 To Be Read, ultimate dramione rereads, Rowling Magical World
Related FFics Worth To Read Again, I Can’t Have 100+ Tabs Open.,
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Stats: Published: 2018-12-03 Completed: 2020-10-04 Words: 218,570
Chapters: 68/68

Chosen
by 5moreminutes

Summary

Draco Malfoy has a mission to complete, and no one can help him. Spending nights stuck
on Prefect duty with Hermione Granger only adds to his problems. Doesn't it? Or is it
possible that their unlikely relationship could alter the course of the Second Wizarding War
-- if the Boy Who Made All the Wrong Choices can get this one thing right?

Come for the medium-burn Dramione, stay for Magical lore and new twists on the canon
we love (and love to change)

COMPLETE!
Notes

See the end of the work for notes

 Probation

Most of the prefects on Professor McGonagall’s list didn’t surprise her. Ron Weasley, Hermione
Granger, Penelope Clearwater, Michael Corner, Ernie MacMillan, Hannah Abbott, Gemma
Gribbett. It was customary for fifth-year students who had been designated prefects to keep the
title for the remainder of their tenure at Hogwarts. Barring academic failure, medical incapacity, or
what old Hogwarts rules described as “grave failure of character,” once a prefect, always a prefect
was standard. The problem was Draco Malfoy.

After Lucius Malfoy was captured in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, and subsequently
escaped before he could be detained in Azkaban Prison, rumor had buzzed all summer about the
entire Malfoy family. Dumbledore’s contacts had reported for months about an increase of known
Death Eaters frequenting Malfoy Manor. Professor McGonagall knew how to temper her own
inclination to distrust Slytherin students, especially those whose parents had Death Eater history.
She understood quite well that rumors were only rumors and the seriousness of her responsibility to
evaluate students on their own merits, rather than their parents’ choices. Even so, if there was any
possibility that some of the murmurs McGonagall had heard were true, it could be a serious
mistake to readmit the Malfoy heir as a student, let alone in a position of power over others. Snape,
and even Dumbledore, it seemed, did not share her concerns.

As the circumstances stood, her only recourse was to meet with Malfoy in her office at the
beginning of term, which was where she currently sat. He was late.

He swept in ten minutes late, in fact, and folded himself into the chair before she could invite him
to sit.

“What on earth do you want?” he snapped.

“That tone will not be necessary,” McGonagall said. “Mister Malfoy, you have been named one of
the Slytherin prefects--”

“I’m aware. Professor.”

“ Provisional status.”

Draco leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“As such, you will still be expected to perform the necessary duties of a prefect, but certain
privileges will be limited--”

“This is an outrage,” Malfoy said, baring his teeth.

“Kindly refrain from interrupting me, Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall said, her tone clipped with
impatience. “You will be expected to report for all meetings and complete other normal prefect
assignments as usual. You will still be permitted to use the prefects’ lounge and other reserved
facilities. However, until your re-evaluation at the end of term, you will be excluded from prefect
trips, including the holiday Hogsmeade visit, you will confine yourself to standard curfew hours
unless accompanied by another prefect, and you will not have authority to deduct points from
students or assign detentions without another prefect’s signature to confirm the decision. You will
also perform regular hall patrol duties in the presence of another prefect at all times.”

Malfoy looked ready to leap out of his seat at this point. “You’ve lost your mind. You may as well
not make me a prefect at all.”
“Believe me, Mister Malfoy, the thought has occurred to me. Your abuses of your authority last
year were a clear failure to live up to the dignity associated with the honor of this role. It is thanks
to the quality of your grades, and to certain members of the faculty who vouched for you, that you
are awarded this position for a second year at all.” Snape, usually laconic as ever in faculty
meetings about student matters, had insisted that Malfoy be offered a second chance.

“As an additional courtesy,” McGonagall continued, “your provisional status will not be announced
formally to the student body. The other prefects will be briefed. I might recommend using your
own discretion to perform your duties without arousing suspicion of your limitations. It is not my
intention to humiliate you.”

“Save your suggestions,” he spat. “You’ve meddled more than enough already. Are we done?”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “Until the prefects’ meeting tomorrow evening, yes. You may go.”

Hermione Granger helped herself to a mug of tea when she arrived for the prefects’ start-of-term
meeting. She expected she’d need it.

It had been a strange summer, and she was glad to be back at Hogwarts. Hermione had spent much
of the summer at the Weasleys’ Burrow. She had missed her parents terribly, but it seemed wiser to
stay within the wizarding community.

Ever since Harry had told her and Ron about Voldemort’s return, it was clear to her that Muggle-
borns would be the first target of any hateful activity, whether by Death Eaters themselves or even
other frightened witches and wizards looking for ways to lash out. Hermione would have liked
nothing better than to wrap herself in her mother’s embrace, go bicycling with her father, and curl
up in her old bedroom with a stack of books and new music from her favorite non-magical bands,
but she was afraid to draw too much attention to her parents. Most people in the magical
community wouldn’t know much about how Muggles stored identification records, and her
surname, while not as ubiquitous as Smith or Johnson, was common enough. Avoiding Knight Bus
trips or other magical transportation to her hometown could help keep her parents hidden from
prying eyes, or so she hoped.

She’d also hoped, for much of the summer, that Ron would have turned out to be a better source of
comfort than he’d ended up being. They’d always had a hint of something more than best
friendship between them, or so Hermione had thought. Ron seemed content to toss her into the
bustle of the Weasley household to fend for herself. Various family members burst into the
bedroom when Hermione wanted a quiet hour to read. Ginny didn’t see any problem with using the
toilet while Hermione showered because “they’re both girls.” Mr. Weasley used dinnertime as an
occasion to pummel her with questions on how Muggle postal services, elementary education,
banking, and driver’s ed classes worked. She tried to respond politely, but privately found it
exhausting to always be “on.” If Ron had feelings for her, wouldn’t he have noticed her emotional
wear, and done something to support her? His oblivious lack of concern had certainly put a damper
on her own romantic thoughts.

She shook her head. “Focus, Hermione,” she muttered under her breath. Prefects’ meeting, then
unpacking into her own room in Gryffindor Tower, and tomorrow classes would start. Keep her
mind occupied, that was the way to keep herself together.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Malfoy jostled her aside, spilling tea over the edge of her
cup onto the saucer, soaking the thin chocolate biscuit she’d placed beside the teacup. He was a
head taller than her, just the right height to glare down his nose at her, his white-blond hair parted
with razor precision. His gaze dropped to her hand.

“Clumsy little Mudblood,” he sneered. “Getting your filthy paws on food meant for your betters,
too. Sit and wait your turn next time.”

“Or you could be patient for five seconds instead of knocking around like an oaf,” Hermione
retorted. She waved her hand at the table with a flourish. “Be my guest, then. It’s all yours.”

“Hardly seems worth it, now you’ve touched everything.” He made a show of wiping the handle of
the teapot down with a napkin before pouring himself a cup. He raised his eyebrows at the tray of
biscuits and took a green apple from a bowl instead, leaning in close enough to her when he bit it
that Hermione could smell its sharp scent.

Ron ambled in then, frowning. “What’s his problem?”

“The usual,” Hermione muttered. “Ignore him.”

“Pompous git.”

“Language, Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall said, striding in behind him. “Forgive my
tardiness. After so many years, I shouldn’t be surprised by the amount of attention first-year
students require, but they seem to look younger each year. I am pleased to welcome each of you
back as prefects, and I and the other faculty will rely on you this year to help ensure that your
fellow students have a fruitful and enjoyable year, particularly those who are just beginning their
education at Hogwarts.”

Hermione settled into a comfortable chair between Penelope Clearwater and Hannah Abbott as
McGonagall launched into the prefects’ briefing. She knew it well. Besides serving as a prefect in
her fifth year, Hermione had more or less memorized the prefects’ handbook. Prefects, ideally,
were supposed to be official mentors for the student body at large, and students in their House in
particular. They led House orientation activities and icebreakers to help first-years find their
classes and begin making friends. They had disciplinary authority, but they also had some basic
conflict mediation training so they could counsel fights between dorm mates and recognize signs
that garden-variety homesickness was slipping into more serious mental health territory. If
requested by a student, prefects could sit in on faculty-student meetings to offer moral support.
Some prefects--Hermione cast an eye at the Slytherin couch--tended toward bullying or favoritism,
but she enjoyed the sense that she ought to play almost a big-sister role.

You spent a lot of time together, on hall monitoring duty. Close friendships were an unspoken perk
of the job. Some prefects ended up marrying each other. Hermione didn’t always make friends
easily, so the chance to get to know a few people in a structured way appealed to her. Having both
Ron and Malfoy on the roster detracted from this goal, of course. Ron she knew well already, and
Malfoy...well, there were plenty of obvious reasons for him to fall on the “Cons” side of her mental
list.

Her ears pricked at his name just then.

“Mr. Malfoy is here on provisional prefect status,” McGonagall was saying. “As such, he will need
authorization from another one of you to deliver certain merits or punishments. I trust that all of
you will keep his status confidential so as not to provoke disrespect from other students, and that
you will all endeavor to be fair in any student dealings, as befits this role.”

For once, Ron got it first.

“Malfoy’s a lame duck?” he said, chortling. “He can’t do anything without our say-so?” He leaned
forward and grinned at Malfoy. “I was going to ask McGonagall how to get out of hall duty with a
tosser like you, but now I’m ready to pay her for the privilege.”

“Pay her in what, moldy jumpers?” Malfoy pulled two Galleon coins out of a pocket in his robes
and clicked them together. “Has anyone in your family ever heard that sound before? Put it in your
Pensieve so you can share it at home.”

Ron reddened.

“That will be quite enough,” McGonagall said. “I will post the hall monitoring roster in the
Prefects’ Lounge tomorrow. For tonight, we will have Mr. Weasley and Mr. Corner, Miss
Clearwater and Miss Abbott, and Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy.”

Both Hermione and Malfoy jumped forward in their seats as if stung. McGonagall held up a hand.

“The roster will rotate to allow a fair distribution of assignments.” She looked over her glasses at
the students sitting before her. “I’m sure I can trust all of you to behave with the utmost maturity.”

“Bushy-haired rodent.”

“Rich, coming from an albino ferret!”

“You dare--”

“You better believe it.”

It was near the end of hour two of a standard, three-hour hall monitoring shift. Hermione and
Malfoy had managed gritted-teeth civility for the first twenty minutes, while the initial swarms of
students floundered around, trying to navigate the shifting staircases to their Houses. Malfoy had
started it, swearing at her under his breath when she’d accidentally stepped on the hem of his robe
on the stairs. For the next forty minutes, they’d griped at each other in quick bursts between three
searches for lost cats and toads, two nurse visits, and endless repetitions of the House passwords.

For the last hour, since standard curfew began, it had been a free-for-all.

“It’s insulting that you’d even be considered to have power over other students.”

Hermione laughed sharply. “I bet it is. Especially since I’ve managed to keep my full rights, and
you’re limping along. Bet that stings your pride.”

“Brash bitch,” he snarled. “You should be on your knees every night giving thanks you’re tolerated
in this place at all.”

“‘Tolerated’ well enough to be first in our class every term, it would seem.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Malfoy sneered. “Miss Granger, Queen of the library, highest marks in her year.
Do you want my congratulations?”

“I don’t want, or expect, anything from you, Malfoy,” she said, trying to sound cool and aloof.
“Although I think the fact that even you can’t help acknowledging my talents is telling enough.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Spare me. You’ve let your pathetic friends and a few teachers go to your
head, Granger. The true wizards in this place know what you really are.”
“Oh yes? And what would that be?”

“You’re the stuffy little Mudblood who’s never belonged here. Your mind works well enough, I’ll
grant; you’d be amusing for party tricks, perhaps, as a curiosity. Like a talking gopher. You’re a
grating, screeching, busybody slattern with a broomstick up your ass. You’re the research flunky of
the Golden Trio, the brainy priss Potter uses when he’s too lazy to try to understand, which is
often. You’d better hope you never outlive your usefulness to them, because you’ll find there isn’t
anything in this world for you outside the library.”

“You think other students are impressed by you?” Hermione shot back, raising her voice to drown
out the bite of his words. “Harry knew after meeting you once that you weren’t worth his time.
You bought your way onto your Quidditch team, I’ve beaten you in every class we’ve shared,
every year, and the only ‘friends’ I’ve ever seen you with are such brainless dolts that I could
animate a mop with a blond wig on it and they wouldn’t know the difference. You may have some
money and influence because of your father, and good thing for you, because I have yet to see you
do something worthwhile on your own. I hope you’re reminded every day of your useless life that
everyone you look down on now will beat you, if they haven’t already.”

They’d been circling the shifting staircases, making their way down floor by floor, the halls
beginning to waft the cool, mineral smell of stone underground, along with the sharp tang of guano
from the modest bat colony that sheltered within Hogwarts. When they reached the steps down to
the dungeons, Malfoy threw out a hand to block her, almost making her trip.

“I’ll handle these myself. This is Pureblood territory.”

“There’s no such thing,” Hermione said. “Besides, you’re not allowed unsupervised hall duty.” She
stepped forward, but Malfoy blocked her again, throwing his forearm up against her collarbone.
His grey eyes were flat with hatred.

“Your putrid kind may have infiltrated the classes in this place,” he hissed. “But there are a few
corridors left untainted by your stench, and I won’t have you contaminating them.”

“Hogwarts chooses students by ability, not blood status,” Hermione said coldly. “McGonagall
chose me as a prefect and I will not--” She stopped, mouth still open in indignation and alarm.
Malfoy’s hawthorn wand was in his hand, the tip trained at her heart.

“Take one more step,” he said quietly. “And I’ll say you tripped down the stairs. All these other
students saw you fall.”

“There’s no one else here.”

“That’s not what they’ll say,” he said, lips curling in a vicious smile. “This is the Slytherin’s home,
our last Pureblood refuge against the waves of filth they admit to this crumbling excuse for a
school. You may have charmed a few doddering old professors into your disgusting hand, but
don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re wanted here.” He prodded the wand an inch closer toward
her. “I won’t say it again. Get back.”

Hermione almost launched herself at him then. Bookish as she might be most days, she’d Sorted
into Gryffindor for a reason. In a one-on-one duel, she had no doubt she could teach Malfoy some
long-overdue humility. If the other Slytherins did come to protect their precious, Pureblood
dungeon, though, she was less sure she could disarm twenty students without getting hurt, and she
could hardly explain to McGonagall why such a brawl could have been necessary. She took a step
backward.
Malfoy smirked. He watched her retreat, clearly relishing every step she took. “That’s a good little
Gryffindor. You sit right there and wait for me.”

And she did. Shaking with rage, counting the seconds until he’d finished a cursory round through
the dungeons. When he swaggered back, victorious smile still playing on his lips, she had her wand
ready.

“Your turn,” she said, keeping her voice as low and steady as possible. “Sit.”

He folded his arms, creasing his forehead in mock sympathy. “Bravery isn’t impressive so long
after the fact, Granger.”

“Expelliarmus!” His wand flew out of his pocket, into her waiting hand. “I will Petrify you if I
have to, Malfoy. Sit. Down.”

“Give it back.”

“Now.”

“You repulsive Mudblood, don’t you dare lay another finger on it.”

Hermione held his wand up to her mouth. “I will lick it if you don’t sit down this instant.” She
parted her lips, feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the horrified expression on Malfoy’s face, even if
privately the thought of touching her tongue to his wand made her want to gag, too.

Malfoy sat.

“That’s better,” Hermione said. “Now you listen to me: Don’t ever threaten me again. Ever. You
despicable, egotistical bastard, you so much as point your wand in my direction and I’ll report you.
You could already be suspended. Touch me, and I’ll get you under the Code of Wand Use, and the
RRUS, and I’ll squeeze every Galleon I can out of you and your entire family in Hexing Ban fines.
You want your father to hear how this Mudblood threw your sorry ass out of Hogwarts?”

Malfoy’s gaze wavered, just for a second. He disguised it by cleaning a fleck of dirt from under one
fingernail. “Why not go ahead and report me now, then?”

“Because I,” Hermione growled, “am a better person than you’ll ever dream of being.” She
dropped Malfoy’s wand next to him with a clatter and stalked away, before he could look up from
her fist still clenched around her own wand. There was a knot in her throat threatening to choke her,
and the worst thing she could possibly do was let him see.
 Lonely
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco sat at the Slytherin table, sharp chin resting in his hand. His head hurt. Only two weeks into
a new term, and it felt like months. It was difficult to pay attention in classes. Not much sense in
studying for NEWTS, after all. Amazing, and pathetic, really, how eager most people were to bury
their heads in the sand.

Not all of them, of course. His gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor table. He and that lousy Squib
Filch had never definitively proven that Potter and his lackeys were stirring up a little army, but
Malfoy knew a thing or two about the Boy Who Lived. No way would he turn down a chance to
play glorious leader. It was cruel of him, really, giving other students hope that their jinxes would
save them against Death Eaters. Against the Dark Lord.

Draco hadn’t ever seen the Dark Lord, personally. He’d met multiple high-ranking Death Eaters,
who interrogated him and passed on the assignment he’d have to complete to prove himself. His
father had been punished for his failures last year, but it had been his idea for Draco to lead the
overthrow of Hogwarts, and this had pleased You-Know-Who. Draco’s father seemed to come
awake after Draco accepted the assignment. His mother had been the one to suggest delaying
giving Draco the Mark. They couldn’t trust other students, even other Slytherins, and it would be
difficult to keep the Mark hidden 24/7.

For anyone who was listening, he acted annoyed with his mother. Privately, he was relieved. The
great werewolf that had brought him to Borgin and Burkes--Fenrir--made a sound between a laugh
and a growl when he talked about branding the fresh blood. It didn’t inspire confidence. And then
there really wouldn’t be any choice left but submission to You-Know-Who.

He hadn’t said the name out loud. Even thinking it made him feel cold.

Around him, Slytherin students griped at each other. Two fourth-years Charmed a first-year’s
spoon into a snake as a prank, snickering when the new kid jumped. Malfoy kept his posture
straight and his face composed. He tried to imagine himself striding into Malfoy Manor to meet
with the Death Eaters, tripping that brute Greyback with an elegant walking cane, without so much
as a flicker of fear. He looked across the hall again, caught by a peal of laughter. Granger was bent
over the table with her hands over her mouth, eyes crinkled with mirth. Potter was laughing, too.
Weasley looked as sheepish and bedraggled as he always did, but he was grinning at the pair of
them with obvious affection.

Pathetic. But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh at them. He bit the inside of his cheek, watching
the two boys bend their head in toward Granger in the middle, talking and gesturing over each
other. It didn’t make him feel good to watch them, but he didn’t want to look away.

The rest of the day went the way most days did in this stinking hole. Go from class to class. Spend
a few hours in the library reading technical manuals and dusty textbooks on the history of magical
artifacts. Swallow a bowl of chicken stew without tasting it. Spend another few hours trying out
what he’d learned on the Vanishing Cabinet, and hopefully have any progress to show for his
work. Trudge up and down the halls with one of the prefects.

Granger was leaving the prefects’ lounge with Weasley as he arrived to meet Clearwater, his
assigned partner for the evening. Pity. He could have used some stress relief, and seeing how long
 it took to make Granger fire back was an amusing game.

Granger glared at him and picked up her pace. She must be wearing heels of some kind under her
robes. Her steps clicked against the stone floors. Draco was mildly impressed. So she did think
further than whatever book was at the end of her nose. She didn’t break stride or give way as she
passed, so he was forced to sidestep to avoid a collision.

“Watch it, Granger.” His voice came out in a croak. His throat felt scratchy for some reason.

Clearwater floated out, head held high. She couldn’t be baited. The Ravenclaw witch’s expression
never wavered even a miniscule amount. One hall monitoring session had been enough for Malfoy
to understand that she’d resolved to play completely blind and deaf to him, and that she had the
discipline to follow through. It wasn’t worth the frustration or indignity of trying to force her
attention.

And so, he realized that night, after he’d undressed for bed and was waiting for his racing mind to
calm down, that’s how it happened that those three words to Granger were the only words he’d
spoken to another human being all day.

Chapter End Notes

Some chapters are short! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ My comfy length for chapters is usually around the
2000-4000 word range or so, but I occasionally fall outside those bounds. More
coming tomorrow!
 On Magical Knitting and the Means of Production
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hannah Abbott found Hermione in the Quidditch stands one sunny afternoon that felt more like a
last flash of summer than the beginning of fall. The Hufflepuff was wearing her blond hair in two
braids, and she twisted the end of one between her fingers.

“You’re a fan of Quidditch, are you?” she said.

“Sure,” said Hermione.

“You must be, if you’re watching tryouts.” Hannah gave her a worried smile. “I’m in the Knitting
Club. I’m trying a hybrid knit. Two magical needles and two in the hand.”

“That’s wonderful. Sounds tricky,” Hermione said politely.

“It is.” Hannah tugged the elastic off her braid by accident and hurriedly twisted it back into place,
jerking the hair tie harder than she needed to. “It’s just I hate to ask you, you know. I know the
rules are in place so everything’s fair, and Helga herself knows you’ve probably got it worse than
me, but you always keep such a cool head in classes, so I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I
asked. You can say no. That’s fine, if you do. I’ll work something else out.”

“Work what out? Hannah, back up. What did you want to ask me about?”

Hannah’s face twisted in an apologetic grimace. “D’you think--I mean, would you even consider
switching with me? Tonight? I’m on with Malfoy, and he was so horrible last time. I had to excuse
myself for a bit, to compose myself. Maybe it’s just his sense of humor,” she said doubtfully. “I
swear I’m trying not to let him get to me, but I’ve just been dreading it.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course, Hannah, I’ll switch with you.”

“Really?” Hannah’s grin lit up her face. “Thanks, you’ve no idea what a load that is off my back.
I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it. Really. I’ll deal with Malfoy.”

Hermione had been having an easier time than she’d expected, in fact. Since the first fight, their
agreement had held, and neither one of them had pulled a wand on the other. So what if every
word out of his mouth was an insult. She’d never expected anything else from him. Spending three
hours as a captive audience for his hatred would still have been too much to stomach on a regular
basis, if it wasn’t for her secret game.

She mentally assigned them points for each unique insult. First one to reach twenty won most
creative fighter of the night. Use one of the forbidden words, and you lost a point. His forbidden
words were filth and Mudblood , of course. Hers were prat, prick, slimy, and pompous --more
taboos for her to compensate for his overuse of his words, and for the fact that he didn’t know they
were competing.

After all, she had to give him a chance.

When Malfoy saw her that evening, he smiled. Hermione hadn’t expected that. She would have
thought she was mistaken--she was still a little distance away--except that the expression changed
his face too much. She’d never imagine Malfoy looking like that. It wasn’t one of his customary
smirks; it looked suspiciously like a genuine smile. It opened his face somehow, relaxed the
sharpness of his features and brought out a different light in his eyes. It was unnerving.

By the time Hermione was close enough to get a better look, he’d tightened his face back into his
usual scowl.

“Granger.”

“Hello, Malfoy,” Hermione said. “You ready?”

“Bright and cheery this evening, are we, Mudblood?”

“Now, now,” Hermione sighed, turning down toward the main staircase. “That’s hardly the way to
set yourself up for a successful evening.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve had a good day so far. We’ve got a long three hours ahead of us, and I don’t want us to get
off on the wrong foot.”

“What the blazes are you on, Granger? Has your brain finally cracked? In case you hadn’t noticed,
I’m under a term’s length of punishment from that demented tabby, and having to put up with you
is the worst part of it.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, a sly note creeping into her voice. “I thought perhaps you were
pleased to see me.”

His step faltered the tiniest fraction. Not enough to notice, except that it was Malfoy, whose
swagger never failed, and that Hermione was watching closely out of the corner of her eye. “You
thought wrong.”

“Clearly.”

He retreated into glowering silence for the next few minutes, and Hermione congratulated herself.
Making him miss a step had to count as a point, and he’d negated his insult with his use of the slur
before. One to nothing.

Half an hour later, the score was 14-12, Malfoy’s favor. It would have been tied, even with him
frequently losing points, except that Hermione had slipped twice, once for prat and once for
pompous . He was on her case harder tonight than usual, and she was beginning to regret agreeing
to switch with Hannah.

“Are you going to clear your throat like that the whole evening?” he growled when they passed the
painting of a hippopotamus. “You sound like a bullfrog.”

Hermione threw up her hands. “What’s put a kink in your broomstick tonight, Malfoy? Or were you
hoping that badly for a chance to torture Hannah?”

“That whimpering little marshmallow?” he scoffed.

“You clearly want to have a go at me, and I think I deserve to know why, if I have to put up with it.
What exactly have I said or done to offend you?”
“You mean besides breathe?”

“Yes, exactly.” She folded her arms. “Go ahead. Just tell me what reason I’ve given you to insult
me nonstop.”

“I don’t need another reason.”

“But do you have one?”

A chorus of voices echoed from a nearby staircase, including a few yelps of surprise as the stairs
began to swing to another destination.

“You don’t, do you?” Hermione said.

Malfoy glared at her, then kept walking without saying another word.

The last twenty minutes or so before curfew were always busy. It was easy for the two of them not
to talk to each other. Younger students schemed to sneak around the castle, bookish students
needed to be chased out of the library. Older students sometimes had to be pried apart from rather
wet embraces in shadowy corners and pointed to their respective dormitories. Hermione inevitably
blushed when she had to do this part. She tried to hide her discomfort from Malfoy, but no such
luck.

“Hear that?” A distinctive smacking sound caught their attention. A throaty, feminine noise
followed. Malfoy grinned. “Off you go, then, Granger.”

“You heard it first,” Hermione said, cursing the heat she already felt in her cheeks. “You go talk to
them.”

“Oh no,” Malfoy said. “This calls for more delicacy than a--what was it?--snide, insufferable prat
could possibly provide.”

Hermione screwed up her face, cast a Lumos spell, and mumbled at the Ravenclaw couple. She
wished the floor would open up under her and judging by their dagger-eyed expressions, they did,
too.

Malfoy sniggered openly as she trudged back, her cheeks flaming.

“See anything you like, Granger?”

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

“Don’t be a killjoy. Roger Davies and Nanette Desford? Figures. They spend more time slurping
on each other than their food at dinner. Did you happen to notice where his hands were? I’ve got a
bet with Gemma on how far they’ll go in public.”

Completely red now, Hermione tried to keep her voice stiff and dignified. “My job is to
recommend they find a private place to...spend time together, not ogle them.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Some people like when people watch. I half-expected you to be one of them.
You’ve been spotted ‘spending time’ with Potter and Weasley in every nook of this castle.”

“We’re friends.”

He didn’t hear the warning note in her voice. “Do you take them one at a time, or do they both like
to jump in together?”
Hermione half-dragged him into an empty classroom and shoved him against the wall. “Call me
what you want, but don’t you dare talk about my friends. Just...just don’t.” Shit . Weeks of
fighting, weeks of studying and talking late into the night with Harry and Ron about Voldemort’s
impending return, and now of all times the fight had drained out of her?

Malfoy rubbed the back of his head. “Fine.”

What?

“What?” Hermione snapped, more forcefully than she meant it to come out.

“I said fine! Just keep your hands off me.”

Hermione nodded. “All right then. Good.”

“So what are we supposed to talk about?” Malfoy complained as the crowds cleared.

“Why do you even want to talk to me at all?” Hermione grumbled. “You hate me, remember?”

“You think I shouldn’t,” he pointed out.

“Of course I think you shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Act like you have a brain, Malfoy.”

“Muggles are deformed,” he said flatly. “Lack of magical ability stunted their moral and
intellectual growth. Muggles don’t see or fear Dementors because they don’t have souls to worry
about losing. They use barbaric practices like amputation, they divorce ten times more often than
Magical couples. They’re violent and lazy and weak, and the ‘religious’ ones torture and murder
any witches or wizards they get their hands on. They’re useless to the Magical community, and
they force us into the fringes while they take the dragon’s share of the resources.”

Hermione thought. “That doesn’t make sense. They can’t possibly be all of those things.”

“Are you calling my father a liar?”

Yes . “What I’m saying,” Hermione said carefully, “is that it doesn’t make sense to hate Muggles
because they’re weak and lazy, and also because they’re so dangerous and powerful that they’ve
forced the Magical community into hiding. They’re either weak or strong. And Muggles are hardly
useless to you. You use Muggle things all the time.”

“I do not. I would never touch that filth.”

“What do you think you eat?” Hermione said. “You think an oppressed Wizarding community has
massive tracts of farmland, and food processing plants? There’s only three or four thousand of us in
all of Britain. That’s not enough to sustain a labor force to produce everything we need. Where do
you think we get teacups? Or construction materials for homes and buildings? Who do you think
makes the parchment for your books, or the fabric for your clothes? Your healers and professors
and Aurors, and even the cooks may be magical, but nearly everything you’ve ever touched was
made by a Muggle. You’d die without them.”

“That’s all very tidy, coming from you,” Malfoy said. “There’s fewer of us because we’re cramped.
The Magical world would be freer, if we weren’t hiding. There’d be more babies.” His voice didn’t
have its usual cocky ring, although he tried to regain it. “Even you were quick enough to run out of
your Muggle family the second you had a chance. Don’t tell me you didn’t get called a freak for
having a gift.”

“My parents are proud of me,” Hermione said honestly.

“Good for you,” Malfoy sniffed. “Go throw yourself a little party with the other Mudbloods and
Half-breeds.”

“Where exactly is the line there, by the way?” Hermione said. “I know you look down on Muggle-
borns and Half-bloods, but does Half-blood mean exactly half? With a population this small, even
Purebloods are bound to have a Muggle somewhere in the family line, if you go back far enough.
Do you keep track of all the students at Hogwarts who have a Muggle grandparent, or great-
grandparent? Who do you think will still be with you, once you’ve weeded out everyone you’ve
found a reason to hate? Or do you enjoy being alone that much?”

Malfoy flinched. A flicker of movement down the hall caught his attention, and he charged
forward, wand at the ready. A Lumos spell revealed a first-year student muttering an incantation at
Professor Flitwick’s office door.

“What have we here,” Malfoy said. He leaned against the door casually and tipped his head to one
side. “Up past bedtime, are we?”

“I--er--was looking for the bathroom?” the student, a boy with shaggy black hair named Bellamy
Ungleswitch, said hopefully.

“Not bloody likely,” Malfoy said. He grabbed at the student’s wand. “Give me that. Priori
incantatem!”

A thin, sickly blue light fizzled at the tip of the wand. Malfoy winced.

“Alahoramo? Merlin’s left nut, no wonder you’re trying to steal test answers.”

“I wasn’t!”

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t see an apple in your hand, so you’re not leaving a bribe.”

“It’s only because it’s impossible to understand a word he says,” Bellamy grumbled. “He’s doing
the charms the whole time he’s teaching, isn’t he? How’m I supposed to listen to the words when
there’s charms whizzing all over the classroom?”

“That’s a detention,” Malfoy drawled. “Two, actually. One for attempted cheating and one for
breaking into a professor’s office, even if you’re using the kind of spell a halfwit Squib would
think up. And ten points off your House, for breaking curfew.”

The boy looked at Hermione, eyes wide with indignation.

She gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s in the rulebook. You did admit to it, Bellamy. I’m sorry,
but you’ll have to report to Professor McGonagall in the morning.” She reached a hand out to
Malfoy. He looked at it for a moment in surprise, then pulled two detention slips from his pocket,
scrawled his name on them, and handed them to her. She initialed them and muttered the alarm
incantation to set the appointment. If Bellamy missed his meeting with McGonagall, the slips
would flit around his head, just out of reach, alerting faculty and students alike that he was overdue
for a disciplinary meeting.
 “Now get back to the Tower, quickly,” she said. “No detours.”

Malfoy was quiet as they watched the first-year go.

“That was a Gryffindor,” he said finally.

“I know who my first-years are.”

“Why did you sign?”

Hermione swiped at a curl tickling her neck. “He was trying to break into a professor’s office. You
didn’t suggest anything out of line. The rulebook is clear.”

He was quiet again for a minute. “You realize you’re the only prefect who’s read the rulebook.
You’re a know-it-all even around other know-it-alls.”

“What’s your point?”

“The others won’t sign.”

Hermione frowned. “They have to. If it’s a legitimate breach of the rules.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, you have no idea the depths of philosophical interpretation some
people have time to devote to school rules. Or they didn’t see something that happened right in
front of them, if I saw it first.”

“I see.” Hermione could imagine all too easily how justified certain other Prefects might feel in
rubbing Malfoy’s nose in for a change. “I’m not going to do that. Whatever history we may have,
that shouldn’t stop us from being fair.”

“Are you waiting for a thank you?”

Hermione’s lips quirked into a smile despite herself. Of course he wouldn’t be able to admit she
was being decent to him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chapter End Notes

I could really go down a rabbit hole of how the Wizarding economy sustains itself.
Like, how do Muggles who marry into the community contribute to the workforce?
We know Gringotts converts Galleons to British pounds for students from Muggleborn
families, but Hogwarts tuition wouldn't cover the needs for goods and services that a
population of thousands would rely on. What long-term, top-secret trade deals are
likely to exist between a sovereign Magical ministry and the British government?
These and many, many more questions are...not likely ever to be answered in this fic,
because I've got a love story to build, but they are still questions I puzzle over, and
anyone who enjoys doing likewise is welcome to geek out with me in the comments.
 Butterflies
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco double-checked the prefect rota and groaned. On with Granger again, officially tonight.
Then a few nights off duty, and what would you know it, but he was scheduled to be with Corner,
who would want to switch with whoever was paired with Clearwater (who he fancied), and that
person just happened to be...Granger.

Terrific.

Nothing he could do about it, either. He rolled his eyes remembering the hand-wringing display
McGonagall had put on before conceding that Weasley simply couldn’t maintain the
professionalism to spend three hours walking the halls with him. Asking for a second black-list
was out of the question. If everyone stuck to the rota, he’d only need to see Granger once every two
weeks or so. But McGonagall turned a blind eye to prefects making their own arrangements, and he
was finding the frizzball waiting for him four nights out of five.

Draco couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been the other night, letting Granger know the others
didn’t treat him fairly, not to mention allowing her to talk her nonsense about Magical people
depending on Muggles. Especially since some of it had sounded worryingly plausible.

Granger was waiting at the usual spot, even though he’d arrived early himself. So much for having
a few minutes to regroup before facing her. To his dismay, she smiled and gave a nod of greeting
as he approached. Worse, seeing someone look pleased to see him, even if it was her, stirred a
shameful sense of...calm, maybe. A sort of lightening of some of the stress he was under.

“Get that simpering look off your face,” he snapped. This was what happened when you
encouraged her kind. He needed to regain the upper hand.

“Hi, Malfoy.” She didn’t acknowledge his insult, just fell into step with him. “I’ve been thinking
about what we were talking about the other night--”

“We’re not friends, Granger.”

She narrowed her eyes quizzically. “Yes?”

“So shove it. I can’t hear myself think with you blabbering.”

Well, that worked about as well as he was learning to expect. If he bit his tongue and spent the first
hour all but running through the castle looking for problems to solve like some asinine Gryffindor
with a hero complex, he could just about escape her. Until the castle began to settle down, that was,
removing the distractions, and she launched in as though they’d been chatting pleasantly for hours.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said, about Muggle souls.”

“Bit of a shock to think Mummy and Daddy are subhuman scum?” He’d never gone for her parents
before. He meant it as a deadly blow.

She waved his words aside. Literally waved her hand, like he was a fly. “Don’t be stupid, of course
they have souls. Think, Malfoy. You were on the cusp of something really brilliant, and you’re
letting your prejudices make you lazy. Muggles don’t see or fear Dementors, but they do feel
depressed in a Dementor’s presence. They just can’t perceive the Dementor itself. What if magical
abilities are determined by a part of the brain not all people have? Like a vestigial tail, but far more
useful, obviously. There’s barely been any research into the physiological differences between
magical and non-magical people. It could even be something much subtler, like an additional
hormone, or synaptic patterns that behave differently. God, if we could isolate it, find a medical
path toward enabling magical ability? Although that’s years of research and experimentation away,
if it’s even a feasible option. But Dementors don’t eat souls, they lobotomize people. They’re
flying zombies. This whole religious attitude about blood keeps people from trying to understand
the science.”

“That’s daft.”

“There are a few flaws, I’ll admit. If the Wizarding world really has definitively proven the
existence of souls, you’d think someone ought to inform the Vatican, or I suppose any major world
religion’s leaders…” Mercifully, she trailed off. She’d had another idea, it seemed. She was
absently making a clicking sound with her tongue. Her eyes darted back and forth without seeing
the passageways before her, as if she were reading an unseen text, or chasing thoughts flitting
through her brain.

It didn’t take long for her to find her voice again. Draco tried to regain the authoritative sharpness
in his tone that had quelled her briefly at the beginning, but Granger was on a hot streak and didn’t
seem to notice his inflection. She’d been to the library, of course, and applied her nearly flawless
memory to refer to the Hogwarts catalogue about every word he’d said.

“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that the Wizarding community has so many laws about Muggles
and magic?” she said, passing the hippogriff statue. “Muggles are feeble and stunted, right? You
said that. So then what harm would it do for a Muggle to touch a wand, or see a unicorn, or even
see a spell performed?”

Draco recoiled. “That’s revolting.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought you’d say. It’s not a safety concern, it’s blood prejudice doublethink
again.”

“What’s doublethink?”

“Oh, that’s from a classic work of Muggle literature,” Granger said. “1984. It depicted an
imaginary future where a tyranny tries to control how people act and think. Almost like an
Imperius curse, but mostly by frightening everyone into conforming. Doublethink meant holding
two contradictory ideas in a person’s head at once, and believing both of them.”

“So typical Muggle violence, then,” Draco said. “And typical Muggle stupidity. Doublethink isn’t
even a proper word.”

“It was written to be a kind of warning,” Granger said. “Readers are supposed to look down on the
simplistic language. The government in the book created the language, Newspeak, to restrict
freedom of thought. If people never learned the words to articulate certain concepts, like free will,
or evil, it would be harder for anyone to rebel.”

“That would never work, though,” Draco said. “Removing a word doesn’t remove the thing itself.
If you’re intelligent, you can still understand when you’re being fed something that doesn’t make
sense. The whole premise of the book is absurd.”

“Maybe, but are you so sure someone could see clearly if what they’d been told was wrong, if
they’d grown up hearing lies presented as truth all their lives? How do you know what to believe
and what to question?”

Granger was gesturing while she talked, her eyes were bright and animated, and she was walking
altogether too close to him. Close enough that her shoulder bumped against his, and one expressive
hand almost brushed against his chest. He prodded her away from him. She squeaked, a feminine
sound that was almost endearing, and then resumed her rapid chatter.

“I’ll bring it for you tomorrow. You can look it over for yourself.”

Draco was getting too caught up in the conversation if he was letting her invade his space like that.
Far too familiar.

It was hard to make her keep her distance, though. Goblin’s balls, but the witch could talk. She
didn’t seem able to help herself. She danced between subjects, going from Magical healing
techniques to literature (which she bemoaned was not a required subject taught at Hogwarts), to
pointed questions at him. It was sort of fun. He’d probably hear her in his ears long after he finally
shook her off, but at least she wasn’t babbling on about silly school events or making the kinds of
hur-hur jokes Crabbe and Goyle cobbled together, back when he spent time with them. Granger
moved quick. You had to be quick to keep up with her.

She kept bumping into him, too. Something happened when she got caught up in making a point.
Her personal space boundaries got all out of whack. Within twenty minutes, Draco was picking up
on the cues. Granger started speaking faster, and a bit higher, the hands started moving, and in
seconds he’d be grazed by a shoulder or arm or hip. Even when he nudged her away, she kept
talking, and stayed close enough for him to smell her shampoo.

“I told you not to touch me,” he grumbled the fourth or so time. It wasn’t that it was so awful, but
he couldn’t risk anyone wandering out and seeing them acting so...chummy.

“Sorry,” Granger said, distracted. “Anyway, I thought of something I wanted to ask you--”

And she was off again. Draco shook his head. There really was no shutting her up, was there? Less
than a minute later, he glanced to the side and saw she was beginning to drift his way again. To his
surprise, he found himself trying to stifle a smile.

When they reached the dungeons, Granger veered off to one side of the staircases to take what had
become her usual spot to wait for him. They hadn’t spoken about the confrontation the first night.
It was clear enough that a magical duel was more trouble than it was worth for both of them. She
waited by the steps and he took a leisurely stroll through the dungeons himself. It was good,
knowing that she knew her rightful place.

Except that Granger didn’t seem ashamed at all. Quite the opposite. He’d seen her look at him with
a pitying grimace on other nights as they reached the stairs to the dungeons. When he returned,
she’d offer him a smile that held something like compassion, or even sympathy. He had to be extra
cold to her afterward, even if that meant sacrificing some of the more civil aspects of their
conversation, so she wouldn’t think she was doing him some kind of favor by leaving him to run
his own House quarters.

Draco finished rounds, taking an extra loop just to keep Granger waiting, and headed back. She
wasn’t even looking for him. She had her wand out, completely transfixed on something she was
doing. Draco sidestepped into the shadows, intrigued to figure out what had captured her attention.

She was making butterflies. Out of nothing, it seemed. Conjuring spells were some of the hardest
 skills students learned. Granger had three butterflies flitting over her head. As Draco watched, she
furrowed her forehead, concentrated on a spot in front of her, and performed a series of small,
decisive movements with her wand. A fourth butterfly appeared in the spot she was concentrating
on and began to flap its wings. Draco whistled under his breath, impressed despite himself. Most
seventh-year students wouldn’t be able to do this. Hell, many witches and wizards managed to live
their entire lives without perfecting the technique required to Conjure this many living things out of
thin air.

It wasn’t true life, of course. The insects would fly for a while, the exact length of time depending
on Granger’s skill, but ultimately the magic would wear out. She was excellent, though, he had to
give it to her. He leaned against the wall, watching.

He’d rarely had a chance to look at her like this. He saw Granger all the time, in class or at meals,
and now several nights a week. Seeing her when she wasn’t bristling with anger at him, or falling
all over those two mop-headed idiots, was different. This was a Granger in her own world, brown
eyes at once dreaming and determined as she imagined her creatures into being. Her lips curved in
a coaxing, satisfied smile. Even her mass of hair fell more gently when she wasn’t shoving at it all
the time.

Draco took out his own wand, a mixture of envy and irritation and that odd intrigue swirling within
him. Before he’d thought through how it would look, he was frowning in concentration himself,
trying to calculate wand-strokes and remember the fine details (six legs, segmented body, facets on
the eyes, rolled proboscis). He braced his arm with his other hand to keep the movements steady,
and then there was a tawny moth fluttering before him. It had two dark spots on its velvety wings.
They were perhaps a similar shade to Granger’s eyes. If anyone were watching that closely.

He blew on the moth gently, sending it in her direction.

It wasn’t meant to be a gift. He would have sworn to this. While he was creating the moth, he’d
wanted to show Granger up, and show off his own skills. If that meant making something himself
and offering it to her, did that automatically qualify it as a present?

The moth flitted toward her, and she looked up at the movement. When she saw Draco coming
toward her, she actually laughed out loud in surprise and delight, and reached out to let the moth
land on her hand.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. She brought it closer to her face, the soft wings almost brushing her
cheeks. “Look at the detail. You’ve caught the little hairs on the antennae exactly. Look--it’s
grooming. Draco, this is really lovely.”

He shifted, uncomfortable with the lavish praise. “Thanks.”

The limits of his mental hold on the spell broke, and the moth dissolved into a shimmering cloud of
golden sparks, dusting Granger’s nose. She squeaked in surprise, then giggled as the effervescent
magic tickled her skin. She got up to follow him back toward the main halls, nudged him, then
impulsively looped an arm through his and hugged it briefly to her side.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” he said drily.

Chapter End Notes

Canon HP talks A LOT about the power of the soul/love when it comes to magic!
Which is so fascinating, because really even with ghosts as paranormal manifestations,
there seems to be a lot of questioning about what really happens after death? But if
they can use souls consistently in magic, there's a weird disconnect between the known
and unknown.

In any case, unlike the broader concerns of Magical/Muggle economic trade, souls
*are* something I will revisit intermittently, so if you've ever scrolled AO3 hoping for
Dramione content with sporadic contemplation of the metaphysical as applies to
magic, you are in the right place! I'm sure this comes as an enormous breath of relief
to you all (/s).
 Prefect Pressure
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The next three weeks passed in a numbing stack of pages. Even Hermione, who usually enjoyed
academics, found herself pinching the bridge of her nose in the evenings to chase off text-induced
headaches. Sixth year was no cakewalk. It was still studying magic, at least--the thrill of being
raised in a Muggle home only to find she could do real magic hadn’t ever fully worn off--but this
was no flick-of-the-wand stuff.

Transfiguration required perfect concentration, timing, and impeccably precise wand movements.
History of Magic was a bad joke. Professor Binns still judged exams based on rote memorization.
He wouldn’t make even a vague attempt to bridge Wizarding’s past with its present, and he refused
to teach any event he found personally distasteful, so Hermione was cramming in as much extra
reading as she could, looking for ways to fill in the gaps and maybe get a sense of how the
Wizarding community had responded during previous times of threat. Of war.

Potions was a whole issue in and of itself. Hermione thought it was going to be such a relief not to
be bullied by Snape. Slughorn didn’t target her, but his teaching style proved harder to adapt to
than she’d thought. Hermione was excellent at processing new concepts, memorizing information
she needed, and being precise with her spellwork. She didn’t understand why she was struggling so
much, except that these advanced potions were so delicate. They took finesse that Hermione didn’t
seem able to harness, whatever she tried. Slughorn offered vague instructions, and his feedback ran
along the lines of, “Hmm, yes, that one can be a bit finicky. Takes a gentle hand, my dear.” Or,
later, “Well, this won’t do. It’s barely mixed at all. You can’t be afraid of the cauldron, my girl!”

Like everyone else who wanted a chance at decent marks, Hermione was spending every minute
she could spare hunched over her books and cauldron. She drilled herself constantly, spending
hours in the Potions lab to practice identifying ingredients by scent. She might not have the
intuitive knack some other students she could mention seemed to possess, knowing when to add an
extra dropper-full of this or leaf of that, but by Godric, she’d memorize every ingredient in the
pantry if that’s what it took.

Even prefect duties faded to the background. A few spot checks of the library, House commons,
and other typical study spots, and she could spend much of the evening studying in the halls.
Malfoy sulked when she didn’t talk to him, but even if their conversations had been fun from time
to time, there was nothing to be done. She had to concentrate.

Harry and Ron provided much-needed support. She’d always admired their ability to keep a well-
rounded schedule of activities, even if she didn’t envy their grades.

Ron caught up with her on the way to dinner. He ducked his head in both directions before
muttering, “You all right, Hermione? We’ve barely seen you since Quidditch trials.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He shuffled a foot. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“I’ve just been so busy,” Hermione said. “With classes, and hall monitoring nights. You know.”

“Right, of course.” Ron sounded unsure. “Although we’re both prefects, you know. Harry and I
were saying it looks you’re taking on a lot more than the rest of us.”

“Everyone wants to switch now,” Hermione said. “I’m taking an extra shift almost every week.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Hermione felt uncomfortable. She had the creeping feeling Ron was trying to catch her into
admitting something, but she didn’t know what he meant. She tried to cover her unease by shoving
at him playfully with her shoulder, the way she was used to nudging the boys when they were
joking around. The differences ticked off in her brain before she could fully register what was
happening.

Ron was slightly shorter than Malfoy, but broader and more muscular.

Malfoy held himself straighter, and walked more gracefully.

Ron didn’t smell the same. He should smell like the sharp tang of hair products and hints of cedar
and vetiver.

Malfoy would have poked her just at the dip of her waist, in the soft spot where it partly tickled and
partly hurt. She made a noise when he did it, something between a giggle and a yelp, so he kept
doing it after the first time. The spot tingled in anticipation, but no prod came. Ron checked her
shoulder back instead, knocking her almost off-balance.

“You don’t need to put yourself through all that effort,” he was saying. “Lousy, stuck-up slimeball.
It’s not like the rest of the prefects don’t know the things he’s said to you. They should deal with
Malfoy themselves instead of sticking him with you every night.”

Hermione’s ears felt warm. She was glad she was wearing her hair down. “It’s really not a big deal.
I don’t mind it.”

“If you say so,” Ron said. He cleared his throat. “You’d tell me or Harry, wouldn’t you? If you
were avoiding us?”

Hermione’s heart was beating faster, which was weird, and stupid, and annoying. “Why would I
avoid you, Ron?” There was a secret bubble in her chest. She didn’t know whether or not she
wanted to hear what he would say next.

“You know.” A shy grin grew over his face. “Lavender’s been around to chat a few evenings.
Quite a few, really. Thought maybe you were jealous.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed. The bubbling feeling dissipated. She barely knew who
Lavender was. “No. I didn’t even realize you and she were together.”

“We’re not,” Ron said quickly. “She’s been coming to the Quidditch games, though. You coming
this weekend?”

“I’ll try.”

They caught up with Harry, who had a long list of things to talk about. He was so wrapped up in
that blasted Potions book. He wanted to try spells that Hermione had never heard of, things written
by a wizard none of them knew or could trust. Hermione didn’t need more reminders of Potions, or
Slughorn, than she already had. She was still trying to forget some of the more awkward moments
of Slughorn’s supper party.
“I wish Dumbledore would tell me what I’m meant to do,” Harry complained. “I’m trying to let
Slughorn collect me, but I don’t know why.”

“Dumbledore can be batty,” Ron said.

“Do you think it has to do with my mother? Slughorn had a picture with her, at his house. He knew
my mother, and he knew Voldemort. Do you think he tried to help her, once he knew Voldemort
was after them?”

“I dunno,” Ron said. “I don’t exactly know the bloke. You and Hermione are the ones stuffing
your faces at his parties.”

“You seem to do well enough for yourself,” Hermione said with a pointed look at his loaded plate.

Ron gave her a wounded look. “I’m Keeper. I need to keep my strength up. You work up an
appetite, whacking that Quaffle away so many times.”

“That reminds me, we’re playing Slytherin this weekend, and we really need to get some extra
practice in. They’ve got a new Seeker now that Malfoy’s quit, which is bad news for us. Carrow’s
actually quite good.”

“You’re trying for a Snitch Snatch?” Ron said.

“I think it’s an option we need to consider.”

Hermione let her attention drift. She found herself glancing more than once across the Great Hall,
at the boy with ice-blond hair sitting almost motionless, eating mechanically, with no evidence of
enjoyment. Draco looked miserable, from what she could make out of his expression at this
distance. He wasn’t talking to anyone. She thought for a moment he might be looking in her
direction, but she couldn’t be sure.

Harry spotted her staring and glared across the hall at the Slytherin table.

“Malfoy,” he spat. “I’m telling you, Hermione, he’s the reason Katie nearly got killed. He’s up to
something.”

“Bloody git. That sneaky little bastard is always up to something. I’m shocked Hermione hasn’t
hexed him seven ways to Sunday by now, having to look at that smug face all the time.” Ron
pushed his plate back. “We should go. McGonagall tore me a new one for missing the last
meeting.”

“Hermione,” Harry said. “Do you have time to swing by the library with me, before you go? I
wanted your help finding something.”

Hermione gave him a quizzical frown, but followed him.

“You know there are librarians, don’t you, Harry?”

“Yes, of course. I’m not that thick. I wanted a little privacy.” He looked back over his shoulder. “I
noticed you and Ron came in together.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “So?”

Harry apparently thought he was giving her a knowing grin. “Ron mentioned over the summer that
you two might be getting, well, closer. Everyone says there’s at least one prefect romance every
year, and I assumed if you were spending a lot of time with Ron. Anyway. I wanted to ask if I
should try and make myself scarce from time to time?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “No, there’s no need.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make things weird.”

“You’re only making things weird now!” Hermione shook her head. “Don’t worry about Ron and
me. We’re the same as it’s always been.”

“Fair enough,” Harry said. “Has Malfoy been acting strange?”

“What?”

“Ron said the other prefects were fobbing him off on you all the time. I thought maybe you’d have
noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“No,” Hermione said, a little flustered. “Nothing important.” She thought of a brown moth, soft
and light on her fingers. Harry wouldn’t be interested in that.

“All right. Well, Dumbledore wanted to meet with me. Maybe I can get some bloody answers this
time.”

Hermione smiled sympathetically. “Good luck.”

Draco did look different, Hermione thought at the prefects’ meeting. Different in more ways than
one. He was more subdued. He even moved the teapot her direction when she came up beside him
to pour a cup before the meeting began. Those were good things, weren’t they? Their arguments
had shifted over the weeks they’d spent on duty together. They didn’t fall so quickly into sniping at
each other, and it had been awhile since she’d heard Mudblood out of his mouth. They just...talked.
It got heated sometimes, for sure, but it felt more like a debate than a fight. When Hermione
remembered to keep score of insults, it took longer to reach twenty. Some nights neither one got
there at all.

Not that they’d had much time for arguments lately. For the last week or so, Hermione guessed,
she’d greeted him but spent much of the time reading.

He didn’t look well. His face was drawn, eyes hooded and hollow with lack of sleep. He settled on
the Slytherins’ usual couch, on the corner nearest Hermione, and propped his cheek in his hand
again.

Ron dropped himself into the couch beside Hermione and spread his arms across the back. He
jutted his chin at Malfoy, who curled his lip in distaste but otherwise didn’t move.

Throughout the meeting, Ron was determined to keep Hermione under close guard. He crossed one
leg over the other so that one foot dangled in the air by Hermione’s knee, caging her into her
corner of the couch. Hermione had to pat his ankle to make him give her room to lean forward and
get her tea off the low table. When she did, she caught a hint of vetiver.

“It would be helpful to have a count of the prefects who expect to remain at Hogwarts over the
winter holiday,” McGonagall said.

Hermione raised her hand, as did Hannah. To her surprise, so did Draco. She gave him a sharp
look. Certainly the Malfoys would normally have some big holiday to-do. Draco still looked glum
and tired. None of the other prefects raised their hands.
“Very well,” McGonagall said. “Once I have a better sense of how many students to expect, I’ll let
you know what the holiday schedule will look like. You deserve a chance to rest and enjoy
yourselves, so your responsibilities will be lighter between terms. Now, I wanted to discuss the
Halloween Fest. Mr. MacMillan and Miss Abbott, you were in charge of decorations?”

After the meeting concluded, Hermione caught up with Draco without bothering to confirm it on
the rota. It seemed like everyone had picked a favorite partner, and they were the only two who
were stuck with each other. She wondered if anything would be different between her and Ron if
someone else had taken on Malfoy. She’d felt that strange fluttering, bubbling sort of sensation
when they were walking toward the Great Hall. Or, she thought she had. Maybe she was just
feeling the residual emotions from having thought for a long time that they’d end up together.
Telling Harry that she and Ron were just friends hadn’t felt like lying.

Draco was walking close to her. He brushed against her arm, and all the little hairs on her arm
prickled at his touch. She pulled away. Her skin felt hypersensitive, almost imprinted with a feeling
of his fingertips tracing down the back of her wrist, toward her hand. It was confusing. Hermione
tugged her sleeves down and shifted her book bag to her other shoulder, so it hung between them.

As soon as Hermione and Draco made sure the library and other common study areas were in
order, they returned to the staircase between the third and fourth floors. Hermione unslung her bag
from her shoulder and took out a thick book. Draco’s voice cut in before she could skim the first
paragraph.

“I think it’s about time I set the record straight on some of your fanciful ideas about Muggles.”

“Not right now, Draco.”

“If we eat Muggle-grown food, that’s really all the more proof that their natural place is serving
Wizarding people--”

“I said I’m not in the mood,” Hermione said. “I’ve got three papers and two exams next week. I’m
going to study.”

Draco scowled. “You’re always studying lately.”

“I always have work. Don’t you have assignments to do?”

“You have no idea,” he muttered darkly. “At the beginning of term, I couldn’t shut you up if I
tried. What, has the mighty Mudblood finally realized she can’t keep up anymore?”

“I’ve got more pressing things to do than try to crack through your thick skull. You think some
people have the wrong blood. I get it. That doesn’t mean I need to talk to you about it endlessly.”
Hermione opened her book.

“Didn’t peg you for the kind of girl who’d grease Weasley’s wand for him.”

“Excuse me?”

A look of triumph flashed over his face. “I would have thought you’d go for Potter, personally.
Weasley looks like an orangutan. I don’t know how you’d stand having him pawing you, but you
seemed cozy enough.”

“Shut it. I’m trying to read.”

“The Half-breeds around Hogwarts seem to think your family has some money,” Draco continued.
 “Will your parents be embarrassed to have a pauper son-in-law, or are they so happy you’ve got a
magical cock to plug you up that they don’t care that you’ll be living in squalor?”

“That’s it,” Hermione snapped. She stood up and snatched her things. “I don’t know what the hell
your problem is. I’ve tried to be reasonable, and patient, and Godric knows I’ve let you slide too
many times to count. I’m done, Malfoy. Anytime I think for a second that you’re going to be
decent, you have to go and remind me what a wretched, vile, spiteful person you really are.”

Hermione stormed to Professor McGonagall’s office and rapped on the door. She opened it as soon
as she heard the elder witch’s voice and took a seat without being asked.

“Miss Granger, what’s the matter?”

“I need you to take me off duty with Malfoy,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I
can’t take it anymore. I thought I was getting through to him on some points, but it’s just too much.
I need a break.”

“Slow down, Miss Granger.” McGonagall pulled out a pad of parchment covered in her elegant
handwriting. “I must confess, this is a rather unusual situation.”

“Ron said you let him be off rotation with Malfoy.”

“I don’t mean your request, exactly. I’d expected you to come to me much sooner, in fact. I’m not
unaware of the nature of the animosity between you and Mr. Malfoy, and I may not intervene when
prefects rearrange my rota, but I’m not as blind as you think. I know you’ve spent more than your
share of time with him. I am, I’ll admit, somewhat surprised to find you here now.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve received various reports about Mr. Malfoy lately that I would have been disinclined to
believe, had they not come from so many students,” McGonagall said calmly. “It would appear
he’s taken it upon himself to keep his fellow Slytherins from ganging up on Muggle-born students,
particularly the first- and second-years. He gave Marcus Flint detention for it. He’s conducted
himself more respectfully around other prefects than I was concerned he might, as well. I’d meant
to commend you for what I assumed was your influence on him.”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. “He’s not like that with me,” she said
finally.

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I see. Maybe a bit of breathing room will do you some good. I can
ask Miss Clearwater and Mr. MacMillan to take a few extra nights. Why don’t you take two weeks
off and focus on your studies, and maybe spend a bit more time with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley?”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Professor.”

She’d gotten what she wanted, Hermione thought as she headed back to the Gryffindor Tower.
She’d held her own against Malfoy long enough. Whatever little flickers of understanding she
thought she’d felt between them were wrong, but she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.
Two weeks off to catch up and avoid his venom. So why didn’t she feel happier about it?

Chapter End Notes

For sharp-eyed readers: This time, I actually did know that Marcus Flint was ahead of
the Golden Trio/Draco's year, and should have graduated. I don't think of him as a
particularly good student, and in this version of storytelling, we shall assume he failed
his exams and had to repeat seventh year.

This is the last chapter until Monday, so have a lovely weekend!

 The Cabinet
Chapter Notes

CW: Body horror/mutilation. If you're sensitive to violence, you can skip this chapter
without missing major plot points.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It wasn’t working. None of it was working. Draco inched his hand into the Vanishing Cabinet and
hissed as a patch of skin tore away. He’d opened the Cabinet’s back panel and realigned countless
gears, hoping to reset it. No luck. The engraved spells and wards were worn out of use, sometimes
not even legible except for a word or two, which sent him poring for hours through spellcasting
omnibuses. He was working as fast as he could, and it was still agonizingly slow. The inner
workings of the Vanishing Cabinet were completely scrambled. Little patches of the interior space
connected instantly to the interior of Borgin & Burkes, while others were where they seemed to be.
The problem was that air was invisible. There was no way to know whether an inch of space you
looked at belonged here or miles away, until you brushed against a boundary and ripped a scrap of
flesh clean off.

He hadn’t even started working on the second layer of gears. This was the first night he’d even
gotten close to prying off the inner panel to get a look at what he was dealing with. He’d started
the semester hoping that some of the mechanisms deep inside the Cabinet would still be in decent
working order. Steaming pile of goblin dung that turned out to be. What path had he traced through
the air with his hand?

Draco’s finger flamed into a streak of pain that shot through his hand, pulsing with the jolt of his
heartbeat. He yelped, and fought the urge to yank his hand back. Trembling with pain, he withdrew
his hand centimeters at a time. The fingernail was torn off, leaving a sticky mess at the nail bed.
The cut was deep. There was something yellowish in the meat at the end of his finger. Tendon?
Draco swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit. He was rubbish at healing spells. He’d have to
go the the Infirmary later, tell them he shut his hand in a door or something. Again.

First, he had to make sure he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He marked the spot where
he’d hurt his finger on a piece of parchment, a map of the flaws in the Vanishing space. It was
dotted like a moonless night sky.

He consulted the map and tried a different angle, earned himself a gash in the webbing between his
thumb and first finger. Another, and caught a knuckle. Keeping the discipline to keep from jerking
his hand out each time was almost worse than the razor pain of each slice. Draco wanted to suck
the cut like a hurt kid. He wanted someone to tell him he’d done enough, he didn’t have to put his
hand back in there. Even someone to stand over him and look menacing and force him to do it
would be better, in a way, than this. Crouching before the Cabinet, alone, working up the nerve to
put himself through another round of pain, over and over again, ate away at his sanity.

Draco gave himself a break, if he could call it that, by checking the panel of mechanics he could
reach again. Some of the tiniest gears were as small as the pupil of an eye, engraved in fine detail
with incantations. He’d tried to keep his records flawless, but no, there were three here, and he’d
marked two. He swore. Stupid, to use his dominant hand to reach in the Cabinet. The exquisite
spellwork to re-engrave a gear this small was difficult enough even without him injured.

It took the next hour of magnifying his view, transcribing the incantation (or what was left of it),
consulting his notes, and redoing his best guess on what the proper spell ought to be. Then a test
run, reciting the incantation to send items between Cabinets and watching the visible gears closely,
looking for pockets of suspicious stillness and listening for any gnashing of pieces not fitting right
or poorly cast spells clashing. Draco thought it looked better. He hoped it did. It sounded like the
remaining faults were inside.

Fixing a gear or slot usually got rid of a flaw spot. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that this
tiny gear was responsible for one of the patches that had torn his hand. He needed the inside panel
off, and it had to be tonight. His attempt to complete his task using Katie had failed miserably. At
least she was okay, or would be, eventually. Lingering around the infirmary, listening in on
conversations had reassured him of this. He hadn’t wanted for her to get hurt. He thought he’d cast
the spell properly, had control. Another failure. If he had nothing to report to the Death Eaters
soon, they’d take it out on someone. Possibly his mother.

Draco huddled in front of the Cabinet again, trying not to whimper. He’d been at this for almost
five hours, after classes ended. He’d skipped dinner. He was sore and sweaty, and his stinging
hand was slick with blood. The space inside taunted him, a gaping mouth ready to devour him
scrap by scrap. He gritted his teeth.

He knew to avoid a big patch at the front of the Cabinet. He’d tested its size using an apple after
the edge bit his hand. He’d been lucky. One wrong move and he could have lost his hand, maybe
bled out in this musty hidden room. Behind the first few inches, he didn’t know where most flaws
were. But they found him. Angry nicks on his fingers, glancing slashes against the back of his
hand. His thumbnail, gone. That got a sharp sob of agony out of him, but he gripped the edge of the
Cabinet with his other hand and forced himself to keep steady. He was less than two inches away
from the latch he needed. The image of his thumbnail dropping, wet, onto the Cabinet floor in
Borgin & Burkes came to mind.

Draco wanted, badly, to just grab the latch and get it over with, but he couldn’t. Had to keep
creeping, bracing himself for more flares of pain. One more cut, a neat scroll of skin curling back
from his middle cuticle, and his finger smeared blood on the latch. He flipped it.

The back inside panel toppled out, knocking his hand. A wet sting against the pad of his palm.
Draco ducked his head instinctively as the wood came toward him, then focused on his hand again.
He’d have to withdraw it back through the same space that had shredded it already. He folded his
fingers under as best as he could and pulled his hand back as slowly as he could force himself to
do. Once it lay safe in his lap, he had to use his other hand to coax it open so he could assess the
damage.

Lacerations on the palm and back of the hand. Two nails gone, one split. Two knuckles shaved to
the bone. Thumb web torn. The base of the thumb, palm side, had a slice cut off as neatly as
carving a roast chicken breast for Sunday dinner. He could make out the grain of the muscle. He
was bleeding profusely, leaving dark wet stains on his robe. His mangled hand burned on the
surface level and throbbed underneath, nerves jangling against each pump of blood through his
veins.

Looking at the fallen panel was the final straw. It was riddled with holes where the Vanishing
space had eaten into it, turning a solid panel into a torn sieve made of old wood. The Cabinet was
no passage. It was a death trap, whether he ever stepped inside or not. Draco’s breath hitched. He
cradled his hand in his lap and sobbed over it, his panicked gulps echoing against the stone walls.
Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to my incredible beta readers for advising a warning! The Vanishing
Cabinet took Draco a year to fix in canon. I wondered if this might be why...
 The Greenhouse

Ten days and a dizzying number of class assignments later, Hermione still couldn’t shake a weird
sense of melancholy. Fighting with both Harry and Ron over the Felix Felicis potion for the
Quidditch match hadn’t helped matters, nor had Ron’s budding new relationship with Lavender
Brown. Every time Lavender said, “Won-Won,” Hermione could swear she felt a few brain cells
die. Meanwhile, Harry was mooning over Ginny and grousing about Snape.

Sod it, she missed Malfoy. She was allowed to think that privately, at least, even if there was no
way she could say it out loud to her friends.

He was like glass, hard and sharp and clear. Hermione liked being around her boys, but Harry and
Ron were different. They joked and talked over each other, or talked with their mouths full. They
took forever to understand anything.

Draco was cocky and arrogant and generally a little prick at the best of times, but she liked the way
he focused on her when she talked, listening keenly for any weak point in her arguments. He
borrowed her books and read them in a day, and came back raring to poke holes in her
interpretation. He rolled his eyes at what she said, but often enough he mentioned something she
hadn’t fully considered. Nothing she couldn’t refute, given a chance to think, but that was it, wasn’t
it? Most people didn’t make her think.

And it wasn’t like he was hard to look at. Again, not that she could admit it to Harry or Ron, or to
any of the Gryffindor girls who swooned just to think they were in the same house as Harry. But if
Malfoy sometimes used too much product in his hair, Harry barely seemed to wash his. Hermione
suspected he didn’t own a comb at all. Ron wasn’t much better. Malfoy was crisp and poised and
elegant. The swagger was annoying, but he had style. Not that style was enough, but for goodness’
sake, she was allowed to miss something without having to justify every guilty emotion against
some internal jury. It was just disappointing, was all. There had been moments where it seemed
like they could almost get along, if he could stop being a giant asshole all the time.

Hermione was out by the Herbology greenhouses tending her row of Night-Blooming Mugwort
when footfalls close behind her made her jump. Malfoy’s face had more color in it than usual,
probably from the walk in the cold.

“I've been looking for you everywhere,” he said.

“You found me.”

“You’re still mad at me?”

“You expected different?”

Draco took a step forward and put his hands on the table next to hers. “Are you going to let me talk
to you, or has looking for you for the last two hours been a waste of time?”

Hermione sighed. “Make it quick.”

“McGonagall told me yesterday that it's looking like I'll be off provision next term.”

“Good for you.”

“I suppose you know why.”

“I hear you've been quite the champion of lowly Mudbloods lately,” Hermione said. Draco lowered
his gaze, but Hermione wasn't satisfied yet. “I'll be sure to draft up a letter of gratitude to our
benevolent Pureblood savior.”

“I don't want you to do that.”

“Then what do you want? I'm busy.”

“Listen, Granger, that night. I was trying to get a rise out of you.”

“Well, you did.” Hermione kept her voice cool. She snuck a glance at Malfoy's face, though, in
case she'd see something different from what she'd expected.

“I didn't think you'd take it so hard. After everything I've said before, I didn't think anything I said
could really get to you.” He hesitated. “I wouldn't have said that, about you and Weasley, if I knew
it'd upset you so much. I was trying to get you to talk to me. That's it.”

“He and I aren't together.”

“I know. You made that clear.”

“I wanted us to be, for a while. A good bit of time. And even if I don't anymore, that still doesn't
give you the right to say anything to me about my private feelings. Especially if you're going to act
like I'm less than capable of human thought or emotions.”

Draco mumbled something.

“What was that?”

He flushed. “I don't think that, okay? I'm not a bloody idiot, Granger. I know you can think, and
you've made it obvious that I hurt your feelings. I spent half the afternoon looking for you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ten days later.”

“I thought you'd come back. Then I thought you needed an extra day or two to cool off. I'm telling
you, I didn't realize this was going to be the last straw. Look, I came to say I was sorry, but if you
don't want to listen, I've got plenty of other things I can do.”

“You're sorry?” Hermione said, tone shrilling up at the end. “You're sorry!?”

Draco frowned. “That's what you wanted me to say, isn't it?”

Hermione took a step forward, crackling with rage. Draco took a step back involuntarily. She kept
coming toward him, backing him up toward the far wall of the greenhouse. “You absolute idiot,
you call me every insult in the book, and now you're sorry ? You're suddenly nice to every
Muggle-born student in this place except for me, and you track me down to tell me you're bloody
SORRY?”

Any trace of arrogance was gone from Draco’s face. He looked bewildered, mostly. He looked
nervous, but his mouth twisted like he was fighting an incredulous laugh. “Yes, I’m sorry! I’ll lay
off Weasel if you want, I don’t care. What else do you want from me?”

“I'll make you sorry, you prick.” Hermione lunged at him. Both hands grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.
She heard the clunk as the back of his head hit the thick glass wall. His heart was beating fast; she
could feel it pounding against her hands on his chest. The smell of his hair and clothes mixed in
with the damp, green smell of plants uncurling their leaves in the warm air. She had every intention
of throttling him.

Instead, on wild impulse, she surged up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips hard against his.

It was weird, for a second. It wasn’t a particularly nice kiss. She was kissing him more to gross
him out or make him push her away, so she was mashing her lips hard enough against him that she
could feel the firmness of his teeth under the skin.

Then it got significantly weirder, because it seemed to click for him what was happening, and
suddenly he was kissing her back. She almost broke the kiss in shock, but he had her by the lower
lip. There was a moment of warmth that might have been his tongue, and she relaxed the pressure
of her lips so there was room for them to breathe, and when he did breathe she could taste him. He
switched to her top lip and sucked it gently. His bottom lip moved between hers. Hermione bit it,
but not hard, and Draco made a little pleased growl in the back of his throat.

His fingers found the sensitive spots at her waist, but instead of pinching or poking, his hands
glided over the curve, gentle enough to tickle but firm enough to keep her from twitching. Little
tingling threads branched out from the places he touched, illuminating a path Hermione suddenly
ached for his hands to follow. And they did, his palms sliding around her waist and up her back,
fingers tracing the outlines of her shoulder blades.

One of Draco’s hands moved up to the back of her neck and buried deep in her hair. His kiss
deepened for a moment. Then his hold on her hair tightened to the point of being painful, and he
pulled her face back, away from his.

They stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide. Hermione fought the impulse to moisten her
lips with her tongue, see if she could catch a lingering taste.

“I need to finish weeding my plants,” she blurted.

Draco nodded, shaken. He turned and collected his things without looking at her or saying a word.
Hermione was too stunned to pretend not to see him in return. She watched him as he walked out,
not bothering to try to disguise her staring. Draco didn’t look back. His back was stiff and straight,
but his hands were shaky. Through a pane of the greenhouse glass, she saw him raise one arm to
touch his mouth.
 A Well-Made Mistake
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It was a mistake. Draco kept telling himself this, every time his mind returned to the warmth of
Granger’s skin, the eager touch of her lips on his. It was a mistake. Every part of his association
with that wretched witch. Every word, every step he’d walked beside her, every second he’d spent
letting her words twist through his mind before he fell asleep in the dungeons.

What the hell had he been thinking?

It was a small mercy, at least, that she hadn’t been in the castle. No one had been anywhere near
the greenhouse. No one had seen them, and Granger wouldn’t tell anyone.

That stung, as much as it was also a relief. Enough of a shock to his pride that he could get caught
at a moment so weak that he’d kiss someone like her. Knowing that someone he’d been raised to
see as a filthy imposter would be ashamed to kiss him, too--that humiliation lingered sour in his
throat.

Mistakes. He was making too many, too fast. The old bloodstains in the Cabinet at Borgin &
Burkes would speak to his efforts to complete his task, but Dumbledore was hale and hearty in The
Daily Prophet every week. Long as he’d waited already, the Dark Lord wasn’t known for his
patience. How stupid could he have been, letting himself relax around some bushy-haired, bossy
witch who never shut her trap?

So it had felt good to see her, to know that he’d have three hours of intellectually interesting
arguments, and her closeness, which was clumsy but not unpleasant. It was reasonable to expect
that he’d prefer some social stimulation, even from her, over hours of being ignored by the other
prefects who could stand to be around him.

Kissing crossed a line. He couldn’t let it happen again.

He wouldn’t allow himself to be around her anymore. That was the simplest solution. Not the
easiest, though. The other prefects were used to coordinating their schedules so they had to be with
him as little as possible. They weren’t exactly overflowing with goodwill to switch rounds in his
favor.

Draco managed to intimidate Hannah Abbott into switching with him instead of Corner so he could
be with Clearwater one night. Then he was scheduled with Corner, and there wouldn’t be any good
in trying to convince him not to trade with Granger so he could be with Clearwater. So he had to
track down MacMillan, who was willing enough to let Draco swap to be with Gemma so that
MacMillan would be asked to trade with the Ravenclaws. It worked, but it was costing too much
time and energy understanding who wanted to be with who and finding the right prefect to ask for a
switch. Imagining that the others had gone through these efforts to avoid him didn’t feel great,
either.

He went through the motions at Potions class in a stupor. When Slughorn finally nodded vaguely
and told them they could go, he dragged his things together and rubbed his eyes. The inside of the
Vanishing Cabinet didn’t seem as badly damaged as the outer layer of workings, but he had the
flaw patches to resolve, and he hadn’t even started the series of tests needed to make sure the
Cabinets could send objects between locations intact.
“Malfoy!” The strident, familiar voice cut through the commotion of students rushing out of
afternoon classes.

Draco turned and had to scramble to catch a book Granger thrust at his chest.

“Here’s your book back,” she said, and swept off before he could finish a sentence.

“You didn’t borrow--”

She was already threading her way through the crowd of students. He’d have to chase her to give
her the bloody book back, and she knew he wouldn’t.

A ripped piece of parchment tickled his finger. Draco pulled it from between the pages to read her
neat, firm handwriting.

“Astronomy Tower. Tomorrow, 9:30 pm.”

Draco debated the rest of that day and the next whether to go to the meeting spot. He couldn’t
imagine what she had to say to him that would make any difference. He had rules to follow, and a
plan to keep from making the same mistakes again. Going to see her, alone, couldn’t lead to
anything good. It didn’t make sense for him to go.

His mind kept coming back to the kiss. That hadn’t made sense, either, but it had happened. She
never seemed to react quite the way he expected. It wasn’t wise, when it came to Granger, to
pretend you knew what she would or wouldn’t do. Maybe it would be better to go, just so he could
deal with her before this situation turned into a bigger problem.

As soon as he stepped onto the Astronomy Tower and saw her, Draco knew this was another
mistake. She’d traded her standard black robe for a turquoise dressing gown over soft pajamas and
slippers. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and the wind had loosened a few tendrils, sending
them curling playfully over her cheeks. She was sipping something out of a thermos that left foam
on her upper lip. Her tongue flicked at it, and then she saw him and dabbed her mouth with the
back of her hand.

“You came,” she said, smiling.

Draco pulled his coat tighter around him. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”

“I know. But it’s quiet. Here.” She handed him a second thermos. “I made cocoa. The
marshmallows have melted, but I think that’s when they’re best, anyway. Do you want to sit down
for a minute?”

“We don’t have anything to talk about.”

She snorted into her cocoa. “Let’s start with the fact that you’ve been avoiding me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I was trying to.” He felt awkward standing, when she had her feet tucked up
on a bench. He perched at the far end of the bench, careful to leave space between them. “You
avoided me first.”

“I was mad at you. Are you mad at me?”

Draco held the thermos between his hands so it could warm his fingers. “No.”
“Really?” She let out a breath. “I have to say, I’m relieved. I...wondered if you would be.”

He glowered at her. “I’m angry with myself, Granger. What you do is your own concern.”

“It seemed like you were concerning yourself with me a few days ago.”

““Whatever you think happened, forget it,” Draco snapped. “You are nothing. Lower than
nothing.”

“See, why do you have to do this?” She waved her arm at the night sky, and the dim outline of the
Forbidden Forest. “Who do you think you’re talking to? If nothing I say or do is your concern, why
bother coming out here? You’re not fooling me, Malfoy. If I’m nothing to you, then there was no
reason for you to go to the trouble of finding me, and apologizing. Or coming to meet me tonight,
for that matter. So why did you do it, then?”

“Why does it matter?”

She leaned forward, brown eyes searching his. “Do you hate me?”

He shrugged. “That doesn’t really matter, either.”

“Of course it does.”

Draco looked down at the thermos. He still hadn’t taken a sip. “I hate you,” he mumbled, the
words not sounding convincing, even to himself. “Even if I didn’t, it couldn’t change anything.
You think you can make me some kind of project. You can talk as much as you want about how
great you think Muggles are. It doesn’t change what they are, or what you are, or what I am. Just
because you’re bright doesn’t mean you can change how the world works.”

“I think that’s exactly what it means,” Hermione muttered. “Draco, I don’t think you’re a project.”

Draco scoffed. “You haven’t been lecturing me on Muggles for weeks as a hypothetical exercise.
Give me some credit. You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Yes, of course I’ve been trying to convince you not to hate an enormous group of human beings,”
Hermione said. “Of course it’s not a hypothetical exercise. Whatever propaganda you seem to think
it is, it’s not that, either. I’m talking about my parents, Draco. My friends. People I care about.”

“What did you think the outcome was going to be? That I’d say, ‘Wow, Granger, you’re so right.
Let’s be friends and run arm in arm through the halls with Potter and Weasley’?”

“You want the truth?”

Draco put his arm against the stone back of the ledge. “Let’s have it.”

“I started out the term mostly hoping to shut you up. I thought if I had a good enough argument, I
could convince you not to hate me.” She cleared her throat nervously. “But I like talking with you.
And I think you like talking with me, too. So I think we should drop this stupid pretense of hating
each other indefinitely, because it’s not true, and you know it.”

“You should hate me.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m really not good at hating people. Even if you’re a cocky prat who
kind of deserves it.”

His mouth twitched into a small smile despite himself. She didn’t sound angry. Her tone was
 teasing, almost affectionate. It had been weeks since he’d heard that tone. He didn’t mind hearing
it again, and having her at arm’s length and insulting him felt reassuringly normal.

“So what are you suggesting?”

“We’re on the rota together tomorrow night. Let’s both show up this time. And let’s try talking to
each other without spending an hour insulting each other first.” She tugged her robe tighter around
herself. “Can you agree to that?”

It wasn’t much more than what he’d done most of the term so far. She couldn’t control what he
said, so the ban on insults didn’t mean much. Based on what he’d seen before, he doubted she’d be
able to keep her temper for long, either. They could put the fight, and his apology and what came
after, behind them, and he could go back to having a few hours in the evenings to satisfy his need
for a little company.

“Okay. I’ll come,” he said.

“Good. I’m freezing, and I’ve got a paper to finish before bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Draco waited in the cold night air for a while before following down the steps, in case anyone
would have been passing by. She’d left her thermos behind. The liquid inside was tepid now, but
he brought it down to his room with him anyway. He poured the congealing cocoa out in the sink,
rinsed the thermos, and set it on the bottom shelf of his bedside table. It felt comforting to see it
there, a little token to prove she’d sought him out, even when she didn’t need to.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter title courtesy of Fiona Apple, because I am a 90s kid, although I cannot do
any writing while listening to her music. It's been really fun to see returning
commenters! We're finally in the territory where I got to feel, writing this, like I was
past the more standard Dramione preamble and got to start building my own version of
the relationship these two smart, opinionated characters could have.
 Truce Night
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione wasn’t certain he would show until she spotted his figure swaggering through the
corridor, and her stomach did a little flip. She ducked her head, hoping to collect herself. He’d
make fun of her if he saw her grinning like this. She barely knew what to make of the sudden wave
of giddiness, herself. Chalk it up to relief that he was here, mixed with some lingering nervousness
from the kiss. But that was behind them now. She shook herself.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” Draco looked less severe than he often did. His hair fell more softly, instead of following a
sharp part, and he’d loosened his tie.

Hermione snickered.

“What?” The guarded look slammed back over his face. It was a shock to see how quickly it
happened. Hermione could almost point to all the muscles that tightened in a split second. She held
up a hand.

“No, it’s just--I was thinking you look more casual than usual, and then I realized you’re still more
dressed up than Harry is any time of day.”

He eased again. “Potter always looks like he dressed in the dark. It’s hardly a compliment if I look
better.”

“It’s not an insult.”

He twitched the corners of his mouth down and raised his eyebrows, considering the point. “True
enough.”

They decided to swing by the library first. End-of-term exams were still a while off, but most of
the younger students would be struggling under the weight of their classes. Stopping by the major
study spots was a good way to get a head count. Hermione liked to make a few wide loops through
the open spaces where students clustered in groups to puzzle through their spellwork. More often
than not, she got flagged down for help with a problem, and that was her best opportunity to check
in, hear who was dealing with garden-variety homework problems or having more serious trouble,
or even learn who was particularly upset over a failed exam and might need some extra reaching
out.

Draco, meanwhile, rarely showed himself in the main areas. He snuck between shelves, catching
students making out or slipping toward the Restricted section. If he went near the main study area,
he always kept a shelf or two as a barrier so he could listen in on students gossiping over their
textbooks.

Draco smirked at her when she met up with him at the library doors again.

“What?” she said.

“It’s funny to watch you strut around the library. You tell me I swagger, but you should see
yourself.”
Hermione blushed. “I do not.”

“Of course you do.” He grabbed her book bag and slung it over his shoulder. He puffed his chest
out, shook his head back in what even Hermione had to admit was a good mimic of her hair toss,
and sashayed down the hall. “I’m Granger, Queen of the library, swooping in to save every
miserable snot-nosed first-year from failing Charms.”

Hermione made a face. It was hard to get too angry at him for teasing her when he was making
himself look so ridiculous in the process. “Better than skulking around like you do. Some of the
second-years are calling you Shark, because you’re always waiting to attack them.”

“I’m aware. I’m the one listening in on their conversations,” Draco said. “I’m surprised you’re
taking their side. They’re all cheating shamelessly whenever they can, and you don’t catch them
charging around like an elephant, the way you do. Eavesdropping tells me things. Which reminds
me, ask Isobel Dingle to get tea with you on Friday or Saturday. She’s one of yours, right?”

“Why?”

“Her boyfriend’s breaking up with her, probably tonight or tomorrow.”

“Oof. Poor girl,” Hermione said. “I’ll ask Alestra Jordan to check in on her. They’re closer.”

“You won’t do it yourself?”

“I don’t really have much experience in that arena,” Hermione admitted. “I’d be worried about
saying the wrong thing.”

Draco gave her a sharp look. “What kind of experience is not much? You’ve dated before, haven’t
you?”

“A little. Not much, really,” Hermione said.

“You were attached at the hip to Krum, when he was here.”

“Everybody always brings up Krum,” she said. “I was fourteen.”

“So? He’s a world champion Quidditch player. You could hear girls’ robes hitting the ground as
soon as he walked in the door.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I’m a lady.”

Draco laughed. “I’d like to see some of the witches I know hear you call yourself that. They’d be
shocked enough by the state of your hair, never mind your blood. They’d have a fit.”

“You didn’t need to say that to me,” Hermione said quietly. “We said we weren’t insulting each
other tonight.”

“We did.” He scrutinized her face. “What are we doing?”

“Making sure none of the students are getting into trouble before curfew, for starters.”

“Ah. Of course.”

Draco stayed on polite terms for the next half hour or so. Almost too polite, Hermione thought. She
was beginning to wish she hadn’t reprimanded him for teasing her. She was used to worse from
him, after all. That was likely why she’d jumped. He’d been acting friendly, and the first sign that
he was making fun of her felt like the end of their truce. But maybe it wasn’t, even if it had seemed
to be. If they were going to figure out how to relate to each other when they weren’t at each other’s
throats, there were bound to be a few missteps here and there. His somber expression and
distanced, courteous tone was getting unnerving.

So she took out her wand and Charmed his robes with a bright, polka dot pattern.

He whirled back toward her. “Really?”

She smiled. “I think it suits you.”

“Yeah, you think? Why don’t you try this on, then?” He flicked his wand at her. The tie she wore
with her uniform unknotted itself, slid from around her throat and retied itself into a flouncy bow
on top of her head. With another wave of his wand, he’d restored his robes to their handsome shade
of dark green, just in time for a third-year to round the corner and stop, visibly confused at
Hermione’s gaudy hair ornament.

Hermione fixed her teeth in a smile. “Yes, Elphias? You were looking for me?”

For a while, they cast spells back and forth at each other, grinning as the other tried to remain
composed. Hermione turned Draco’s socks to jelly while he was walking, and had to admit she was
impressed by his ability to maintain a dignified, intimidating expression that dared the first-years
before him to question where the faint squelching noise was coming from. In return, Draco
Animated her hair, so the loose tendrils began twisting through the air, serpent-like. Hermione
smiled and pulled an extra-thick hair tie and several three-inch bobby pins from her pocket.

“You should know better, Draco. This is basically how it behaves anyway.” She wrestled her hair
into one hand, twisted the tie over it, and stabbed the more active locks into submission with the
pins. Smaller tendrils ducked a curl apologetically and coiled themselves by her ears.

They met briefly with Michael and Penelope at curfew time to check that the Ravenclaws were
accounted for. Once they were past, Hermione and Draco drifted closer together again. It felt more
natural, at this point, to walk with her arm occasionally brushing against his. He seemed to enjoy it,
too. When a staircase started moving with them on it, his hand automatically went to the small of
her back in case she stumbled. He pinched her elbow lightly as a sign when he wanted to whisper
something about someone passing, or signal her to look at something without being obvious. She
felt the familiar squeeze now, and he nodded back toward where they had left the Ravenclaw
prefects.

“Why didn’t you sort into Ravenclaw? It seems like that would have been the obvious fit.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Because Gryffindors can’t be smart?” She mused, trying to
remember the details of what the Sorting Hat had told her. She hadn’t thought about the Sorting in
a long time. It felt like something that had happened to someone else. “Ravenclaw would have been
okay, of course. I guess I already felt like I was bright, and I didn’t need more attention put on it. I
know that sounds vain, and I don’t mean it that way. I would have been a bit disappointed in
myself if that really was the best I had to offer. Cleverness is important, but bravery’s better, and I
suppose the Hat wanted to give me a chance to try.”

“Bravery’s overrated,” Draco said. “Going for pointless heroics is more reckless than admirable,
especially when there are more effective ways of getting what you want.”

“I don’t know if you’re going to convince me on that,” Hermione said. “What about you? Did you
know you were going to sort into Slytherin?”
“Of course. Malfoys are in Slytherin. Always.”

“You were that sure? No one tells first-years about the Sorting Ceremony. You didn’t know how it
would work.”

“It didn't matter how it worked. Some mangy hat wasn’t going to keep me out. Can you imagine if
I’d written home and asked them to hang anything but a green banner outside my window? I would
have stolen someone’s House robes and snuck into the Slytherin dorms at night, if I’d had to.”

Hermione remembered the Sorting Hat screaming Malfoy’s placement before it was even fully on.
It made sense now. “That’s the most Slytherin thing I’ve ever heard.”

He glanced at her. “Coming from you, I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that.”

She shrugged. “Being determined and ambitious aren’t bad things. It depends how you use them.”

Once they were satisfied that student life in the castle was under control, they headed to an east-
facing hallway. The windows were built in with generous benches, padded with thick cushions.
Hermione took a seat on one end, resting her back against the side of the window seat. Draco sat
on the edge again, like he’d done up on the Astronomy Tower the previous evening.

“Relax,” Hermione said. “You don’t need to sit so stiff if you don’t want to.”

“Just because I’m not slouching doesn’t mean I’m stiff,” Draco said. He settled in to face her,
though, putting his legs up on the seat. He crossed one arm over his knees, and he did look much
more relaxed. He had a way of fixing her with a steady, appraising gaze, a certain look of wary
hopefulness in his eyes, that Hermione found unsettling and fascinating. “So what do we do now?”

“Do you want to play a game?” Hermione said. Draco still looked so serious. She wanted him to
loosen up a little, crack a smile.

“Like what?”

“Don’t laugh, but do you know how to play Concentration?”

He shook his head.

“Figures. It’s a girls’ game. Where I grew up, at least, that is. I don’t know if witches play it when
they’re little. You take turns naming things in a category, and the first person to repeat something
or take too long to come up with something new loses. I thought since we’re both good at
Transfiguration, we might be able to play a harder version.” She took a fork out of her pocket.

“We take turns changing it into something?” Draco sat forward, reaching for his wand.

“Yes,” Hermione said, encouraged to see him interested. “Here, let me do the intro. I’ll do an easy
category first, so we can practice.” She knew it as a hand-clap game, with three claps in between
each part of the opening chant. It didn’t feel right to do it any other way, even if it felt a bit silly.
“Concentration--” *clap clap clap* “64--”

“Why 64?” Draco interrupted.

“No reason. That’s just how it is. Let me just do it. You’ll know when it’s time to go.
Concentration--64--no repeats--or hesitations. I’ll go first.” She drew her wand. “You’ll go second.
Category: kitchenwares.” She flourished the wand, and changed the fork into a spoon.
They went through the obvious things first: spoon, knife, butter knife (“Okay, if that’s how you
want to play it,” Draco said), steak knife, chef’s knife, paring knife, salad fork (“Bloody finally”),
soup spoon.

Then Hermione Transfigured Draco’s soup spoon into an instrument whose handle ended in a
crescent, with a slitted blade spanning the width of the crescent.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Draco said.

“It’s a potato peeler.”

“There’s no such thing as a potato peeler. You lose.”

Hermione laughed. “Of course there is!”

“No there isn’t, you just use a knife.”

“Sure, if you want to cut your thumb.”

“How would you cut yourself?” Draco looked at her incredulous face. Realization dawned. “You
don’t Charm your utensils?”

“Draco, I grew up in a Muggle house, remember?” Hermione picked up the potato peeler. “See,
you’d hold it like this, and then the blade isn’t too close to your hand. Potatoes can be slippery
when they’re half-peeled.”

Draco tipped his chin up haughtily. “I wouldn’t know. But fine, I’ll allow it. Put it down, it’s my
turn.”

“Please. No hesitations. You forfeit the round.”

“That was a clarification, not a hesitation. I knew what I was doing next.”

“Oh my God. Okay, fine. Go.”

He flicked his wand and turned it into a whisk.

Hermione couldn’t resist. On her next turn, the whisk made a little popping sound and turned into a
sturdier utensil, the loops of the whisk thickening and rearranging so they were perpendicular to
the handle.

Draco shook his head. “I don’t know what that is, either.”

She grinned mischievously. “It’s a potato masher.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Granger, do you eat anything but potatoes?” He held up his hands. “I
surrender. Who can compete with your obsession with root vegetables? Don’t you put down your
wand, we’re doing best two out of three. And I’m picking the categories from now on--no Muggle
tricks allowed.”

They played three more rounds, in fact, although they had to bend the definition of “hesitation”
considerably to allow enough time to perform the difficult Transfigurations for the magical
creatures round. It was after the end of that round, when Draco was practicing a Sphinx he’d
messed up during the game, that Hermione saw an angry-looking mark on his skin.

“What on earth did you do to your hand?”

He tried to yank it out of her view, but he wasn’t fast enough. She grabbed his hand and pulled it
closer to get a better look. It was pink and raw, shiny where wounds were healing over into scar
tissue. Hermione touched his palm gently. There was a particularly nasty patch near his thumb. He
winced when she grazed it.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione whispered.

Draco didn’t say anything. He didn’t pull away, either.

Hermione turned his hand in hers, letting her fingers trace over the scars. When he’d brandished a
wand at her chest the first night of term, she hadn’t noticed any of this.

“It’s like you shoved it down a garbage disposal,” she muttered.

“A what?”

“Nothing.” She rubbed her thumb across one of his fingernails, causing another flinch. “What
happened?”

“A potion exploded on me.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Seamus explodes potions all the time, and he’s never hurt himself like
this.” Her fingers continued to brush against the scars marking his skin. Draco’s hand was warm in
hers. When she inspected the scars on his fingers and knuckles, his fingers curled in toward hers,
almost interlocking. The odd thing was that some of the scars were vivid pink, while others were
duller, or almost white. “It doesn’t even look like one injury. Some of those scars crisscross over
each other. It’s like you’ve been hurting yourself for a while.”

He tugged his hand back. “It’s nothing.” Moonlight coming through the window made him look
even paler. His eyes were hollow and shadowed, and the naked terror Hermione saw in them, if
only for a second, made her catch her breath.

“Draco,” she said. “Are you in trouble?”

For a moment she thought she saw him take a breath to say something. Then he swallowed hard.

“I can manage my own affairs, Granger.” He stood up. “Isn’t it time we did our job, instead of
lazing around the castle all night?”

Hermione caught his hand again, just holding it this time, and tilted her head up toward him. “If
you were--and I’m not saying you are--you could tell me, if you wanted. I’d want to hear it. I’d
want to help, if I could.”

His grey eyes met hers. “You think very highly of your own abilities, don’t you? I don’t know if
you really can do everything you seem to think you can. You’d better hope you’re right.” He took
his hand from hers, but not roughly. “It might be better if we kept all this separate from the rest of
our lives. This wasn’t a bad thought--having a truce, tonight. I haven’t minded it. But don’t start
thinking that when other people are around--”

“I wasn’t,” Hermione interrupted. “I just wanted to let you know talking to me was an option. No, I
hardly expect you to come around during the day. Think of Harry and Ron’s faces! They wouldn’t
speak to me for a month.” She paused. “I’m having a nice time. Let’s just go back to that.”

Draco gave her a slight smile of relief. It was time for another pass through the halls they were
assigned to watch. Taking a leisurely pace, they could make it last the final half hour and part ways
at the Runed Staircase, which tended to be halfway between their respective dorms this time of
year.

Before they reached the 10-minute mark, they’d found their way back into comfortable
conversation. By the time they neared the last few halls of their rounds, Draco was teasing
Hermione again, and she was laughing and protesting.

“He's a fine cat. I'm not disputing that. But if you die, he'll eat you.”

“He would not! Crookshanks is a noble creature.”

“He’s a hungry animal, and if you try to ascribe anything else to him, you’re lying to yourself.
Once you die, you’re just meat as far as he’s concerned. And what's more,” Draco continued,
“He'd start with your face.”

“That's disgusting. Why would you say that?”

He shrugged. “It’s soft and delicious.”

Hermione caught him by the arm. “Wait, wait, hold on. Do you hear that?”

He stopped, listened. “Weasley.”

Hermione groaned internally. Just when things were going so well. The last thing she wanted was
some awkward confrontation to spoil the end of the evening.

Draco seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Your friend’s here to save you from my company,”
he spat. “Shall I prepare my goodbyes?”

“I don’t know why he’s up this way. One of the staircases must be feeling frisky,” Hermione said.
“He hasn’t tried to switch out with us before, there’s no reason for him to do it now. Just act like
you don’t like me, so he doesn’t think anything’s off.”

“Someone’s confident I don’t still dislike her,” Draco remarked to the portraits hanging along the
wall.

“Stop talking to me,” Hermione whispered. “We can’t be chatting, he’ll know something’s wrong.
You can’t smile at me or anything.”

“Granger, I’ve hated you for five years. I remember how to do it.”

“Okay, fine. Be natural, though.” She gave him an appraising look. His features had already set
into a mask of cold indifference. His shoulders were back, and he swaggered down the hall like a
young lord. “Yes, that looks good.”

“Are you sure, though?” Draco muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “You don't want to give
me a quick lesson on how to act like myself? He's still down at that end of the hall.”

“Yes, all right, I get it.” She reached out to give him a playful shove, but he blocked her.

“Don't touch me, stupid, he'll see it.”

Ron waved at Hermione. “Everything all right, Hermione?” he called, still down by the History of
Magic classroom door.

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. “All right, I suppose. Dealing with this
git,” she shouted back. In the corner of her eye, she saw Draco give the slightest shake of his head,
and she thought his lip might have twitched.

As Ron came within a few feet, Draco whipped toward Hermione, face twisted into a withering
expression of disdain.

“Granger,” he snarled at her, drawling her name out with exaggerated menace.

Hermione’s chest spasmed with her effort to swallow her laugh. She tried to disguise it by baring
her teeth back at Draco, but then their eyes met, and she snorted before she could help it.

Draco grabbed her by the arm and dragged her around the corner into an empty classroom.
Hermione pressed her lips together, but her cheeks were twitching. Draco covered her mouth with
his hand just as the dam broke.

“Stop it,” he hissed as she giggled into his hand. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger, pull it together.
You’re embarrassing yourself.” He was grinning, too. He had to look away from her face every few
seconds as he scolded her to keep himself from cracking. “Honestly, Granger, control yourself.
You’re going to ruin everything. This is shocking. Unseemly for a witch of your reputation.”

“Shut up, you prat,” Hermione choked out between fits of laughter. Every time she thought she was
done, she looked up at Malfoy, and his mock-stern expression set her off all over again. She felt
him put a hand on her shoulder to steady her, and her head tipped forward so her forehead touched
his chest.

That quieted her a little, although a few stray giggles still bubbled up. Draco had stopped scolding.
He was standing quite still, and Hermione felt his hand drift down from her shoulder to rest in the
middle of her back. A moment later, the other hand snaked around her waist to join it, circling her
in his arms. She didn’t move. It felt nice, being here, feeling his breath tickle a few flyaway hairs,
and the warmth of his hands against her back. She didn’t entirely know what to do with her hands;
there wasn’t really a place to put them that wasn’t Draco. The circle felt like it was drawing tighter,
almost imperceptible except for her urge to take a step closer. Hermione put her hand on his waist.

He shifted, breaking the touch.

“We’d better finish up.” They hurried down to the next staircase. Draco snickered. “‘Dealing with
this git,’” he repeated softly, adding what Hermione thought was a rather theatrical flair to the
cadence.

Hermione wasn’t quite ready to head back to the Gryffindor dorms, so she didn’t say anything
when they reached the Runed Staircase. Neither did Draco. They kept walking together, in pleasant
silence, until they reached the top of the narrow staircase down to the dungeons.

Draco turned to face her, putting both arms up so his palms pressed against the walls on either side
of the staircase. He was technically blocking her, but it didn’t feel the same as it used to. He was
leaning forward slightly, his face close to hers.

“It’s nice down there, you know. It hasn’t been a dungeon in ages.” He licked his lips, took a
breath. “There’s a big window, made of Warded glass. You can see everything swimming past, in
the moat. The Giant Squid’s pretty cool. I thought it was scary, when I was a first-year, but it’s
very gentle and graceful. And when the moon’s strong enough, all this green light comes shining
through the water.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Hermione said.

 “It’s very beautiful.” He picked an invisible speck off his sleeve cuff. “I thought you might like to
know. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Hermione nodded. “I’d like that.”

Chapter End Notes

Draco Malfoy as a character has fascinated me for quite some time, but it was only
when I started writing about him that I started to understand what my own deal was
(writing can be like that). If you're reading any kind of Draco-centered fanfic, I
imagine you'd agree he seems to be a much more nuanced, interesting person than the
overall canonical arc would have us believe (i.e., basically he's a weak, mean bully
who can't handle the enormity of where his bad choices lead him).

One of my beta readers said it best when she pointed out that JKR is such a strong
Gryffindor herself that it could be ironically easy for her to overlook facets of
characters she herself created, because they don't hold up to her strongly-held ideals.
I'd definitely say Draco is one of the stronger examples of this!

Basically, I was skimming through HBP and a few earlier books as well, scanning for
Draco's name in an attempt to glean anything about who in the world this boy is when
he's not actively antagonizing Harry Potter. It's weird to think I'd have to hunt for any
indication of what Draco's like when he's happy. But in the costumes, and badges, and
ridiculous songs, the way he rallies other Slytherins to go along with his ideas, even
the way it seems they listen to him when he's telling exaggerated stories over meals in
the Great Hall, all these clues point toward someone who...is probably actually fun to
be around. One of the most fun parts of telling this story the way I intend to is trying to
uncover my best guess on who he might have been all along, to anyone who looked at
him without Harry Potter's bias.
 Flood
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco Malfoy was feeling good. He could barely remember the last time he’d felt like this, in fact.
Months ago, at least, but it felt like much longer. Draco had to admit it was mostly thanks to
Granger, at least within the privacy of his own mind. He would have thought the first night of their
truce was a fluke, but it had felt even easier in subsequent evenings. They were almost halfway
through December now, which meant their new agreement had been in effect for over three weeks.

He was sleeping soundly at night and waking up feeling clear-headed and alert. His mind didn’t
wander so much during classes. The concepts and theories behind the spells and potions fit
together neatly in his head again, and he was occasionally even beating Granger to the punch at
answering questions. Not that he’d go so far as to play teacher’s pet, but he liked whispering the
answer loud enough for her and a few others to hear, to make sure she knew she wasn’t the only
one paying attention.

It wasn’t only his classwork that had improved. Work on the Vanishing Cabinet was going better
than it had all year. Draco didn’t know whether it was simply a matter of accessing some of the
inner workings or whether his more balanced state of mind accounted for the shift, and he didn’t
much feel like questioning it. Whatever the reason, he was fixing multiple faulty spots per day,
erasing them from his map and waving a finger smugly through clear air that had once cost him
blood. It often felt like the Cabinet was alive and tormenting him. Pulling its teeth one by one was
satisfying.

Draco wouldn’t have believed he and Granger could be around each other without being at each
other’s throats, but somehow the time filled. They talked and played Exploding Snap and ERS and
wandered around the castle together, and suddenly it would be 11 o’clock and time to say
goodnight. If any of the disapproving shadows in his head had manifested themselves in front of
him, he knew the perfect offhand tone to dismiss Granger as an idle diversion, a way to clear his
head to focus better on more important tasks, but he was more grateful all the time for his talent
and hours of practice at Occlumency. It was getting harder to hide how much he looked forward
daily to her conversation, her company. Her touch.

That part was harder to admit, even to himself, but impossible to deny. He’d noticed Granger
getting even more familiar in her manners since the first truce night. To his shame, he’d barely
managed to scrape together more than a half-hearted protest the first time she flopped down next to
him to study, leaning companionably against his shoulder. Neither one of them had mentioned the
kiss again, nervous about anything that would crumble the new ease between them. It didn’t mean
he never thought about it, especially when she tucked herself up close enough that their breathing
naturally fell into rhythm together.

“Were you raised in a barn?” he grumbled when she plopped next to him again that night, close
enough to knock his book into his lap.

“You’re the one who chose a bench with no cushions,” she said, opening her own book. “I can’t
focus if I’m not comfortable.”

Draco couldn’t focus with her snuggling against him like that, although he was hardly about to say
as much. He lifted his hand for a moment, deciding, then pushed her hair to her opposite shoulder.
“At least keep that bird’s nest out of my face so I can see the page.”
“Prat.”

“Mhm.” Her hair wasn’t tickling against his cheek anymore. Instead, he now had an excellent view
of the curve of her neck and the dip of her collarbone. She was wearing her robe open in the front,
so following the line of her neck naturally led toward...other curves, which didn’t help the
distraction.

It would be more comfortable for both of them if she wasn’t leaning against his arm, but his side.
All he had to do was slide his arm around behind her, and she could just sink into him.

And then the real question was whether to let his hand rest low enough for his fingers to brush the
sliver of skin where her shirt rode up above the waistband of her skirt.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him pull away. Ephigenia Mistle was a Ravenclaw
fourth-year. She wore purple-rimmed glasses and liked to decorate her hair with rows of tiny
butterfly clips arching over the top of her head. The wings fluttered on their springs as she skidded
to a stop in front of Draco and Hermione.

“You’ve got to come quick. It’s the fifth-floor bathrooms. They’re all flooding!”

Hermione swore under her breath. “Come on, we need to go!”

“Malfoys don’t run.” Draco was, however, forced into a brisk walk if he wanted to keep up with
Granger. “What’s up there?”

“The Music room and instruments, Art classroom and supply room, Muggle Studies, the Upper
Hall, the Rare and Dangerous Books Archive.” Her face paled when she mentioned the books, and
she quickened her pace.

They heard the water before they saw it. Hermione took the last few steps at a sprint, shoes
splashing in a torrent of water gushing through the hallway. The prefects’ bathroom was high-
ceilinged and spacious, with a tub big enough for a Quidditch team in the center of the room,
porcelain sinks flanking each section of ribbed vault bowing down from the ceiling, and a massive
stained-glass window depicting a mermaid.

Water hissed and burbled and roared. Jets of water arced in glittering streams from each broken
faucet. The tub had become something like a giant cauldron, churning a whirlpool of water that
sloshed in waves over the floor. Showers pointed their nozzles into the air and clouded the
mermaid in a haze of mist.

“What the hell is going on?” Draco said. He shot a Reparo at one of the faucets, and the metal
snapped back into place, clamping down on the flow of water. He glared at the quivering fourth-
year, who was twisting her hands beneath her chin at the entrance, without setting foot on the
flooded tile. “What are they teaching you in Charms? Can’t you fix a leak yourself?”

“Just watch,” she quavered.

A shrill, grinding sound rippled up from within the walls. It streamed over the ceiling and died
away somewhere low. A moment later, the faucet unscrewed itself, whipping around with high-
pitched squeaks that hurt Draco’s teeth. The tub seethed, bubbles the size of a fist. Steam wafted
over the foaming water.

“Thanks for finding us, Ephigenia,” Hermione said. “You can go. We’ll take care of it.”

The fourth-year nodded, butterflies fluttering, and splashed her retreat.

“We will?” Draco muttered.

“This could be a few things,” Hermione said. “Freshwater pixies nesting in the pipes, or too many
potions dumped down the drain. We can fix it, once we figure out what’s going on.”

They spent a futile fifteen minutes testing different repairing spells. Applying an anti-freezing
charm did nothing, so it wasn’t as simple as a pipe cracking in the cold weather. None of the usual
suspects for metal, water, or all-purpose binding magic worked. In a moment of frustration, Draco
cast a complicated series of spells and strengthening charms to get a single spout under control. The
water shut off for thirty seconds, and then there was a creaking, groaning sound, and the entire sink
burst loose. Water sprayed Draco full in the face, soaking his hair and robes. He took his robe off
and heaved it over the edge of a shower stall. Hermione looked over at him and followed suit,
leaving her in her light purple button-down.

“Right,” she said. “Definitely not a potions issue. I’ve tested for everything I can think of, which
should about cover it.”

“Unless whoever poured a bad cauldron down the drain wasn’t working out of a textbook.”

Hermione put a hand on her hip. “I tested for those, too. I’ve brewed my share of extracurricular
potions.”

“Really?” Draco gave her a sharp look. “Like what?”

“Oh, this and that. I royally screwed up my first batch of Polyjuice--”

“You can brew Polyjuice potion?”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I keep forgetting it’s illegal. You didn’t hear that.”

He would have pressed her further, but another one of those unholy screeches reverberated on the
other side of the tile. “So not potions. Got it. I wouldn’t mind shutting off that noise. It gives me
the willies. Do you think something got in?”

“Could be. This time of year, a lot of creatures would want a way out of the cold. Besides pixies,
what else--maybe nagas, or even a juvenile water drake? It would have to be small enough to get
through the pipes, but still strong, is the thing.” She disappeared around a corner, leaving Draco to
conduct his own searches.

Some lesser members of the dragon family lived in water, but Draco doubted any of them would
find its way in here. The logistics of it were all wrong. You’d need something big to cause this
much damage, or a small army of smaller creatures, and there was no food source, nothing for
them to live off of.

“Myrtle.” Granger emerged from a bathroom stall. “The toilets are still, though the water in the
tanks has gone a strange color. She’s fond of the stalls. If this were nagas, or even something small
like Gillywhelks, the toilets would be going off, too.”

“So where is she?” Draco had his wand out. The ghost wasn’t normally shy. Sensitive, yes, and
temperamental, but it was unnerving not to be able to see her. Another piercing shriek tore through
the pipes overhead. “If that’s her, she’s headed out of the bathroom.”

“Can she do that?” Hermione followed him, splashing through the ankle-deep water cascading
down the hall. “I thought she was stuck in the bathroom.”
“She travels in the pipes. That’s how she gets from one bathroom to another.”

The noise in the pipes led them to the Rare and Dangerous Books Archive.

When they got there, Myrtle was waiting for them. A crystal vase of water shattered on the wall
next to them as soon as they got in the room.

“Heartless! Hateful!” she screeched.

Hermione stepped forward, wand at the ready. “Myrtle, what’s going on? Turn the water off and
tell us about it.”

“Come to make fun of Myrtle,” Myrtle said. “Ugly, miserable. Wretched little breather witch.”

“No one’s going to make fun of you, Myrtle.” Hermione took another step. “Isn’t that right,
Draco?”

The ghost noticed Draco, and her expression immediately changed. “You!”

A shelf’s worth of books flew off the bookcase and pelted themselves at Draco’s face. He threw an
arm up to protect himself, and got snagged by one of those demented books with teeth. He blasted
it off him with a crack of his wand, and fired a few more spells to keep some of the others at bay.

Moaning Myrtle was a weeping hurricane swirling through the room. “Hateful!” she screamed
again. “Vicious, lying, cruel! They all say it. Think I don’t hear. Ugly, worthless, snivelling. Who’s
crying in the bathroom again? Who’s crying? ” Her voice slid up into a piercing wail. More books
shot off the shelves. Another vase exploded, the shards twisting through the air. Myrtle raced
around the room, pelting whatever she could find into the air and screaming incoherently. She was
spreading out, her edges going hazy. Draco and Hermione were caught in a maelstrom of ghost and
debris.

“Miserable, mewling, moping, moaning!” Her voice felt disconnected from the spectral form she
usually presented. It thudded in the walls, in the pit of Draco’s stomach. Hermione took the corner
of a book to her temple and dropped, holding her head.

“Arresto Totale!” Draco accompanied the shout with a commanding flourish of his wand. The
books, inkwells, and other projectiles stopped in mid-flight, hanging motionless in air. Myrtle
dissolved into the seams of the walls. Draco dropped to one knee.

“Granger? Are you all right?” He shook her shoulder.

“Yes, I’m fine. Come on, we need to get her.”

“We need to get out.”

Granger shook her head. “She’ll cause more trouble. We’ve got to get her settled somehow, or
she’ll tear the whole floor apart.” Her gaze took in the room, with all the objects suspended.
Lamplight caught hundreds of shards of glass. What had been pandemonium could now be
mistaken for a giant chandelier of books and crystals, each piece floating separate from the others.

“Nice.” She gave the room another appreciative look. “Count on you to make it stylish, even when
we’re being attacked.”

“Save it,” Draco said, gratified that she’d noticed. “Let’s go get this over with.”
Back in the prefects’ bathroom, Myrtle had grown and distorted. Her body was obscured by a
cloud of greasy smoke that curled like ink in water. Python-thick tendrils swirled like limbs,
undulating over porcelain and glass. Where they touched, water sputtered and steamed. Her face
was misshapen. She seemed to have too many faces at once, like photos flooded and bleeding into
each other. A slash of a mouth or a gasping one, swollen eyes or sunken and dead, a squashed nose
melting into other features. Draco’s eye couldn’t pick a steady face to concentrate on as the real
one. Then he could, and the realization sent a hideous drop into his stomach. It was the face that
was fixed on him.

“Why are you crying?” The ghost girl’s tone changed, turning syrupy sweet. Her form pulled in,
closer to the size of the person she used to be. She cocked her head, a posture of concern, but her
expression was blank. She was looking at Draco.

“I’m not,” he said. His wand hand faltered. Next to him, Hermione shot him a sharp look.

Myrtle drifted closer, head still tilted to the side. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You can tell me. I
was lonely, too.”

“What’s she talking about?” Hermione whispered. She raised her voice, and her wand hand lifted a
few inches. “Myrtle, you need to stop.” She took a step forward, then halted as the pattering sound
of water got louder.

Myrtle’s form shuddered. Two faucets snapped off their fixtures with a tinny shriek and ricocheted
off the opposite wall. Water hissed as it sprayed into the air. But the pattering didn’t come from
the broken sinks. It seemed to be coming from Myrtle herself. Water poured off of her, dripping
from her dark pigtails, running down her pale face like sweat, gushing from her hands. It didn’t
disappear as it left the borders of her form. Real drops splashed into the water swirling on the
bathroom floor. They turned the water ashy grey where they fell, and round blobs like oil floated to
the surface. Myrtle didn’t take her gaze off Draco. When she spoke again, her voice had a metallic
quality, like she was calling through a pipe.

“Why aren’t you crying?”

A sharp, stinging pain in his eyes, forcing them shut. He gasped and pressed his fingers into his
eyes.

“What is it?” Granger’s voice, next to him. “What’s happening?”

The pain plunged deeper. His knees buckled. He could hear Granger’s voice as if from far away,
but there was no way to make his brain translate the sounds into speech. There was something wet
dripping over his fingers. He couldn’t unscrew his eyelids to look. His eyes felt like they were
boiling.

Just as it seemed he’d start screaming or pass out, her shout cut through the agony.

“He’s not yours, so back the bloody hell off!”

A sizzling, crackling sound, a smell of ozone, and the pain just--stopped. Cleared away, like it was
never there. His fingers still felt wet, but he was soaked through anyway. When he opened his eyes
and wiped his face, he didn’t see anything but water. The sounds of water spraying in the bathroom
were dying away, too, leaving just stray trickles and drops as the pipes settled again.

Then Granger was kneeling in front of him, her hands on his face.

“Are you all right? Your face--it was like ink, it was awful.”
“I’m fine. It’s okay. The pain’s gone.” He stood, wand out, hand shaking with leftover adrenaline.
“Where is she? Is she hiding again?”

“No, she’s gone. Not permanently, but it’ll take her a good bit of time to gather herself again, I’d
expect.”

“Are you certain? What did you even do to her?”

“I was reading about Muggle ghost-hunting methods, in my free time. I thought if I could
understand more about how magical and non-magical people perceive supernatural entities--
anyway,” she cut herself off. “I used a blast of electromagnetic energy to temporarily destabilize
the spectral wavelengths. She was drawing water into her somehow, so I thought I could frazzle
whatever aspect of the ectoplasm was materializing. Turns out I was right.”

Draco started laughing weakly. “Of course. Obviously, you’d work out a spell to destabilize
spectral wavelengths in your free time. Who would you even be, otherwise?” He swiped at his eyes
again, reflexively, although even the memory of the pain was fading. “Merlin, I’m glad you’re
here.”

She was soaking wet, hair dripping into her sodden shirt. Her wand was still in her hand. There
were tiny droplets of water in her eyelashes. She had a ridiculous stray wisp of hair plastered to her
forehead, and her top was rumpled, and she was out of breath but laughing anyway in triumph and
disbelief.

Mistakes.

But a bigger mistake not to.

He put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her. It felt even better than he remembered.
There was no hesitation this time, both of them pulling each other closer and pressing themselves
into the kiss. She was so warm. Her lips pulled him in, now firm, now yielding, matching his
rhythm. When he opened his mouth, her lips parted with his. He slipped his tongue in her mouth,
and she put her hands on the back of his neck. As if he was going to pull away now.

There was no getting enough. He scrunched her wet curls with his hand. He wanted to mark
himself all over her. Let her hair dry imprinted with the shape of his fingers. Let her lips feel
bruised when he was finished with them, and let her taste him on every breath. Let her nails leave
rows of little crescent moons over his shoulders.

She was shivering. Her body melted against his, or it would, without layers of clammy fabric in the
way. He slid his hands under her shirt. Her belly twitched under his palms. His hands must be cold.
They wouldn’t be for long. He started with the bottom buttons and worked his way up. If she
wanted to protect her modesty, she could stop him before he reached her chest. Her hands were
under his shirt at the waist, following the dip of his spine and tracing curious paths over his
stomach.

She moved her shoulders, helping him peel the clinging shirt off. He pulled back for a moment to
get a look at her. A spray of freckles across her chest. Light blue, satiny bra, with a tiny bow
between her breasts. Goosebumps prickling on her skin.

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, too. He undid his cuffs and then helped her finish
undoing the bottom few buttons. As soon as he tugged the shirt off, her arms wrapped around him
again. He bent his head to kiss under her jawline and trace down her neck. She tilted her head to
give him easier access. She made a little noise when he started working his way along her
 collarbone, and another one when his hands, sloping up her waist, found their way to the outer
curve of her breasts. He skimmed one fingertip under the edge of her bra, found what he was
looking for, felt her back arch and her body move, skin sliding over skin.

He hoisted her onto a counter, and Salazar save him, her knees parted for him, letting him press his
body into her. Her skirt rode up to bare her thighs. There was still too much fabric in the way,
dulling the sensation when he pushed his hips against her. Teasing, maddening.

Her fingertips dipped under the waistband of his boxers, just for a second, and then she was pulling
away, reaching back to take his hand off the clasp to her bra. He groaned.

“Not here,” she said. “I can’t. Not like this.”

He rested his forehead against hers, shut his eyes. “Just tell me what you need. I’ll do it.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t. I need to go. Help me find my shirt?”

Disappointment twisted, cold and bitter. He sucked in his bottom lip for a second. It still tasted like
her. “Yeah. Here.”

He tugged his on, too. The damp fabric clung to his skin. Shame made him want to lash out, but he
bit his tongue. The Astronomy Tower, her hurt expression when he made fun of her at the first
truce, and various arguments flickered in his mind. Granger had a bewildering ability to tell him
what she was thinking, even when it obviously put her at a disadvantage. She was heading for the
door, mumbling something about cleaning up the Rare Books room.

“Granger.”

She turned.

His heart was beating fast, but he had to say it. “Was this a mistake? Next time I see you, do I
pretend this didn’t happen?”

She came back, splashing through a puddle, cupped his cheek, and kissed him. “God no,” she said,
lingering with her lips still nearly touching his. “Don’t you dare.”

He nodded and let her go. He stayed in the bathroom for a little while to think, looking into the
now calm waters in the giant tub. The sting of the disappointment was fading somewhat, especially
after that last, slow kiss. She’d wanted him all over her. She’d promised not to forget it. For the
moment, then, that would have to be enough.

Chapter End Notes

I was sorely tempted to add a "Gritty Reboot of Moaning Myrtle" tag, but decided not
to just in case I'd spoil a surprise for anyone.

More coming on Monday. Have a great weekend, and thanks as ever for reading!
 Cold

Hermione pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. Fierce winds whipped through the outdoor
corridors, sending dry flurries of snow whirling through the air. She would rather have been curled
up by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, but Harry needed to pace, and to talk where no one
but the three of them could hear.

“Dumbledore and McGonagall won’t listen,” he said. “Malfoy cursed Katie, I just know it. He
smuggled that necklace into Hogwarts somehow. She’s not going to be out of the infirmary for
weeks.”

“She shouldn’t be here at all, I’d think,” Ron said. “Dunno why her parents are keeping her here.
Whether it was Malfoy or not, whoever it was could try to finish the job.”

“It’s not safe to transport her,” Hermione said. “I visited her two days ago.”

“Is she awake yet?” Harry said hopefully. “She’s the only witness. If she saw Malfoy before he did
it--”

Hermione shook her head. “She’s still unconscious. Madame Pomfrey was the one who told me
they couldn’t move her yet. She wouldn’t tell me what curse Katie was under, but sleeping
draughts help the healing process.” She’d caught the scent of black rosehip, Ionic stinging nettle,
and bittersweet. Powerful protections against Dark Magic, and forgetfulness. The potion was
brewed strong enough to sting Hermione’s eyes, so Madame Pomfrey must be concerned.

Harry clenched his fists. “He could have killed her.”

Ron cleared his throat. “I’m not saying you’re right,” he said. “But if you are--if he’s really gone
over to You-Know-Who’s side--we ought to come up with a plan.” He shook his head. “Malfoy’s
always been a slimy little bastard, but I wouldn’t have thought he’d go, y’know. Evil.”

“Ron’s right,” Harry said. “Dumbledore’s got so much on his mind with the travels and his lessons
with me, and McGonagall isn’t going to take me seriously unless I catch Malfoy in the act. He
might be planning to hurt other students, and we’re the only ones paying attention. We have to have
a plan to stop him.”

“What are you even suggesting?” Hermione said.

“You turned Rita Skeeter into a bug,” Ron said. “Think Crookshanks would fancy a playmate?
Maybe a ferret?”

Harry laughed.

“I’m not doing that,” Hermione said.

“You’ve never even been tempted?” Ron said. “Come on. All those nights stuck looking at that
pointy face and you’ve never once wanted to just bounce him down a few staircases?”

Harry sighed, raising his eyes heavenward. “I still remember that sound.”

“You must be some kind of saint, Hermione,” Ron said. “What’s your secret?”

Hermione blanched.
“She keeps score,” Harry said. “Hasn’t she told you? She counts up insults on both sides. But she
takes points off him when he calls her...well. You know.”

“Filthy,” Hermione mumbled, when the silence crept too long. “Or Mudblood.”

“I don’t see how that helps much, if he keeps calling you names,” Ron said.

Harry looked at Hermione again. She fidgeted with the sash of her coat.

“It’s easier to laugh at someone when you’re concentrating on how predictable they sound. They
didn’t feel so much like insults anymore. They were just stupid mistakes he didn’t even know he
was making.”

Ron shrugged. “Whatever helps you stand him, I guess. Pompous asswipe.”

“We’ve got to figure out a way to catch him,” Harry said. “We need proof he’s up to something.
I’ll check the Map, keep an eye on his whereabouts. Hermione, maybe you can try and trip him up?
You’ve got the best chance of any of us to watch him more closely. If you can goad him somehow,
make him confess--you’ve got a strange look on your face.”

“Is that really your idea of a plan?”

“It’s the best we’ve got for now,” Harry said.

Ron stamped his feet and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “This wind is going to freeze my
face off. What do you say we head in? The Hufflepuff Quidditch team is celebrating. I heard
someone snuck a bottle of Firewhiskey back from the last Hogsmeade trip.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” said Hermione. “I’ll drop by later, maybe, if I have time.”

“You’re not going to the library again, are you?” asked Harry. “Studying is great and everything,
but you’re not leaving yourself much time to relax.”

“She’s Hermione, mate, she’ll relax when she’s dead.”

“You’re coming to Slughorn’s Christmas party at least, right? You promised.”

Ron grimaced. “Ugh, what a load of bollocks. You want her to have fun, so you suggest she spend
an evening simpering at Slughorn and his crowd of brown-nosers? Present company excepted, of
course,” he added, somewhat skeptically.

Hermione managed a smile. “I did, and I’ll be there. Professor Slughorn was so insistent on picking
one of your free evenings. He’s going to be all over you, so brace yourself.”

“I’ve got Voldemort after me, Hermione. I’m always braced.”

She threw a snowball at his retreating back, and laughed at his shout of protest. For a moment it
seemed like Harry might come after her, but Ron grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the
inviting warmth at the end of the corridor.

Hermione turned in the opposite direction. She wasn’t going to the library, although she was
headed that way. She wanted some time to think. This term had been confusing enough already.
Seeing Katie Bell lying pallid and motionless, with livid bruises under her eyes, had been difficult.
There was no sense in talking to Harry about Katie; he’d only go on another rant about Malfoy.
She’d cross the next outdoor corridor, she decided. It led to an enclosed passageway that ended at a
small chapel. Hermione didn’t consider herself particularly devout, but it would be warm in there,
and quiet. A good place to think about help and healing.

A voice in the shadows made Hermione jump.

“So that’s the famous Gryffindor courage, then.” Draco stepped out from the pillar he’d been
leaning against. In his long black coat, he’d blended in with the shadows. “Not to mention loyalty.”

“Were you out here eavesdropping on us?”

“I was taking a walk. Not that it’s any of your business. Voices carry in the wind,” he said. “Tell
me, how often do you and your friends hold a special meeting to laugh at me? Or accuse me of
attempted murder?”

“Katie’s our friend, of course Harry’s wondering what happened to her.”

Draco lifted his eyebrows, creasing his forehead. “Not an answer. You’ve got a funny way of
deciding who your friends are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know Bell about as well as I do, but she’s a Gryffindor, so clearly, she ranks higher than
anyone from another House.”

The icy wind needled its way under the collar of Hermione’s coat. She hugged her arms around
her.

“So Katie and I aren’t close. Harry and Ron are her teammates. They’re worried, and I don’t need
to be her best friend to be worried about her, too. I’m sorry they said things about you that you
didn’t want to hear, but it’s not like you’ve given them any reason to put old fights behind them,
either.”

“I never expected them to, Granger. I don't care what they have to say about me.” His tone was as
cold and terse as she’d ever heard it, but something was different in his expression. A flicker
behind the eyes, maybe, that made his sneer look more hurt than haughty. “You were ready to
knock my teeth out if I breathed a word against Potter or Weasel. I didn’t realize you keep so quiet
when they’re the ones doing the bad-mouthing.”

Another gust of wind whistled through the corridor, and she almost missed his words.

“Did you only ask for a truce because you were scared of me?”

“I'm not scared of you.”

“You know what I mean,” Draco snapped. “You asked for us to show up. Not insult each other.
Was that all you wanted?”

“No! I mean, I didn’t expect anything like...what happened,” Hermione said, face stinging,
hopefully just from the cold. “You’re the one who said we should keep things--separate. The way
things are when we’re together--it doesn’t work the same, around other people. You said that.”

“I was also sticking my neck out for Mudbloods before you even suggested the truce. But what do I
know? I’m just a slimy, backstabbing Slytherin.” He noticed her flinch at the slur. “Right, I forgot.
I lose a point, don’t I? Take it, with my compliments.” He gave her a sardonic bow of his head,
then pushed past her.
Hermione watched him go. The wind whipping the bottom of his coat made the cloth look liquid,
poured over his shoulders. The starkness of the contrast was striking, inky black with the paleness
of his hands and hair, the powdery snow crystals that stung where they touched skin. She still felt
prickly and ambushed, but part of her wanted to run after him and take his hand.

She had assumed he agreed to the truce reluctantly. She’d thought he’d break it. Even when he
didn’t, she’d never consciously considered that the fragile thing that had been starting to happen
was something he would have wanted, or hoped for.

That he might trust her, even if only a little bit. That she had the power to destroy everything.
 The Invitation
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco was on his way to the Room of Requirement when he heard the characteristic yowlings of
Granger and Weasley in another fight.

“Slug Club,” Weasley said. “It’s pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Maybe he’ll make
you Queen Slug.”

“We’re allowed to bring guests,” Granger said. “I was going to ask--” She cut herself off, eyes dark
with hurt. She wheeled as Draco’s elbow knocked against her and grabbed a fistful of his sleeve.
When she looked at his face, the question came through her gritted teeth seemingly before she
could help herself. “Malfoy. Slughorn’s party is this Saturday. Maybe you’d care to go with me?”

He yanked his arm out of her grasp. “You--” The insult died on his lips as his eyes flicked between
the two of them, taking in the flashing anger on her face and Weasley’s dull, belligerent
expression. She was trying to humiliate Weasley, not him. Draco was still angry with her, but he
couldn’t resist digging the redheaded oaf in further.

“Fine. I’ll see you there, Granger,” he said, matching the challenge he’d heard in her tone. As he’d
hoped, Weasley’s face twisted in dumb shock, and Granger squirmed, forehead furrowing as her
brain caught up with her mouth. He brushed a slight wrinkle out of his robe where she’d grabbed
him and swaggered off before she had a chance to say anything else.

By the time he reached the Room, the pleasure of the moment was already fading. There wasn’t
much fun in taking the piss out of Weasley these days. The ginger bastard had thoroughly enjoyed
lording the prefect thing over him at every opportunity. And for all the dramatic scenes Granger
threw in the halls with that buffoon, it was obvious that she cared about him. As friends, sure, if
she said so, but a good friendship, then. Something deep.

It wasn’t that he wanted to go to a party with Granger, as such--it was risky enough for him to talk
to her in the quiet halls after curfew, let her cuddle up to him when no one else was around. Still.
This false invitation to the party was as close as he was going to get to the real thing, and that
knowledge stung more than he cared to admit.

It was stupid. Merlin knew he had bigger things to focus on than the insipid events of student life.
But the thought had nagged at his mind ever since he found out Slughorn was teaching at the
school this year. Draco was rich. His family was famous and well-connected. There was every
reason for Slughorn to cast his obsequious attention his direction, but the old wizard avoided him
at every turn. It wasn’t House squeamishness; Slughorn himself was a Slytherin. Draco told
himself the old boot-licker was going batty in his dotage, but he couldn’t shake the thought that,
yet again, he hadn’t measured up.

Practicing in the Room of Requirement didn’t help matters. The gears were fixed, which he’d
thought was going to be the hard part. He could wave his hand through the Vanishing Cabinet. He
had even, once, heart pounding, stepped inside, and come out again without a scratch. His hand
would be notched with dozens of fine scars for life. Not even the healers in the infirmary had been
able to repair every slash completely, not to mention the uglier scars from the nights he’d done his
best to heal himself, to avoid raising too much suspicion with frequent visits to the hospital wing.
The pain had produced at least one result. The Cabinet was finally safe to enter.
Sending anything through wasn’t working, though. Draco didn’t know if he’d made faulty repairs
or if this was a completely separate problem he’d only discovered once the obvious flaws were
fixed. He set an apple on the dark wood floor, said the incantation, and opened the Cabinet door
again to see the apple stubbornly sitting in place. He tried again, with sharper wand movement, and
the space was empty, but when he cast the spell to return the apple, only a handful of wet pulp
reappeared. He could imagine the other cabinet, splattered with juice and flecks of apple flesh. He
was back to a long series of tests, painstakingly trying to determine what was going wrong with the
spellcasting or wandwork, or if he had to set up some extra protections to get around Hogwarts’
anti-Apparation warding.

Draco was worn out by the time he left for his rooms, and he groaned when he saw Granger
striding in his direction, determination set over her face. She’d be here to set him straight, then.
Would it have been so terrible, to let him pretend for one night that he had a party to attend? No
subtlety, that was one of the many problems with Gryffindors. He pulled his face into a
condescending scowl, hoping it disguised his exhaustion.

“What are you doing here?”

“Draco,” she said. “About what I said, or asked you, earlier--”

“We’re understood, Granger.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I came here to tell you the invitation stands. I’d like to have you
come with me to the party. If you want.”

He froze. “Why?”

She shifted her weight, looking uncomfortable. He stepped toward her, pressing the question.

“Why do you think I’d want to go anywhere with you?”

Granger glared at him. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re not on Professor Slughorn’s usual list. I
thought you’d rather go as a guest than have people wonder why you weren’t there at all.”

“So you’d have me in your debt, in addition to making me a convenient prop so you can take
Weasley down a few pegs. What a plot from the brightest witch of our age. Do us all a favor and
assume the rest of us have a handful of brain cells. Now piss off, you’re in my way.” He pushed
past her, but stopped when he heard her murmur behind him.

“I was going to ask you anyway.”

Draco turned. “Liar.”

“Okay, maybe I hadn’t decided. I wasn’t sure how to ask. But I’ve been thinking about it.” She put
a hand through her hair, making it puff up even more than it usually did, if that was possible. “I
took it for granted that you’d say no, because you said you wanted to keep things separate, but then
you kissed me--”

“That was a one-time thing.”

“That’s not how it felt.”

Draco folded his arms. “If you came expecting a no, then no. Go ask Weasley.”

“Absolutely not.”
 “Potter.”

She snorted. “Slughorn’s going to spend most of the party parading Harry around like a prize show
pony. And he’s asked Luna to go with him.”

“Go alone, then.”

“It’s looking like that’ll have to be what happens, yes,” she said, sounding tired herself, even
disappointed, although that seemed unlikely. “Look, think of it as a peace offering, if that helps.
You were right. You’ve taken some risks I didn’t ask you to, even when I wasn’t around, and I
should have done better than sitting by when Harry and Ron made fun of you. I thought this could
be something...nice. Something you’d enjoy, maybe even a way for us both to have fun. But if you
don’t want to go, I can’t make you.”

He watched her walking away, an unpleasant twist in his stomach. It wasn’t as though he’d have to
spend the evening by her side, of course. She’d hardly expect that. And what was his alternative?
Chances were he’d have to cover her and Weasley’s hall patrol duties if he wasn’t going to
Slughorn’s party, effectively parading his exclusion throughout half of Hogwarts.

“Granger,” he said. “Understanding that dragging me out to a party on your arm is a shoddy
attempt at a peace offering. What if I agreed to go?”

She turned back, and her smile of surprise and pleasure looked genuine. “Then we could meet at
the West Staircase on the sixth floor on Saturday at eight. The party’s in Slughorn’s office. People
will dress up.”

“Don’t think I’m your date.” He curled his lip on the last word. “I’m not there to bring you drinks.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Did he hear relief in her voice? Relief that he was coming, or that he
wouldn’t hang around her? Did she answer too fast, or was he on edge, looking for hidden
meanings where there were none?

And what on earth was he going to wear?

Chapter End Notes

My incredible beta reader said it best: "Oh like you don't have a million different
things that would work for this DON'T LIE DRACO."

The dialogue between Ron and Hermione at the beginning of this chapter is lifted
pretty much verbatim from canon. I do this occasionally (and I'll let you know when
I'm cribbing some lines from the source), mostly to highlight ways I felt like it would
be surprisingly viable to weave a Draco/Hermione pairing into a lot of the pre-existing,
canonical plot structure.

One aspect of D/H that interests/sometimes frustrates me is the attention that's given
(or, often, not) to Hermione's growth. Draco is an epic little disaster, and it can be so
easy to write Hermione off as basically perfect in comparison. I say, let's give
Hermione chances to mess up, and learn and grow, even if, as effervescenttension1183
pointed out, Draco has a bit of chutzpah to call Hermione out while he is currently
working on his "big ole 2parter mission." ;-)
 Slughorn's Party
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione smoothed her dress and fought the urge to dart down the hall and check the clock again.
She couldn’t see it from the stairs, but she didn’t want to risk Draco arriving and not finding her at
their meeting spot. No chance he’d wait. So she had to. The last time she checked was three
minutes past, which felt more like hours.

She was wearing pink and regretting the choice more by the minute. Ginny had apparently read
enough L.M. Montgomery to decide she could never wear the color and took the opportunity to
live vicariously through Hermione. Hermione wasn’t sure the ruched, taffeta confection Ginny
swooned over suited her any better for not being a redhead, but it was too late to do anything about
it now. She tugged at the straps, peering down at the neckline. It felt like it was maybe too low, but
Ginny had promised that it looked right.

Hermione had her arm twisted up behind her back, trying unsuccessfully to shift a tag on the inside
of the dress to a less itchy position without unzipping herself in the middle of the hall, when Draco
appeared.

Draco wore long black dress robes that were cut slim to the hip, then flared out gradually so the
material billowed as he walked. His dress shirt was white as fresh paper, and folded just as crisply
at his wrists and throat. To Hermione’s mild surprise, Draco wasn’t wearing green, but a moody,
blue-grey tie. His pocket square was soft grey--the sky after the storm, compared to the laden rain
cloud of the tie--and embroidered in silver thread with the Malfoy family crest. Every detail, from
the side part in his platinum hair to the thin crease down the front of his slacks and the symmetry
of how his shoes were tied, managed to look simultaneously precise and effortless.

Hermione realized, belatedly, that her mouth was open.

“You look incredible.” She stalked him in a circle, swearing internally. There had to be a bad angle.
There wasn’t. He looked over his shoulder at her, giving her a three-quarter profile view of sharp-
but-appealing nose, the clean line of his jaw, a broad shoulder angling in toward a slim waist.

Draco smirked as her gaze continued to travel downward. “See something you like, Granger?”

“Yes--I mean, I didn’t realize you were going to show up looking like--I have cat hair on my
dress,” Hermione said. Her hands, almost of their own accord, smacked at the taffeta skirt.

He grabbed her wrists. “Stop it. Easy, Granger. Leave the poor dress alone before you kill it.” He
held her arms apart and looked her up and down. Hermione thought he spent longer on the
neckline than was strictly necessary, especially since Crookshanks would have deposited the worst
of the hair in her lap. Eventually, he inclined his head a fraction, let go, and started walking toward
Slughorn’s office.

She caught up with him. “You’re not going to say anything?”

“I’d let you know if I saw something wrong.”

Draco gave a dry laugh when they walked into Slughorn’s office. “Figures.” The room was decked
out with colorful drapings that hung like a tent. A bulbous, golden lamp with an incongruous
amount of filigree cast a ruddy glow, accented by the bright sparks of what appeared to be living
fairies in cages suspended from the ceiling. The room was thick with body heat and already hazy
with pipe smoke.

“Not so much a Christmas party, then. More of a circus show, with our excellent host playing
ringleader.” Draco nodded at Hermione. “Which act does that make you?” Without waiting for an
answer, he angled himself to squeeze through two clusters of guests, apparently eager to put as
much distance between them as he could, as quickly as possible.

Hermione wasn’t surprised, although she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. Harry
had offered company and moral support at previous Slug Club events. Tonight, for the first time,
she was really on her own.

For the first half hour, it stayed that way. Hermione nursed a Butterbeer (Slughorn was feeling
festive enough to offer an open bar, at least) and watched the crowd. Small talk was never her
strongest point, and the well-connected, social-climber type who made up a large part of
Slughorn’s chosen crowd weren’t the most inclined to extend a welcoming arm to a Muggle-born
student. They did, however, make an interesting study.

The Carrow twins wore their usual blank, reptilian expressions, along with nearly identical antique
lace dresses, one in black and one in white. They only smiled after whispering into the other’s ear.
Melinda Bobbin preened under the gaze of Blaise Zabini. Hermione didn’t know how much a
chain of apothecaries and the wealth of seven late stepfathers added up to, but probably enough to
require an additional Gringotts vault or two. Cormac McLaggen, apparently self-conscious about
being invited on the basis of his uncle’s reputation, was booming story after story about his own
best Quidditch saves to anyone who came within arm’s reach. Around them all, Slughorn’s more
senior guests hovered in twos and threes, now talking amongst themselves while directing pointed
looks at a student, now inviting the student over for a brief conversation that looked, from the
outside, like a test.

A wizard who looked to be in his mid to late twenties closed in on her. Something about his face
looked overripe. He had large eyes with thick, fleshy eyelids and purplish bags underneath. His lips
were fleshy, too, and his face looked uneven. One ear was set lower than the other, and his left eye
drooped, apparently dragged down by the weight of a plump mole at the outer corner.

“Cygnus Rosier,” he said, with a smug look that suggested she ought to be impressed.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, holding out her hand.

He flourished a pristine handkerchief with a rather gaudy crest. “I don’t shake, darling, I’m not a
dog. Besides, you can never be too careful, not with the riffraff they let scurry through the
establishment nowadays. There was a time, or so I hear, when admittance to Hogwarts, or at least
an invitation to a social function therein, meant something.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Hermione said. “You must be a friend of Professor Slughorn’s, then? I don’t
remember meeting you before.”

“Oh, and my face is one you’d remember, is it?” Cygnus huffed. “Impertinent. That’s the fashion,
isn’t it? Even among women of better breeding.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hermione said. “I don’t pay much attention to matters of breeding. I’m not a
dog.”

Cygnus chuckled. “Droll, darling. Forced, perhaps, a trifle, but they tell me the quickness is what
matters in repartee and not the originality.”
If Ron were here, or if Harry were next to her and not being toured around as the main act on
display, either one of them would blow air through their cheeks or say something sarcastic. As it
was, she set her teeth into a smile so forcefully she could hear them click together. “You must be
terribly well-connected.”

He glowered. “Do you know a Rosier who isn’t, Miss--Greener, was it? Would that by any chance
be an offshoot of the Greengrass family? I’ve heard there’s a coastal branch that never formally
entered society.”

“It’s Granger,” Hermione said. “I suppose you could say I formally entered Wizarding society
when I was eleven, when I was, formally, admitted to Hogwarts.”

The color was rising to his cheeks in vivid blotches, making his face look even more unbalanced.
“Sweet Merlin, you don’t mean to suggest you’re--you’re not a--”

“Cyg, what a pleasure,” Draco said, clapping him on the shoulder. “When did you roll in? You
should have sent an owl, I could have shown you around.”

Cygnus’s smile was tight, although his tone was expansive, even jovial. “And keep you from your
studies? I’d never forgive myself. Is this a school chum of yours?” He gestured at Hermione.

“I sit behind her in a few classes.”

Cygnus gave an unpleasant laugh. “The better to copy notes. Always sit behind, never in front like
a know-it-all, that’s the advice they should give right off.”

Draco grinned. “They’d never catch you at the front of the class, would they? And as always, your
talent for picking the best notes to copy is unmatched. Granger’s got a positively infuriating
capacity to think circles around you. Rhetorically speaking, naturally.” The grin reminded
Hermione of a certain look Crookshanks got when he was right behind an unsuspecting pigeon.
“You’re staying a few days, I hope. Where are they keeping you? Not one of those drafty old
towers. I have some modest leeway these days to make arrangements in the Slytherin dungeons.
There’s plenty of room, and the Merfolk are in prime midwinter song.”

“Sadly, business compels me to keep my visit brief. I catch the last train out this evening.”

“What happened to your Slytherin cunning, Cyg? There must be some way you can pry yourself
away from whatever dreariness you have to go back to. I insist.”

“You always do, Malfoy. My father always said no one flatters like Lucius, but he and I may have
to disagree on that point. A silver tongue buys almost anything, doesn’t it, although rumors tell me
it comes with its own price. I can’t tell you how it grieves me to disappoint you.”

“I can’t tell you how it pains me to miss your company, Cyg. Do at least send a Christmas card this
year.”

“To the family home, or is your father no longer heading the Malfoys? Would it be preferable to
send it directly to you, if he's, ah, indisposed?”

Draco’s eyes hardened. “Whichever is easiest for you, of course. I’d hate to burden you with
another address to remember.”

Cygnus sniffed. He inclined his head to Malfoy, grimaced before offering a curt nod to Hermione,
and headed toward a group of older wizards smoking pipes.
“Why did you do that?” Hermione murmured when the other wizard was out of earshot.

“Thanks, Malfoy, what a gallant thing to do,” he muttered into his drink, gaze pointed at the fairies
flitting in their cages.

“Sorry. Thanks,” she said. “And yet. Why?”

He still wasn’t looking at her, but he didn’t step away. “Granger, hazard a guess for me. How long
have you and I been enemies, would you say?”

Hermione grimaced. “Second year? Maybe a little before then?”

“The Malfoys have been feuding with the Rosiers for the last fifty. Forgive me if I overlook a few
classroom squabbles,” he said.

“I punched you in the face.”

“I remember.” A smile stole over his face. He tried to hide it by taking a sip of his drink.

“What happened? I thought the old Pureblood clans would stick together most of the time.”

Draco scoffed. “Hardly. We’ve had plenty of time to let grudges mature. In this particular case, the
Rosiers are... overzealous about blood status.”

“I beg your pardon.” Hermione snatched the pocket square out of his jacket. “‘Sanctimonia Vincet
Semper.’ Purity always conquers. That’s your family motto.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “There’s purity, and then there’s inbreeding. You’ve spotted that the
Malfoys are the best-looking of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.” He held his hand out for the pocket
square, folded it neatly and replaced it. “Certain families are willing to accept a Half-Blood
betrothal, as long as it doesn’t bring in any Muggles or--as long as the family tree stays fully
magical. Others don’t. There are only so many times you can intermarry with the same select
‘approved’ families before the next generation begins to present problems. Not to mention the
inevitability of certain witches and wizards finding themselves permanently alone because no
suitable partner was born. Malfoys have, let’s say, accommodated arrangements that benefited the
family, when occasion or a strong-willed couple demanded it. Rosiers don’t mix. At all. That’s
why Cyg looks like a melted Troll. He comes sniffing around Hogwarts every year, my father
says, hoping to catch some properly Pureblooded exchange student and trap her into an
engagement before she catches on that he’s got as much brains as beauty.”

“The Malfoys are the tolerant ones in Pureblood society.”

“Compared to a few other families, yes.”

“I can’t listen to this sober.” Hermione plucked the drink out of his hand and drained it. She
coughed.

“You’re supposed to sip that,” Draco said.

“Too late. Thanks for the drink,” Hermione said. “I’ll get the next round. More of the same?”

“‘More’ is stretching the definition of what I’ve had in the first place, but sure.”

Hermione weaved through the crowd. She plunked Malfoy’s glass on the bartender’s counter. “A
refill of whatever gasoline you gave the blond over there, please,” she said. “And could you make a
glass of whatever cocktail is its complete opposite for me?”

She found Draco lounging by one of several Christmas trees when she returned with drinks in hand.

He whistled. “That is alarmingly pink. Sticking to a theme for the evening?”

Hermione held out the glass. “For you, actually. Unless you think it’s unbecoming for a Malfoy.”

“I wouldn’t be seen without one.” He took a sip. “Not bad. What is that, raspberry? Lingonberry?”

“I’m not sure. Haven’t tried it.”

“It’s tangy.” He licked a stripe of shocking pink from his upper lip, then went in for another taste.
He looked on in amusement as Hermione wrinkled her nose at the fumes coming from the tumbler
in her hand and took a tentative sip. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Blanton’s lover, especially
after all that sputtering you did. Promise me at least that you’ll savor that glass.”

“Trade you.” She held it out.

“It’s hardly worth me drinking it now. I’ve ruined my palate on this pink swill, everything’s going
to taste like berries.” He took a sip of the amber liquor anyway, then chased it with a generous gulp
of the pink drink.

“Did you want a daiquiri, too?”

“No.”

“Okay, because it looks like you’re having one,” Hermione said.

Draco made a face at her, took one last swig, and handed her the glass, which had about a third of
its original contents. “You drank mine.”

“If that’s the rudest thing that happens to you at this party, I’m jealous.”

“You’d think the class of students who get hand-picked for a party would know how to behave,”
Draco said. “Look over there. That guy, the one gnawing a hunk of bread out of his fist? That’s
Eustace Fawley. His grandfather was Minister of Magic before Fudge. The Fawley’s estate is
almost as large as my family’s, so I have no idea why he’s eating like he was raised in Azkaban.”

Hermione put a hand in front of her mouth. “He does look like he’s just escaped from somewhere,
doesn’t he? It’s like that poor roll attacked him personally. Oh, maybe that’s it! Maybe his family’s
been feuding for fifty years with the most prominent Wizarding baker family over a party where
the buns ran out, and he’s not allowed to have any bread when he’s home over break.”

Draco laughed. “That’s not the strangest basis I’ve heard for two families to stop speaking for a
century or two. The things I could tell you about most of the people here.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night,” Hermione said. “What about them? The Carrow twins?”

Draco shivered. “I don’t know, they used to be snakes? They give me the creeps.”

“They’re sort of headed our direction.”

“Absolutely not. Move, Granger, we’re not dealing with them tonight.” He grabbed her wrist and
pulled her past two tables heaped with canapes and a small holly bush hung with miniature straw
puppets. “They like to speak in unison. I don’t know if they rehearse beforehand or not, but I had to
sit with them at a function where they said every word together. It’s enough to give you
nightmares.”

“Yikes. Okay, that girl next.”

Draco held up a finger. “Only if you tell me something about McLaggen.”

“Why would you think I know anything about McLaggen?”

“He wants to know all about you. Last year he was already outlining a painstakingly detailed plan
of the ways he’d like to get to know you better, after Quidditch games. I thought he would have
tried to cozy you up by now.”

“Ugh. Yes, he is constantly suggesting I come ‘let him teach me to fly’. You go first, though.”

Draco did, indeed, know secrets about everyone at the party, whether about the individual student
or their family. Hermione made him laugh by making up corresponding secrets to further embellish
the stories.

She surprised him by knowing something herself about high-society bickering, even if Pureblood
clan details were new information. Hermione’s parents were some of the wealthier members of her
local community. She’d grown up attending enough country club events to know how to eat while
balancing a glass and a plate, and how to be cordial to friends of her father’s who thought she
remembered them because they met when she was three.

Besides, she doubted any teenage girl at all survived Hogwarts without developing an acute
diplomatic sensibility for who was speaking to, sleeping with, or shunning whom. Following the
marriages and real or perceived slights among Pureblood families was hardly a puzzle to stump
her.

Draco put one hand on the small of her back and leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. “Are
you having a good time?”

Damn it, she knew he was playing with her, she knew it, and her stupid ears were getting warm
anyway. “It’s fine,” she said, trying to sound cool and casual.

“Hermione!” Harry elbowed through a small knot of girls and almost tripped over a House Elf
carrying a tray full of champagne flutes. He staggered to catch his balance. Hermione put out a
hand and he grabbed it, then straightened, still breathing hard.

“Malfoy,” he growled. “I should have known you’d try to get to her.”

“What are you talking about, Potter?” Draco said.

Hermione kicked Draco in the ankle.

“Oh! Yes, of course, I’m shocked they’d let the likes of Granger in here,” Draco sneered. “The gall
of it. Is there nothing Slughorn won’t stoop to? The entire Magical community should be
ashamed.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Hermione’s ten times more talented than you are, Malfoy. The only one
who should be ashamed is you.”

“Harry, my boy! There you are! Thought I’d lost you.” Slughorn burst past a Christmas tree,
sending branches and ornaments swinging. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone you simply
must meet.” He wound a plump arm around Harry’s shoulders and pivoted him away.

Harry looked helplessly over his shoulder at Hermione. She spread her hands in return.

“Laid that on a little thick, didn’t you?” she muttered to Draco.

“Apparently not,” he said. “Good God, no wonder you hang around me. Must be refreshing, not to
have to break everything down into baby steps.”

“Harry’s smarter than you’d think,” Hermione protested. “You haven’t been through what I have
with him. When you’re in real trouble--actual, life-threatening danger--he knows what to do. He
keeps his head, and he knows how to make the right decision fast. He would have died first year,
otherwise. All three of us would. Harry needs that adrenaline push to focus. That’s why he does
well in exams, even though he barely studies most of the time. He crams.”

“I hear Potter’s praises often enough, Granger. I don’t need a lecture from you.” Draco set his drink
on a passing House Elf’s tray. “I’m going to get some air.”

Hermione found Harry perched on a bench in a tiny alcove, mostly hidden by a fallen swath of tent
fabric.

“Escaped Slughorn?”

“For the moment,” he said. “Did you know Sanguini is a real vampire?”

“Yes, that seems to be the case.”

“And you escaped Malfoy. Why did you even invite him? Ron told me you asked Malfoy to go,
right in front of him.”

“You have to admit, I chose the option that would annoy Ron the most.”

“True enough, but blimey, Hermione, at what cost? You must be miserable. I’ll try to check in on
you when I can, but for an old man, Slughorn’s got an impressive grip.”

“About that,” Hermione said. “Do you think, maybe, you came on a little strong just then? Malfoy
wasn’t saying anything rude to me before you came at him.”

“He didn’t exactly hold back.”

“Right, but I have to wonder if he played into your expectations. Just a bit? Harry,” she said,
drawing a deep breath that she hoped would give her an extra burst of courage. “Haven’t you been
curious why he agreed to come with me at all?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “He wasn’t going to get in any other way, was he? I didn’t see anyone else
lining up in the halls to ask him. He’s name-dropped his grandfather three times and Slughorn
didn’t take the bait. Still spooked from getting too close to You-Know-Who back in the day. He
doesn’t want to get too close to anyone else showing Dark potential.”

Hermione gave up. “Okay, look, you at least can’t have it both ways. You can’t suggest I get close
to Draco and then attack him when you see us standing near each other. I need you to back down
tonight, all right? Just let us have a good time.”

“Draco?” Harry frowned. “Since when do you call him Draco?”

A commotion on the other side of the tent hanging caught their attention.

“Get your hands off of me, you filthy Squib!”

Argus Filch, wild eyes gleeful and triumphant, had Draco Malfoy’s ear pinched hard between two
grimy fingers. “Professor Slughorn, I discovered this one prowling around an upstairs corridor.
Nighttime prowling’s out, ‘less you’ve got permission from the headmaster, and I don’t see a
permission chit anywheres. He claims he was invited to your party, but then why don’t his name
show up on the list, eh?”

Hermione’s heart sank. She’d invited him so late, after the guest cards were written. The list
mentioned her name and “Guest.” Draco would never admit he was here with her. Not even if it
meant getting dragged out on his ear. No one else would even know the depth of the slight, but it
still felt like everyone was staring at her, not Malfoy. The way they gaped at her when she told
them her parents were dentists, the way even Slughorn said, “Muggle-born, you know” in a way
that sounded half like a particularly exotic catch, half like an apology. The shame of it crawled
over her skin. If she were anyone else, this wouldn’t be an issue.

Her head snapped up, eyes widening. Someone else. That was it. Hermione caught Harry’s eye,
jutted her head slightly at Malfoy. Please , she thought, let him get the hint.

Harry looked at her quizzically. He pointed at Malfoy, keeping his finger low.

She nodded as frantically as she could without moving her head more than an inch. She mouthed
words at him, praying that years of experience had taught him to lip-read her.

Harry shook his head in bewilderment, then stepped forward. “I invited him, Professor,” he said
loudly.

Several people gasped.

“Eh?” Slughorn said.

“What?” said Malfoy.

Harry folded his arms. “Well. Dared him to show his face, is more like it. Didn’t think you’d have
the guts to come around.”

Only Malfoy’s eyes were incredulous. He set his jaw and crossed his arms back at Harry, his body
language relaxed and arrogant. “And miss a chance to see you make an ass of yourself, Potter?
Never.”

“He’d be listed as ‘Guest,’ Professor,” Hermione said, sidling up next to Slughorn. “That’s why
Mr. Filch didn’t see his name.”

“Ah!” Professor Slughorn said. He waved a hand at Filch. “Quite all right then, Argus, just a
misunderstanding. Could happen to anyone. Pour yourself a brandy then, before you go. The halls
get drafty around Christmas, eh? If you catch my meaning.”

Filch looked disappointed not to have a student to haul off for immediate detention, but the
promise of liquor evidently served as enough of a consolation prize.

Hermione slipped away, pretending she was interested in inspecting the dessert table. Her stupid
dress felt tight, and the label at her back was itchier than ever.
Malfoy wandered over a minute later. He bent over, scrutinizing a platter heaped with bite-size
twirls of sparkling candyfloss.

“Are you going to put something on a plate?” he murmured.

“In a minute,” Hermione said. She didn’t want to look at him. There was a hard lump at the bottom
of her throat, and she was working on keeping it from turning into anything else. “I didn’t ask you
to come over here.”

“You did ask me to come to a party with you.” He put a marshmallow stuffed with passionfruit
curd onto a small plate. “Why did Potter say it was him?”

“I asked him to.” She wished he would look away. The crawling feeling was all over her. She
ducked her head, letting her hair curtain her face. “You and I both know you’d rather be caught
trying to gate-crash than admit you came here with me. Most of the others here would, too. There’s
no need to rub it in my face.”

“How are you that sure? Maybe I’d rather admit you invited me than get thrown out on my ass.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He was quiet for a moment. “We could, believably, both be interested in dessert. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll stay here. Let me get you a plate, though.” He reached past her and took one. “Do you
like chocolate or fruit better?”

“It doesn’t matter. Chocolate, I guess. Those look nice.”

“Those have salt on them. Salt and sugar don’t belong anywhere near each other.” He put a few on
the plate. “No accounting for some people’s taste. Try one of these fudge cakes too, though. And a
marshmallow. Maybe a few, actually, they’re all different flavors.”

In a few seconds, he’d heaped the small plate with truffles, peach-scented persipan, cocoa-dusted
almonds, and various other sweets, a few of which were glowing with their own gentle light. He set
the plate down next to her. Hermione eyed it distrustfully.

He rested his fingertips on her back. She twitched.

“You have your fingers right on a label that’s been itching all night.” She meant it as a request for
him to move his hand, but instead he smiled a little and scratched, digging his nails to get the
pressure through the wad of taffeta.

“Better?”

She nodded. “It was like having a mosquito trapped there. Draco, whatever you’re trying to do,
you can just go. There’s no need.”

He took his hand away. “I can do that,” he said. “Or. If you wanted to, we could also agree that
most people at this party are terrible and not worth talking to. In that case, we’d hide out wherever
you disappeared earlier and I’ll bring you sweets until Potter accuses me of trying to poison you.”

“That actually sounds really nice. I’m so done dealing with anyone else here.”

Draco grabbed a handful more of the curd-filled marshmallows, then dropped them back and
 picked up the entire platter. “Me too. Screw them all. They don’t get dessert. Take your plate and
go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

They spent the rest of the evening tucked behind the collapsed draping where Harry had hidden
earlier, eating desserts and looking out the window. They almost got caught when they tried the
glowing sweets, which made their faces and throats glow as the candy made its way down, but
whoever was on the other side of the drape assumed it was fairy lights and moved on.

They decided to head out of the party before the crowd thinned too much, to keep from attracting
too much attention. Hermione took a detour to thank Slughorn and give Harry a kiss on the cheek
and a sympathetic pat on the arm as he steeled himself for the last few “quick chats” with
Slughorn’s guests. She caught up with Draco in the hall.

It was cool and quiet after the stuffy, noisy party. Hermione sighed in relief and shook some of the
last tension out of her arms. Draco, for a change, kept quiet as well, seeming to sense that she
needed a few minutes to clear her head.

At a certain point, Hermione brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips, letting them trail
along his skin. She felt his fingers flex toward her, so she interlaced them with hers before either of
them had a chance to change their mind.

Draco looked down, then back at her with an expression of unmistakable tenderness.

“You’re holding my hand? That’s the best you’ve got, Granger?”

He kissed her hair first, to get her to stop walking.

The hall was empty. There was no one there to see them. Hermione couldn’t help noticing, though,
that Draco didn’t bother to look both ways before leaning in to kiss her.

Chapter End Notes

This is the chapter I really wanted to write when I started this fic! I was watching HBP
and got to this scene, and had the thought of, "Wow, what a crap year for this guy.
What could have gone differently if he'd had even one person in his corner, and got to
do something as simple as go to a party?" So I wrote yesterday's invitation chapter
first, as lead-up, and then I was like, "You know what, no, I'm still not set up with the
right kind of emotional complexity I need to get this scene where I want," and
then...well, then I was about 30K in practically before I knew it. Not to mention that
by then, I had so many more ideas to go...

The details about the Malfoys being more lax about blood status are true! (At least
according to Harry Potter Wiki, and now, yours truly as well.) Lucius may have his
own personal standards, but the Malfoy clan has a more blended background than you
might expect. It's a big part of why I imagine Draco would move on from blood
prejudice fairly quickly.
 Mersong
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Mersong, in a way, was longing. There were notes in the Merfolk’s song outside the range of what
humans could hear. The notes blended into harmonies that no human music could replicate,
because no existing instruments could produce the notes, and because even if they could, how
were the musicians supposed to understand the inhuman chords and countermelodies? This was
music that you not only heard but felt, even if you didn’t realize the physical sensation was
happening.

The flowing melodies that reached the ear were sonorous and sad, sung by voices that balanced on
the precise edge between yearning and hope. Listen long enough to Mersong, and you’d start
weeping without knowing why. Listen longer, and the unheard reverberations built until you had
visions, or sometimes phantom sensations of being touched by the person you wanted the most.
Listen much longer than that, and you’d be overwhelmed by the urge to throw yourself into the
water and swim toward the glorious sound. The windows in the Slytherin dorms were protected
with fresh warding every season, to shut out the music when it reached a certain frequency in the
students’ blood.

Draco was lying on his bed, his fingertips resting lightly on his chest, as if he could touch the ache.

It had been an eventful day. The last official prefect duty of the term was helping students board the
Hogwarts Express (except for Hannah Abbott, who was tasked with leading Term Break
Orientation for students who would spend the holidays at the castle). It was always a hectic affair.
There were frightened pets to chase down and reunite with similarly frightened owners. Some
students would be crying over an exam they thought they’d failed, or looking frantically for a lost
coat or bag. There were last-minute requests to change cars to sit with friends or avoid someone
they’d fallen out with. The other prefects were there to help too, of course, but eventually even they
boarded and it was just Draco and Granger and a few of the faculty, watching the train chug away.

He and Granger had headed back to the Prefects Common Room, without needing to discuss it.
They’d had enough time shepherding students around. Their friends ( her friends, really, not to put
too fine a point on it) were already miles from the castle. They needed some time to themselves, to
relax and recharge.

Draco had expected that there would be kissing, of course. What had surprised him was how
soothing it felt. It wasn’t like other times, angry or adrenaline-fueled, grabbing at each other. She’d
simply tipped her head back to look at him, a relaxed, dreamy smile on her face, and he’d just
leaned in. Like it was easy.

It had surprised him to feel so content with just that, taking their time, learning what the other liked
and showing what they wanted. He could notice where her lips changed from the smooth outer part
to the tender underside and feel the way she pushed against him, like she wanted to kiss through
him.

He’d moved his hands around a little, but he hadn’t felt the need to rush things along. He didn’t
want to interrupt the rhythm they already had. At one point, her hand had dropped down to his hip,
and if she had moved her hand across his thigh to touch him, he would have wanted her to, but she
hadn’t, and that was also all right, at least for now. They’d lost track of time, kissing and taking
breaks to talk, and leaning in again.
 He’d been waiting for a while now for his old feelings to flare up again. He’d changed a few
habits, earlier in term. Granger was too good with logic. She could back him into corners during
arguments too often. The only way he could have beaten her for good would have been to prove
that the lessons his father had taught him ran deeper than logic, that magical versus non-magical
was part of a natural order and that you’d feel the wrongness when the order was broken. Except
that, like missing the final stair, there was only a startling empty sensation where he thought the
wrongness would be.

Treating the new Muggle-born students fairly, for example, didn’t cost him much. It was awkward
in the moment, but he caught himself wondering where people like Flint were finding the time to
keep a running account of the bloodlines of hundreds of students.

When it came to Granger--but what ever went the way he thought it would when it came to
Granger? Kissing her felt--normal. More than normal. It felt good. It felt bloody amazing. It was
also tremendously inconvenient, but that couldn’t be helped.

Draco was good at separation. He knew about lines, the shoulds and shouldn’ts that marked safe
pathways to follow. The world divided over and over again, and a wrong choice was more
dangerous every time. Any choice that would have let him be with Granger should have been long
since past, but she cut through impassable branching-off points like they didn’t exist. Or maybe she
followed something else, hidden and haunting as the secret melodies of Mersong, and if she had
found a way to do that, then maybe there was room for him, too.

Chapter End Notes

Mermaid lore, including Sirens and Selkies, is one of my favorite aspects of mythical
creatures in storytelling. I love constructing biological rationale for how people
experience magic. The world is often so strange as it is that it feels natural that there
would be evolutionary and physical reasons for certain kinds of magic.
 Mistletoe
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Holding Draco’s hand in the halls was rapidly becoming one of Hermione’s favorite aspects of
Christmas break. Hogwarts was virtually empty. Perhaps fifty students were spending the holidays
in the castle, and most of them either hung out in House common rooms most of the time, or else
were also wandering the emptier parts of the castle in pairs, looking for places to be alone.
Everyone was used to seeing them roam the halls together, anyway. No one bothered to consider
that prefect hall monitoring was over until next term, or look closely enough to see Hermione
absently tracing her thumb over the ridges on the back of Draco’s hand.

Even so, Hermione could stand to find a bit more privacy. Students had an unspoken agreement to
move along if they saw furtive movement in a shadowy corner. Professors had no such policy.
Two days into break, and Hermione had already experienced a close call. Bad enough if
McGonagall would have turned the wrong corner and caught Hermione with Draco’s hand up her
shirt. Hermione didn’t even want to think about the possibility of encountering Snape.

So she was holding Draco’s hand, leading them gently toward this staircase or that hallway,
following her best guess on where they were least likely to be disturbed.

If she hadn’t visited the Room of Requirement so many times for Dumbledore’s Army meetings,
she would have thought she’d left the castle. Everything looked so green. The stone floors were
covered in thick, mossy green rugs. Vines creeped over the walls. There were distinctive, round
clusters of leaves and tendrils all over that added thicker cover, like big, leafy pom-poms. The
pom-poms were big enough to hold a bird’s nest, although the Room was quiet and calm.

The columns stretching up to the lofty ceiling were marked with deep, crooked grooves, like the
trunks of trees. Even the few pieces of furniture looked like they belonged outdoors. A deep bench
with an iron frame and grey cushions, a giant urn with a sapling tree, sporting more of the pom-
pom greenery, a rough wooden table.

“It looks like the greenhouse,” Hermione said.

“It’s all mistletoe,” Draco said, pointing at the pale berries dotting the leaves. He unknotted his tie
with a flourish. “You’ve outdone yourself, Granger. I admit it, I’m flattered.”

“What makes you think I made the Room look like this?” Hermione teased. “Maybe the magic’s
picking up on your boundless desire to make out with me.”

Draco only seemed to be half-listening. “The Room never looks like this for me.” His eyes scanned
the room, hunting briefly for something.

She put a hand on his arm. “You okay?”

He shook his head, chasing a thought. “It’s almost Christmas and I’m standing next to a girl in a
veritable forest of mistletoe. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You said the Room--”

“Is full of mistletoe.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
She did. It was good, but it wasn’t enough, even with him moving his hands in her hair. His mouth
felt like the only real point of contact. She spread her hands along the breadth of his shoulders, but
she was touching cloth. She wanted skin. He should be touching her, not the wool of her sweater or
the cotton waistband of her skirt.

Start with the shoes pinching her feet. She dug her toes into the opposite heel to kick her shoes off
without breaking the kiss. The rugs were cushiony and pleasantly cool under her bare feet. She
could feel Draco smile against her mouth when he noticed the drop in height.

“Come sit with me,” he murmured. “I’m going to get a crick in my neck bending so far.”

He took her to the bench. The cushions were soft and deep, made for someone to curl up with a
book and a cup of tea. Draco sat and tugged on her wrist, pulling her into his lap. He curved an arm
around her waist and put his other hand on her neck, drawing her in.

She was the one who reached for the buttons of his shirt first. “Can I take this off?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes. Obviously. Yes.”

He helped with hers, too. She kissed him again, gently scratching his shoulders and back, enjoying
the way his fingers tightened on her lower back when he felt what she was doing. Be bold, she
thought, and straddled him. His breathing quickened. His hands shifted lower, holding her hips in
place as he strained up to grind against her.

One hand moved to her back, where his fingers found a clasp. Draco kissed her breastbone and
continued up the side of her neck.

“Do you remember, after the thing with Myrtle?”

“Mm.”

“This is where you stopped me, before,” he said, his mouth against her throat. “Do you want to
stop me now?”

“No.”

“Then tell me.”

“Don’t stop.”

It took two tries, but after an extra wiggle, the clasp came undone and Hermione felt the straps slip
from her shoulders, and then the coolness of the air. When he reached for her again, she caught her
breath. She’d thought the fabric of her bra was thin. She thought she could feel everything. New
threads were running under her skin like arrows. Every time one of his fingers brushed a nipple,
there was an answering flicker between her legs.

She scooted back a couple of inches and ran her hand over the stretched fabric of his trousers. He
leaned his head back, eyes closed. Hermione grinned. She stroked him again, adding a small swirl
of her wrist at the end. His fingers dug into her thigh. When Hermione’s fingers played with the
zipper, his patience broke. He guided her down onto the grey fabric of the bench and almost tore
her skirt off. He hooked his fingers into her underwear, pulled them down, tugged off the rest of
his clothes, and crawled over her.

Maybe he was excited, maybe overconfident about his angle and what he was doing. The jab came
harder and sharper than she’d expected, sending a stabbing pain between her legs and in the pit of
her belly. Without thinking, she whipped a hand out and smacked him across the face.

He pulled back immediately, one hand on his cheek. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger, why always the
face?”

Hermione scrambled into a sitting position. “Sorry! Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. Old habits die hard, apparently. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It stung. I wasn’t expecting it to be like that.”

“Yeah, neither was I.” He caught her eye, and then he started laughing.

She smiled back, although she still felt red in the face. “I am sorry.”

“Stop it. It’s weird hearing you apologize to me. Come here.” He lowered himself onto her again
and wiggled an arm underneath her. “You’re losing your touch, by the way. That was nowhere
near as hard as last time.”

Hermione laughed a little into his shoulder. “Can we try it again? More carefully?”

“Yeah. I can move against you a little, first? Let you feel it?”

“Okay. And kiss me?”

He smiled. “Obviously.”

Hermione shifted herself a little, centering herself more underneath him. She put one hand on the
back of his neck to pull him close to her. A moment later, she felt him press against her again. It
was more of a sliding than a stabbing now, smooth and warm. He started slow, moving until he hit
the spot that made her hips twitch, then double- and triple-checking. Then he leaned himself harder
into her, rocking in that same spot.

She clenched her fingers, tugging the hair on the back of his head. “Keep doing that.” Her voice
was shaky.

In response, he propped himself on one forearm and licked his thumb. When he touched her breast
again, she shivered involuntarily. The wetness heightened the touch that much more, like running
an electric wire through water. The current ran faster than thought--lips, nipple, navel, sex, back
again, looping and redoubling on itself. She parted her legs a little wider.

He took it as an invitation and shifted position. She put a hand low on his back and pressed,
beckoning. It still hurt when he entered her, but not as much, and not the same. There was an initial
stinging at the entrance point and a deep, low ache inside, more pressure and fullness than
pleasure, but not bad, either. He put his fingers to his mouth again and brought them lower this
time, playing with different rhythms, watching her face to see which pattern was right. Now her full
attention was concentrated between her legs, but before the sensation crept past the point where
she could do anything but clutch his shoulders and ride the feeling, Hermione couldn’t help
noticing the self-congratulatory smirk on his face.

When Hermione’s back relaxed and she could unclench her hands again, Draco dropped his other
arm next to her shoulder. He bent his head, hiding his face in her neck. Hermione felt shaky and
loose all over. She was starting to feel aware again of a throbbing tenderness, but she wanted to
give him a turn. She kissed his hair. It didn’t take long. His movement got jerkier, his breath
hitched, and then his whole body curled over her for a handful of heartbeats.
 It felt strange and slippery when he pulled out. Hermione shuddered, and maybe Draco thought
she’d had a sudden, disastrous change of heart. He looked at her wide-eyed until she reached for
him, and then the relief that washed over him was palpable. He scooped her into his arms, cradling
her so her back was supported by the back of the bench and her forehead leaned into the crook of
his neck. His fingers trailed a slow, lazy path from the hair curling over her collarbone down to the
curve of her hip.

His voice was low and musing. “What do you put in your hair?”

Hermione cuddled a little closer. “Conditioner? It has apricots in it, and shea butter.”

“It smells good.”

He fell asleep like that. Hermione didn’t. Her body was still humming. She was a little sore, not
necessarily in a bad way, but she wanted to lie awake and figure out the new feelings.

She wriggled onto her back, keeping Draco’s arm wrapped over her, and looked up at the wall. The
bunches of mistletoe seemed to have spread even farther and thicker than before. The stones were
almost hidden under a blanket of green leaves and white berries. Except for the furniture, and the
stone floor beneath the mossy-feeling ground, she and Draco could have been hidden inside a glade
in a forest. Mistletoe meant kisses and Christmas, but its original significance was of peace and
protection. It marked safe meeting ground for enemies. Hermione knew several Warding potions
that used mistletoe to protect the entrances of a home. Strange, that the Room of Requirement
would think that they needed this much.

Chapter End Notes

More of a note on writing than HP canon, but: Writing smut/sex

scenes/lemons/however you want to call it is a new experience for me. Not a radical
thing to say. Plenty of people don't write fiction, full stop! BUT. I have studied
writing, formally, for quite some time. I have my MFA in fiction. And in the four
years I spent in my program, I don't remember any professor talking about the
mechanics, craft, or art of writing about sex in a way that is faithful and vivid and
compelling. I can understand that a literary-minded MFA fiction program would have
reservations about teaching full-fledged, bodice-ripper smut, but I've read no shortage
of contemporary literary fiction that has sex scenes. Sex is an important part of many
intimate relationships, it's a meaningful expression of certain aspects of identity for
many people, and it's taken a return to fanfic to realize how odd it is that it would be
so absent from a program designed to develop my ability to tell stories.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day chapters to come, and then I'll switch to the new
posting schedule! Have a lovely weekend.
 Katie Bell
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The morning of Christmas Eve, Draco checked in at the infirmary.

Madame Pomfrey reached for his hand automatically. “What did you do to it this time? Is it not
healing well?”

“It's fine,” Draco said. “I have a stomach ache.” He twisted his mouth and clutched at his side.

“When did the pain start?”

“I don't know. It's just getting worse and worse.” He gritted his teeth.

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips. “It's almost nine-thirty. We opened the doors two hours ago. Did
the pain start before then, or after? What have you eaten today?”

“Nothing much. A glass of pumpkin juice. A few bites of toast. I could barely sit straight.”

“Who came here with you?”

“Why would anyone come with me?”

“I see.” Madame Pomfrey sighed. “Too much pain to sit straight, but walking alone to the Hospital
Wing was manageable. Go ahead and take your shirt off. I'll take a look, but I'm guessing you had
a few too many extra helpings last night. I know it's Christmas, but why they give children
unlimited access to stuff themselves with treats is beyond me.”

Draco hissed through his teeth when she prodded his stomach, but opted not to moan. Better not
oversell it.

Madame Pomfrey straightened. “You can put your shirt on. I don't hear anything out of the
ordinary. Lie down for a while, and I'll have one of the nurses bring you a stomach-settling potion.
If you think you can keep it down, that is.”

Draco wrinkled his brow, trying to look pale and pained. “I'll do my best to manage.”

“This too shall pass. Take it easy at lunch.” She gave the privacy curtain a practiced flick.

When Draco felt confident she was gone, he slipped out and headed for the next hall, where they
kept the girls. Both genuine infirmary visits and the occasional faked stomachache had provided
opportunities to learn the layout and the nurses’ working rhythm. No trouble at all for a cunning
Slytherin to duck into the girls’ ward, tuck his feet up on a curtained bed, and listen in.

He'd timed his visit well. A few minutes after he took his place, he heard Madame Pomfrey and
one of the junior nurses enter.

“--think she can handle solids?” the junior nurse was saying. “It would be lovely to wake her with a
bit of Christmas dinner.”

“No, keep her on clear fluids,” Madame Pomfrey said. “The poor girl doesn't know what day it is.
She barely knows where she is. Let’s focus on getting her fed, and see if we can’t get her up and
moving a bit. She’ll need a chair for a little while until she gets her strength back, but the sooner
she’s moving her muscles, the better.”

“Should I alert Professor McGonagall?”

“In a few hours, yes. She’ll want to come right down and ask questions. Katie’s young and strong,
and lucky for her. That was some nasty business. Both the curse and our potions can have an effect
on her memory, but if she can remember anything about who attacked her, it could help. I can’t say
I’m entirely hopeful. We’ll take care of her first, so she’ll have more energy to speak with the
Professor.”

There was a rustle of cloth and the metallic scrape as the curtain rings over Katie’s bed were pulled
aside, a female voice mumbling something, and the nurse’s soothing tones.

Draco pressed his hands together to keep them from shaking and steepled them in front of his
mouth. He was afraid his teeth were going to start chattering and betray his presence. She was
awake. After all this time, she was awake, and McGonagall would question her in a matter of
hours.

He’d gone over the moment he’d cast the curse a thousand times in his mind, never satisfied that
he had a clear conclusion. He’d crept up behind her the morning of the Hogsmeade trip. His
detention alibi with McGonagall was airtight. But as he was pulling out his wand, her bag had
slipped from her shoulder and she’d turned to pick it up. Had she seen him?

“Up you get, love,” the nurse said. “There’s a good girl.”

“Steady,” Madame Pomfrey said. “Well done. There’s a chair just outside the door. Dorea will take
you for a little stroll, won’t that be lovely? I’ll bring your potion round when you’re back, and
we’ll try some toast in an hour if the broth stays down.”

Draco managed to wait until the footsteps faded away. Then he grabbed a bedpan and heaved.

He wasted the next hour pacing in his room, circling feverishly through his options. In the back of
his mind, he’d thought (hoped?) she would be whisked away by her parents to convalesce as soon
as she was able to travel. He’d been so buried under his other stress that he’d forgotten that she’d
be questioned.

She would be. Soon. So what did that leave him with?

He could try and slip back in and curse her again. Except that Bell would be monitored by nurses
nonstop, and even if he caught Bell alone, he didn’t know if he could do it. Intention mattered,
with Dark magic. Fear-fueled desperation might not be enough. Not to mention that he’d been the
only other student that he knew of in the infirmary that morning, so Bell turning up cursed all over
again might make people ask questions.

He could wait. She might not remember him at all, he reminded himself. Even Madame Pomfrey
didn’t think Bell’s memory would hold up well, after the ordeal her mind and body had endured.
There was a perfectly reasonable chance that questioning her would lead to nothing, and in another
week Bell would be back in the Great Hall, smiling and chatting with her friends at the Gryffindor
table--

Alongside Granger. And every time he looked at her across the Great Hall, he would also have to
face an inescapable reminder that if Granger knew what he had done, she would hate him again.
Even when Bell wasn’t around, every time Granger smiled at him, or kissed him, or put her chin on
his shoulder to see what page he was on in whatever book she’d lent him, he’d know it was all a
lie.

And if Bell did remember him--he shuddered. Immediate expulsion. McGonagall might even snap
his wand for good measure, to ensure he didn’t try anything on the train. He wouldn’t even get to
tell Granger that he hadn’t had a choice. And when he got back to Malfoy Manor, Father and the
Dark Lord would know he had failed. Draco was trying, very hard, not to follow the rest of the
thought through to what would likely happen after that.

In the end, what tipped the balance was that if it was all going to be over in a few hours, he didn’t
want to spend them alone.

Granger was in a fourth-floor corridor, in full swing scolding a small cluster of Gryffindors and
Slytherins. Draco pinched her just above the elbow.

“Can this wait? I need a word.”

She frowned at him, but he could feel her instinctively shift her weight onto the foot closest to him,
and he knew she would come with him. She bit her lip, then glared at the students before her.

“Don’t let me catch you fighting like this again. Tomorrow’s Christmas, for goodness’ sake. Give
it a rest for a few days.” She rounded the corner with him and followed him down a staircase.
“Well? What is it?”

“Not here. We need to be alone.”

“Okay?” She eyed him. The corners of her mouth kept lifting and lowering, as though she couldn’t
decide whether to smile. Maybe she thought he was dragging her off to make out somewhere.

When it became clear that he was leading them to the greenhouse, she did smile, and reached for
his hand. Draco gripped it tight and didn’t slow his pace. Her expression faltered again.

“Draco, you’re worrying me. What’s going on?”

He pushed the greenhouse door open, glanced to make sure no one else had followed them out, and
ushered her inside. He hoisted himself onto a table, swinging his legs with nervous energy.

“Are you going to talk to me?” she said.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to look up at her. “You’re my friend. Right?”

“Yes. At minimum, at this point, I would think.”

“What happens if things get bad?” His stomach was alive with panicky fluttering. He tried to
concentrate on the grain of wood under his hands, to distract himself.

She lowered herself onto a bench opposite him. “Like what?”

“Think.”

“I don’t want to play guessing games, Draco.”

“The others you were talking to just now,” he started slowly. “Did you notice anything about
them? About most of the people staying over break?”

“What have you noticed?”

“Except for the Slytherins, they’re nearly all Muggle-born, or true Half-blood. They’ve got at least
one Muggle parent. That’s why the fights are worse. There’s fewer proper--sorry. There’s fewer
Pureblood people around, to smooth things over. I’m assuming your lot is afraid that you won’t be
safe in homes that aren’t magically protected, now that--now that he’s back.”

“Or we’re protecting our parents,” Granger said quietly.

“And then there’s people like me.”

She looked at her hands. “I thought we were past blood status.”

“Granger, I’m trying to say I can’t go home, either.” This was it. Time to take the plunge. “You
told me I could come to you, if I was in trouble.”

She nodded. “I did. I’m here.”

“My family--their loyalties haven’t changed.” He glanced at her. No shock on her face yet. “So.
There are expectations. For me. I’ve been learning things. A little bit last year, but mostly over the
summer. Spells they don’t teach in school. My father--”

“Your father’s been teaching you Dark Magic?” Granger interrupted. “He’s supposed to be in
Azkaban! You’re telling me he’s at Malfoy Manor?”

“Yes, of course he is. It’s an open secret throughout the whole Ministry, Granger, whatever the
papers say. The Aurors won’t risk an attack on Father at home. They’re still trying to figure out
who’s on what side inside the Ministry. As long as he stays on the property, no one in the Ministry
is going to do anything.”

“Okay.” Granger pushed her hair back from her face. “Okay. Yes. Please keep going.”

Draco looked at the ceiling. This was like being in the Vanishing Cabinet all over again, not
knowing which move was wrong. “Father teaches me things. He would rather have had me stay
home this year, and--train. Mother said that it would look wrong, if I didn’t come back here. It’s
hard to say what will tip the balance, make the Aurors or the Resistance act.”

“The Resistance?”

“That’s what they call you,” Draco said. “Father gave in, but he came up with an idea. A test, to
keep me sharp. It’s dangerous magic, very complicated.”

“That’s how you hurt your hand.”

“I messed up.” Draco automatically hid his hand behind the opposite wrist.

“What happens if you don’t pass the test?”

“Nothing good.”

“Can’t you refuse? You’re at Hogwarts now, not Malfoy Manor.”

Draco gave her a withering look. “My parents have more of a claim on me than any of the
professors in this place. I’m their son, and they had their fingers in the Ministry long before there
were any signs that he was coming back. Anytime they want me back, all they need to do is send
an owl. All year, I’ve had to prove I’m training well enough for them to let me stay.”

“Sweet Morgana. I knew there was something going on, but I didn’t know it was this bad.” She
stood up, starting to pace as she thought. “How dangerous is the magic, exactly? Is it something I
could learn? Would they be able to tell, if you had help completing the test?”

“Why would you help me do that?”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t underestimate me. Harry would have died without me, more than once,
and following rules didn’t have anything to do with it. Don’t act like I don’t care about you. And
don’t think I don’t understand the value of knowing a few of the other side’s spells, before the
really serious part starts.”

“There’s more.” He gripped the table harder, digging his nails into the worn wood. “There was
another test, that involved another person.”

She gaped. For a moment, for the first time, a flicker of fear crossed her face. “Draco. What have
you done?”

“I cursed Katie Bell.”

Her brown eyes seemed to darken as it sank in that he was telling her the truth.

“Harry was right,” she said. “You tried to murder a student here.”

“No.”

“No? What do you call it?” She took a step toward him. “If you say ‘practice,’ or ‘training,’ I swear
to you, Draco--”

“I didn’t know what else I could do!” he shouted. “It wasn’t supposed to go the way it did. I didn’t
want to hurt her. I swear it. I had to prove I could get control, and I did . Her friends started an
argument, and ripped the package, and even then, the necklace only touched her because of a tiny
hole in her glove that I had no way of knowing about. Who was I supposed to tell? What do you
think would have happened if I’d walked into McGonagall’s office and said anything?”

Hermione put her hands over her face. “She would have expelled you. She wouldn’t have had a
choice. She would have sent you home.”

“She woke up this morning. I heard Madame Pomfrey say McGonagall is going to question her. If
anyone finds out it was me, I’m in a locked and guarded train car straight for Malfoy Manor, if not
directly to Azkaban.”

“Then why tell me at all? What were you going to ask me to do? For Godric’s sake, she might not
even remember it was you. I smelled how much bittersweet was in the potions they gave her.
Something that potent can knock out almost anything. You could have waited, instead of telling
me.”

“It was too risky.”

“It’s riskier this way,” Hermione snapped. “Now you’ve dragged me into it, and even if Katie
doesn’t remember that you cursed her, I’ll still know.”

“Don’t you understand, Granger?” He wished she would look at him. “I’m not asking for your
help. There’s nothing you can do. Either Bell will be able to tell them, or she won’t, but if she does,
we probably won’t get to see each other on the same side again. If I’m gone, I don’t want
McGonagall to be the one telling you why. I’m telling you because you matter to me.”

She stopped gesticulating and pacing. Her voice was quiet. “Be that as it may, Draco, this is
serious. I should tell Professor McGonagall. You know I should.” She paused. “You said we were
on the same side.”

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a long time. Draco was afraid to say anything. She was looking his way, finally,
but her eyes were still dark with anger. He didn’t know what was the right thing to say, or even if
there was anything else he could say. One wrong word, and maybe her inner scales would tip. She
clenched her hands, worrying the fabric of her robe in her fists while she thought.

“Who are your friends here? Real friends, not just people you see around?”

Okay, so she was talking again. Talking was good. Talking that had anything to do with the present
conversation would be preferable, but this seemed like a step in the right direction.

“Um,” he said. “Crabbe and Goyle, I suppose, although we haven’t spoken since last spring. Nott.
Zabini, sometimes.” He swallowed against the scratchy feeling that made him want to cough.
“You.”

“Yes. That’s what I thought.” Hermione made a little growl, deep in her throat. Draco wasn’t sure
she even realized she did it. “I could burn that blasted Hat.”

Then she leapt up and flung open the door. Alarmed, Draco followed her. It was one thing to find
himself expelled if he’d grossly misread Granger’s confidence in him. It was entirely another to
find himself dropped at the Hogwarts Express platform with a one-way ticket because he was an
accessory to the cremation of the Sorting Hat.

“Hey. Slow down. What are you doing?”

“We’re tearing this down. It starts with us.”

“Tearing what down? Where are we going?”

“Hufflepuff House.”

Just before they reached the kitchens, Hermione wheeled back on Draco, lips curled in a snarl.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” she said. “This can never happen again. You cursed Katie
in her home . No student should feel like they have to watch their back here. Hogwarts should be
the safest place on earth for us. You say you did it because you didn’t feel like you had a choice.
So it’s on you to make sure no one else ever, ever feels like that again.”

He’d expected her to make him earn her forgiveness, if it was going to be possible at all. He hadn’t
anticipated how eager he’d feel when he heard what the condition was.

“Granger, if you have a plan to make that happen, run it. I don’t even need to hear what it is. Tell
me what to do, and I’ll do it, and if anyone doesn’t listen to you, I’ll find them and make them do
it, too.”

“Good. In five minutes, remember that you said that.” She rapped a brisk pattern on one of the
barrels stacked in a corridor by the kitchens. There was a long pause, and then the round lid swung
open, revealing a seventh-year named Oliver Lufkin.

He frowned. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Hannah told me the password, earlier in term,” Hermione said. “She owed me a favor. I’m calling
it in.”

Oliver’s gaze shifted over Hermione’s shoulder. “We don’t owe him any favors.”

“I’m with her,” Draco said.

“Is that true?”

“If he knows what’s good for him,” Hermione muttered. “Are you and the others planning on
keeping tradition, tomorrow? Hannah told me.”

Oliver gave a tight smile. “Hannah’s a chatty one, isn’t she? Yes, whatever she’s told you, our
House will celebrate Christmas at Hogwarts the way we always do.”

“Excellent. Plan for extra. Tell the House Elves, if you get a chance. I’ve got prefect business I
need to take care of today. I’m not going to have much time.”

“What do you mean, plan for extra? Who do you plan on bringing here?”

“Everyone.”

Oliver gave Draco a skeptical look. “Even the Slytherins?”

“Especially the Slytherins,” Draco said.

Draco followed Hermione back into the castle. She was still seething, muttering under her breath
about House tribalism and Slytherin demonization.

“We’re eleven years old when we get here, it’s ridiculous,” she said. “Whose bloody idea was it to
separate by type? If you’re going to do a mandatory personality assessment, at least assign housing
in a way that encourages blend. But no, why do that when you can pit children against each other?
What did they bloody think was going to happen?”

“What do the Hufflepuffs do for Christmas?”

She took the Grand Staircase two steps at a time. “Celebrate, of course. We’re a bit short on time
right now, if you don't mind. We need to get you out of the way until we figure out what’s going
on.”

They crossed the Manticore Bridge, which led them toward the winding mahogany staircase to
Gryffindor Tower.

“Let me make sure I understand, one more time,” Hermione said, climbing. “It was the day of the
Hogsmeade trip. You were lurking around the castle, and you spotted her getting ready to go have a
fun day out with her friends, and you cursed her.”

“I’m sorry.”
“Had you been targeting her before? Was it something about Katie specifically that made you want
to put her under a life-threatening curse, or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Neither option felt like it fit. Explaining any further, that he’d chosen a girl because it would make
more sense for her to deliver a necklace, would unravel too much. He had never seen Granger this
furious, even at him, so he chose his words with care.

“I couldn’t do that again, even if no one ever found out. I wouldn’t be able to make that spell work
again, after seeing what happened. I should never have done it in the first place, but I thought I
didn’t have another option. It was a mistake. All I can tell you is that I was desperate.”

“Yes, so you said.” She sighed as they reached the landing. “Once is simpler than multiple times, I
suppose. That’s about all there is to say for it.”

The Fat Lady folded her arms when she saw Draco.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Not today, Aoife. Dilligrout.”

“Lovely manners,” the Fat Lady huffed as the door swung open.

Hermione grabbed Draco’s wrist and dragged him up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. “My
roommates have all gone home. I don’t expect anyone will look for you here, at least not at first.
There should be a broom under Ginny’s bed. Hers needs re-twigging, so she was loaning one from
the school equipment room. I’ll come back as soon as I can. If you hear commotion or think
they’re coming for you, you grab the broom, open the window, and get to Hagrid’s hut. Tell him I
sent you. He won’t be happy about it, but he’ll let you hide there until I can figure out what to do
next.”

Without further goodbye, she pointed at one of the beds and slammed the door behind her.

Draco sat on the edge of what he presumed was her bed. The other three beds in the suite were
neatly made, bedside tables cleared except for a forgotten hair comb or water glass. Her table was
stacked high with books, of course. There was a square packet of pills, and a photo of her with her
parents, the image eerily frozen.

It took over an hour before she returned, looking exhausted.

“It's done.”

“What do you mean?”

Hermione collapsed onto the bed. “I took care of it. I told the nurse I had a headache. When she
went for a tonic for me, Katie and I were alone.” She took a shaky breath. When she spoke, her
voice was even, despite the tremble in her wand hand. “I've been practicing memory charms all
year, Draco. In case the worst happens. I'm very good.”

For the first time since he heard the news in the infirmary that morning, Draco felt safe. He didn’t
ask her if she had found out if Katie remembered anything before performing the charm. He didn’t
want to know, himself.

She curled on her side and buried her face in her hands. The rage-fueled energy that had driven her
all day had finally run out.
 “I don’t know if I did the right thing,” she said in a small voice. “I wish I could talk to my mom.”

Draco reached for her, but stopped himself.

“I want to touch you, but maybe you’d rather I left you alone. I’ve caused you too much trouble
already.”

“You can stay.”

He lay on his side facing her, put his arm around her, and rested his chin on top of her head.

“I don’t know if you did the right thing, either,” he said.

“Oh, great.”

“Just listen to me. Granger, what you did today--I can’t tell you if you were right or wrong, but you
were so brave. You were brave, and daring, and you’ll tear this whole place down before you let it
get in the way of what you believe in. You are everything the Sorting Hat could have wanted in a
Gryffindor.” He could almost feel her listening. She was so still, she could be holding her breath.
“You are brilliant. Any idiot knows that. But I think not everyone knows how indomitable you are.
I’m sorry you had to go through so much today for my sake. But in a way, I’m glad I got to see it.”

Chapter End Notes

Shit's getting real, folks.

Tomorrow's posting schedule will be (understandably, I hope) somewhat uncertain?

I'm going to get the chapter set up now so all I need to do is log in and hit "post," but
watching my little girl open presents and seeing extended family is going to be my
main priority. Thanks for understanding, and Merry Christmas to those who celebrate
it!
 A Very Dramione Christmas
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

If anyone had told Draco at the beginning of term that he’d wake up on Christmas morning in a
nest of red and gold, a sleeping Granger curled into his side, he would have escorted them to St.
Mungo’s himself. And yet here he was, legs tangled with hers, watching her breath fluttering a
lock of hair in front of her face.

She was fast asleep, making a little whistling sound on every exhale. Draco could see her eyes
flitting back and forth under her eyelids, and a thin line appeared between her eyebrows. Of course
she’d make herself busy, even when she was dreaming.

He blew the strand of hair out of her face. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut and groaned. Her
hand, curled between them, reached to touch his bare chest. She opened her eyes.

“Why’re you looking at me?” she mumbled.

“You snore.”

“Do not.” She rolled on her back and rubbed her eyes. “Don’t need to hear this kind of talk from
you. ‘Mnot even up yet.”

“It’s Christmas.” He poked her ribs. “How can you think about sleeping?”

She wriggled away. “You are the worst.” She yawned, shook her head, and wiped the sleep out of
her eyes. “Okay. I’m awake.”

“Good.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and sank his lips into hers.
“You’ve got morning breath,” he teased.

“So stop kissing me then.”

In response, he shifted to lie on top of her and pressed his mouth against hers again. Firm and
languorous, switching between sucking gently on her top lip and nibbling the fuller bottom one.
Her body was radiating warmth from a nights’ worth of snuggling under blankets. The tip of her
tongue flicked against the center of his bottom lip. He opened his mouth to let her in, and she
swirled her tongue over his before nipping his lip.

She kissed him under his jawline, soft lips rasping over a hint of overnight stubble. “That’s what I
thought,” she murmured. “You love it.”

Draco had had about half an erection going when he woke up. He was rock hard now. There was
no way she couldn’t tell.

Her kisses kept moving down. She sucked the tender skin at the base of his neck, and he grinded
his hips against her without thinking.

“Good spot?” Now she was the one smirking at him. Her hands slid down his chest to his stomach.

Draco pulled her shirt over her head. Merlin, breasts were amazing. It didn’t seem possible that
anything could be that soft. And they changed, depending on how a girl moved. Granger was lying
on her back, so any hint of cleavage was gone, and instead the curve of her breast extended a little
further, and sloped more gently. At the very center of her chest, there was a smooth bit of skin that
would normally be hidden behind her cleavage. It was even softer than the rest of her, probably
because it never got touched. Draco put his mouth on it.

They kissed again, leaning back into the pillows. Granger was starting to move her hips in response
to his. Her nipples tightened under his palm. He reached down to take the rest of their clothes off.

“Wait,” she said, putting a hand on his chest again. “I didn’t get a chance to have a proper look at
you, last time.”

She nudged him off of her and rolled over onto her knees. Her fingers trailed down his stomach,
barely brushing his hip bones, following a diagonal line down the taut skin. His cock bobbed
toward her hands of its own accord. Granger smiled. The tip of her tongue poked between her teeth
for a second, and then she was pulling his boxers off.

She put her hand around the base and squeezed gently, testing his firmness. Draco shivered.

“What do you want me to do?” she said.

“Play with it.” He went to put a hand over hers to show her, but she was already stroking the
length. Her thumb ran along the sensitive spot under the tip, where the flared part ended and the
skin was thin and delicate. His toes curled.

She closed her hand tight around him again and gave him a few exploratory strokes up and down.
“The skin slides.”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t really listening. It wasn’t possible to concentrate. She was finding a rhythm,
mimicking the patterns of what they had done before, with added attention to the most sensitive
skin at the tip. The jolts of pleasure were building. He needed a break, he realized. Either that or to
push himself inside her and take what he needed, but he wanted to give both of them time. She
should enjoy this.

He moved her hand away, much as it pained him, rolled back on top of her, kissed down her
stomach, and pulled her underwear off.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Getting out of slap range.”

He put his tongue on her and slid it over her clit. He’d only done this twice before, himself. Astoria
was horrified at the idea of either of them putting their mouths on each other, so they hadn't. Padma
had wanted it, and had told him what to do, but they’d only seen each other a couple of times.

Granger whimpered and tilted her hips a little. Draco tried another flick, and a longer stroke, and
was rewarded with a soft moan. She pushed her knees up higher, opening herself more to him.
Draco wiggled his arms into a more supportive position and settled in.

The rhythm of it was coming back to him. It was like a cross between making out with her, a few
feet lower down, and catching the melting drips of an ice cream cone. He didn’t want to fry her out
too fast, so he traced the tip of his tongue across the delicate folds or swirled it in a circle around
her clit, letting his breath and the incidental touch of lip or tongue be all that touched it directly.
Her hands clutched at the sheets.

She was so soft. He slid his tongue against her more firmly, exploring the taste. It reminded him a
little bit of certain moments after a Quidditch match, the way skin and sweat and sharp grass and
sun all intermingled into one complicated blend that he’d never be able to smell again without
thinking of flying.

Finally, he gave in, sweeping his tongue over the spot where she needed it. She let out a groan that
started all the way down in her throat. One hand flew to the back of his head, fingernails raking
through his hair and grazing his scalp. His nose and mouth and chin were wet.

“Keep,” she said, and her fingers grasped his hair tighter, holding him against her. His dick was
about to bore a hole into the mattress. The sight and smell and taste of her under him, with the
pressure of her hand and the scrape of her nails above, were immersing him completely. He
clamped his mouth down and counted in his head, keeping the rhythm steady until her hips kicked
up once, hard, and her thighs started shaking.

He wiped his mouth, taking a second to catch his breath.

“How was that?”

“Gods.” Her chest was blotchy.

He climbed over her and positioned himself. “Can I?”

She nodded, and he finally let himself thrust into her. It was like sinking into a jet bath. The inside
of her was still squeezing, aftershocks from her orgasm. Everything was warm and soft and wet,
squeezing and sliding, rolling in waves over him.

She bridged her hips up. He was still thrusting deep inside her, but the base of his cock rubbed
against her on the way out, and he could feel the head dragging against the front wall, hitting
something soft and spongy. She was making little noises on every exhale, her breath racing faster,
matching his pace. He lost it a couple strokes before she threw her head back again, mouth open.

He dropped on top of her. His back was damp with sweat. Not to mention that they were lying in
what amounted to a small puddle.

“I got you twice,” he said, grinning at her.

“You sound pleased with yourself.”

“I could say the same about you.” He couldn’t get the smirk off his face. “Draco Malfoy, sex god.”

Granger laughed. “As if your head needed to get any bigger.”

Draco’s stomach rumbled. They’d both skipped dinner the night before, too exhausted and stressed
to eat. “I’m starving. Is there somewhere I can clean up, and then do you want to go to the Great
Hall?”

“Definitely. I’m famished. Here, give me my shirt and I’ll make sure the coast is clear. I’d rather
not run into any of the first-years.”

Twenty minutes later, they were rinsed and dressed and walking into the Great Hall. For the first
time, it sank in for Draco that the smattering of students were still all sitting at their respective
tables. He’d assumed it was habit. But everyone would easily fit at one of the long tables, with
room to spare. The Great Hall looked emptier than it really was, with little pockets of four or five
students scattered through the banquet space.

A few people looked up when they walked in. Seamus Finnegan waved to Hermione from the
Gryffindor table. Flint, Nott, and Millicent Bulstrode were at the Slytherin table, with a half dozen
first- and second-years.

Draco hesitated. In Granger’s room, he’d had a fleeting image in his head of walking into the Great
Hall together, and sitting with her, the two of them above caring about any curious looks. Now he
couldn’t remember which table he’d imagined them joining. In his mind, the faces had been
generic, unconnected to anyone he knew.

The longer they stood there, the more stares they’d attract.

Draco shifted. He wondered if Granger was about to grab his hand. He wasn’t sure whether he
wanted her to or not.

Then, slowly, back straight, he walked away from her toward the Slytherin table. The hairs on the
back of his neck prickled. He didn’t dare look at her until he was sitting with the others.

“Where were you last night?” asked Nott. “We needed a fourth for Rune Riddles, and we couldn’t
find you anywhere. Did you even make it back to the dorms at all?”

“I was watching for Father Christmas,” Draco said. “I didn’t realize you needed a nursemaid to
tuck you in.”

“All right, it’s Christmas, no need to be a git.”

“Are you free today at least, or are you sneaking off again?” Millicent said. “We were talking
about maybe going skating later.”

“No, you were talking about that,” grumbled Flint. “Nonstop. I’ve told you, I’m not going out in
the cold.”

“That’s not our only option,” Draco said.

A metallic clanging interrupted him. Granger was standing on a bench at the Hufflepuff table,
bashing an empty metal platter with a slotted spoon.

“Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” she yelled.

Draco rubbed his forehead. “Brilliant, Granger. Subtle.”

“Oliver, Hannah, and I have an announcement we’d like to make.” She looked Draco’s way and
inclined her head toward the Hufflepuffs, inviting him to join her. He gripped his goblet of orange
juice as though it could anchor him to the table.

“The Hufflepuffs have opened their doors for an unprecedented, all-House Christmas celebration,”
Granger continued. “The House Elves have graciously agreed to provide dinner, and once
everyone arrives, we’ll...er.” She glanced nervously behind her at the faculty, who were seated as
usual on their dais. “That is, when I say everyone--I’m so sorry, Professors, I didn’t think to ask if
you were invited--”

Next to Draco, Millicent and Flint burst out laughing. Draco put a hand over his mouth, cringing.
Just sit down, he thought.
“Not at all,” Dumbledore said. “I believe I speak for us all when I say we are too sere and set in our
ways to crawl through barrels. Any students who prefer the company of myself and my esteemed
colleagues are, of course, welcome to join us for Christmas dinner and allow us to regale you with
cherished reminiscences of the many years we’ve lived at Hogwarts.”

There were snickers coming from a few places in the room, even the Gryffindor table.

Hannah Abbott stood up next to Hermione and put an arm around her waist.

“Have you ever wondered why more Hufflepuffs stay at Hogwarts over Christmas than any other
House? Look around! There are more of us here than the rest of you put together. And tonight, you
won’t see any of us in the Great Hall. That’s because no one makes a Hogwarts Christmas feel like
home better than the Puffs. And Hermione’s right. It shouldn’t just be your house that’s your
family here. We’ll have someone outside to let people in at--what did we say, Ollie? Two or three?
Anytime around then should be fine, I would think. We can take turns watching the door. Oh!
That’s important. Don’t knock. We’ll send people out to let you in. Um, I think that’s it. Yeah.”
She twisted the end of her braid, looked over at Hermione, and dropped back into her seat. A few
seconds later, Hermione also climbed down from the bench and returned to the Gryffindor table
(“What are you lot laughing about?” Draco heard her say).

Draco shook his head. “Granger, what do you think you’re bloody doing?”

“Seems about right for her,” Flint said. He stabbed half a sausage with his fork and tore it in half.
“Bossy little Mudblood can’t make it a day without making a fool of herself.”

“Watch your mouth.” Draco looked Flint up and down and flung his napkin onto the table. “Like
you have any better ideas of what to do. Or any of you, really.”

Millicent scowled. “I’ve been suggesting.”

“Okay, yes, Millicent, thank you, we know you want to skate. Did you plan to do that for the next
eight hours, or am I going to end up in the Common Room by noon, thawing my dick back out and
dealing nine hundred hands of Exploding Snap?” Draco took a sip of juice, giving himself a second
to assess his audience. “Besides, this will give us a way to keep the kiddies out of our hair. They’ll
find other first-years, instead of crawling over us.”

“Not worth it, not if we have to crash with the Hufflepuffs and Muggle-lovers,” said Flint.

“I might go,” Theo Nott said.

“Really?” said Millicent.

Theo poked the tip of his knife into an egg and watched the yolk run across the plate. “It’s got to be
better than watching Snape mope his way through six flagons of mulled wine. It’s bloody dreary.”

“If you’re going and Draco’s going, then I’ll come,” said Millicent.

“I’m going to laugh in all of your faces when you come crawling back after half an hour,” said
Flint.

“Suit yourself,” Draco said. He speared himself one more piece of French toast and stretched his
arms overhead, cracking his knuckles. “Mill, I’ll skate with you, if you want. You want to give me
half an hour and meet at the drawbridge?”

Flint leered, revealing the rubble that passed for his teeth. “It takes you half an hour to get your
long johns on, Malfoy? They must be quite a sight.”

“Flint, you’re making me blush. You’re welcome to come help me into them, if you like.”

Draco weaved between the tables on his way out so he could be sure to pass Granger. As he’d
hoped, he heard her footsteps behind him a few seconds after he left the Great Hall.

She tossed her hair. “You could have helped me out, back there.”

“I talked to my friends at the table, like a civilized person. You could have mentioned you were
planning on standing on a table and doing a grand announcement. I could have told you that
wouldn’t go over well.”

“But they should all want to come! It makes so much sense to have unity at Christmas, at the very
least! You can’t tell me I’m not right .”

Draco laughed. “You are such a Gryffindor.” He patted her back. “All justice and no diplomacy.”

“Prat. But the Slytherins are coming?”

“Most of them, at least. Flint’s a tough sell.”

“I suppose I should count it a win even if most of them come.”

“Definitely. Listen, I promised Millicent Bulstrode I’d meet her and go skating before the
Hufflepuffs make us cut paper snowflakes or whatever it is they do. But I wanted to give you
something.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “You got me a present?”

Draco shrugged. “It’s nothing much. It’s probably stupid.”

“I got you something.”

“You did?”

“Not like a big thing.”

“I have to get mine. Meet me in five minutes?”

There was a little alcove tucked under the main staircase, so they met there. Granger had her bag
looped over her shoulder, the fabric taut under the weight of its contents. She pulled out a large,
rectangular package.

Draco hefted it in one hand. “I thought you said it wasn’t a big thing.”

“Ha ha.”

He knew before tearing the paper that it was a book. What else, really? He didn’t recognize the
author or title. Another work of Muggle literature, then.

“Let me guess. A little light reading?”

Granger stuck her tongue out at him. “This one actually is. It’s all the best of Jeeves and Wooster.
It’s about this rich socialite who’s an absolute child, and he has this incredible valet who helps him
get out of all kinds of ridiculous trouble. It’s really funny.”
Draco opened it at random and skimmed a paragraph. “I’m not meant to draw any parallels, I
hope?” he asked, mostly teasing.

“Oh, goodness, no. I thought you’d enjoy the sense of humor. Especially after Slughorn’s party.
I’m excited to hear what you think.” She was leaning forward already. Her hands were practically
twitching with eagerness to flip to the first page and plant the tome in his lap.

Draco smiled. “I’ll admit, your recommendations have been good so far.”

“Don’t encourage me. I’ve been trying to restrain myself to giving you one book at a time. This is
cheating already.” She bit her lip. “Do you like it?”

“I do.”

Her face lit up. She darted forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I really am excited for you to
read it. These stories had me in stitches, and it isn't something I could show Harry or Ron. They'd
only make fun of me.”

“I made fun of you.”

“Well, yes. But you'll read it.”

“Open yours.” He handed her a much smaller, lighter package, a white box tied neatly with a green
ribbon. “Be careful when you handle them.”

She opened the box. Inside was a pair of earrings, silvery rectangles with a cut-out design.

“They’re pretty,” she said. “Thanks for the warning, they look delicate.” She lifted one out, but
flinched before she could put it to her ear. There was a fine cut on her thumb.

“They’re sharp,” she said. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Draco Malfoy, are these
potato peelers?”

Draco smirked. “I thought you’d recognize them anywhere.”

“Oh my God.” She smacked his arm. “You ridiculous little wise-ass. Where did you even get
these?”

“Kreacher fetched them for me. I wanted to take a look at some Muggle things for myself,” Draco
said. “They were more interesting than I expected. Delicate-looking, but sharp enough to cut. I
thought they were pretty.” He fiddled with the knot of his tie.

“But you made them into earrings?”

“I like making things.” He hadn’t had much time for a while to get into a craft project, nothing
major since fifth year. It had been fun. “I tried to do a good job. I’ve never done jewelry before.”

“Let’s see how they look.” Hermione lifted the earrings by the hook this time. “Now that I know
the blade’s real. What do you think?”

“I think they suit you.”

She tilted her head this way and that, showing them off. “Then I’ll wear them. They’re clever. I
like them, very much.” She kissed him. “You need to go get your skates and a sweater, and I
promised my first-years we’d do cocoa and carols. I’ll see you at two-ish, then, for the party.”
One might think, upon seeing a group of 11- and 12-year-old witches and wizards tramping
through the snow on Christmas Day, wrapped snug in their scarves, half red and half green, that
they were a bunch of carolers, or at minimum happy children about to join some holiday festivities.
But since when did Gryffindors and Slytherins spend any length of time together without sniping?

“Stop it, you mangy brats!” snapped Ursula Jasper, a Slytherin second-year. She brushed snow off
her neck and shook flakes out of her jacket.

Two first-year Gryffindor boys sniggered. There were more snowballs behind their backs. They
didn’t see the other Slytherin behind them, a first-year named Bridget Pucey, snapping icicles off a
low-hanging tree branch and packing snow around the sharp points.

Draco pointed his wand. “Bridget! That’s an amazing idea, but drop it.”

“Dennis, Eoin, you should be ashamed of yourselves,” Granger said. “Is that how you represent
House chivalry? Don’t make me start docking points.”

“We’re just having fun,” Eoin protested. “It’s not like I dropped flobberworms down her dress.”

“This party is supposed to be fun for everyone attending, not just you,” Granger said. She gritted
her teeth. “You bloody lot are going to go socialize with students from other Houses on Christmas
if I have to drag every one of you in by the ear.”

“I don’t see why we need to be involved,” Bridget said.

A sallow-looking boy named Hector grunted in agreement. “Let all the Half-breeds and Muggle-
lovers shove into a cramped room. We could have the whole Great Hall to ourselves.”

“Hey!” Draco barked. He clapped his hands together sharply a few times. “Baby snakes! Knock it
the hell off. Slytherins don’t start fights.” His tone rose at the end, prompting.

“We finish them,” one of the Slytherin first-years grumbled.

“Exactly. Leave the fight-starting to the Gryffindors.”

“Hey,” said Hermione.

Draco tipped his head at her. “Am I wrong, though?”

“No, but don’t push it.”

Fortunately, the inside of the Hufflepuff common room proved too interesting for the younger
students to keep fighting. The round room managed to look sunny, even in the dead of winter. The
low-angled light streaming through the circular windows gleamed on honey-colored wood and
burnished copper sconces. Everything was tinted in butter and daffodil and goldenrod. Intricately
knitted throw blankets draped over the backs of plump couches and armchairs, and a fire crackled,
adding yet another source of warmth and golden light.

And the decorations! Even notoriously hard-working Hufflepuffs must have gotten started early.
The low ceiling was hidden behind row after row of white tinsel, lights, and shimmering
snowflakes. Every shelf was draped with garlands, some made with greenery, some with hundreds
of ornaments fastened together. There were elegant glass jars filled with peppermints or more
ornaments, candles tied with holly and mistletoe, gingerbread houses, and three tables groaning
under the weight of ham, roasted turkey, bowls of stuffing, rolls, four kinds of potatoes, and every
cookie or tart imaginable.

“Hermione!” Hannah rushed over and squeezed Granger in a hug. “Look how many people you
got! Do you know if the Ravenclaws are coming?”

“No, I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay, they might come by closer to three, or later. It hardly matters when, the food’s ready
and we’ve got plenty of time. Do you want to see the games? Oh, and I need to show you one table
that’s off-limits for anyone under fifth year.”

“Absolutely,” Hermione said. She reached a hand out to Draco. “Do you want to take a look at the
games? Or do you want to get a drink first?”

“Oh!” Hannah squeaked. “I’m so sorry! I got so caught up because Hermione and I talked about
the plan for the party.”

“She talked about it with me first,” Draco said.

“Sorry, I sort of forgot you were still a prefect. But it’s wonderful that you’re here, and that you
brought the Slytherins.”

Draco froze. “Who’s watching the door?”

He made it just in time to let Theo and Millicent in without incident. By the time he returned with
them, most of the first- and second-years were already over at the game tables, playing Table
Quidditch and shuffleboard. The Gryffindors and Slytherins were on opposite sides, but nothing
looked like trouble.

Granger tapped him on the arm. “Hannah told me those barrels are the ones with the alcohol. She
asked if we’d keep it discreet until after dinner. She said they clear the younger ones out for a
while so we can have a more adult party.” She spotted Millicent approaching with a goblet in hand,
and stiffened. “Millicent.”

“Granger. Why aren’t you with the Gryffindors?”

“The whole point is that we don’t spend the entire time sitting with just our House.”

Draco moved an inch closer to Granger and kept his tone light. “You and Nott wanted to play Rune
Riddles last night, right? We’ve got four now.”

Millicent raised her eyebrows. “Are you joking?”

“What, you don’t think the two of you can beat us?” Draco said.

Hannah wanted in on the second round, and a few Hufflepuffs joined her. When the Ravenclaws
arrived, they wanted at first to play as their own team, but everyone else protested it wouldn’t be
fair.

“Not because you’re smarter than us,” Granger clarified. “Draco and I could wipe the floor with all
of you, if we wanted. But we don’t know what kinds of inside jokes you have to fall back on.”

“You’re one to talk, Hermione,” Hannah said. “What was that last clue you gave Draco? ‘The
whatsit--oh, dammit, they get in the pipes’?”
Granger flushed. “Anyone could have known I meant Gillywhelks.”

After everyone had eaten as many helpings as they wanted from dinner, and had a little while to let
their bursting stomachs settle, Draco, Hannah, and Hermione rounded up anyone fourth-year and
under to go outside. Draco had to admit the Hufflepuffs had a good system going. The kids were
going to get rowdy again any minute. The Starlight Sledding Competition was open for anyone
who felt like participating, although it skewed young. Second-years had been hyping it up for the
newcomers all term. They were itching to get outside.

And after a flurry of coats and gloves and warming charms, the older students were left with Jello
shots, smuggled Firewhiskey to spike their cider, and the games that went along with it. More than
a few Hufflepuffs were smoking near the fireplace, where they could discreetly send most of the
smoke up through the flues.

There was one unfortunate moment when a knock at the door signaled a possible latecomer, but
when Oliver and Draco went to see, there was nothing but large footprints and the eye-watering
smell of the vinegar shower the victim had suffered for knocking the wrong pattern. Draco
wondered if Flint had decided to try to come after all, and been punished for it. Not much to do,
though. Whoever it was was already gone. If it was Flint, Draco wouldn’t have anything
convincing to say.

Soon, Draco found himself in a somewhat nerve-wracking game of Never Have I Ever. Millicent in
particular seemed to eye him closely.

When it was her turn, she said, “Never have I ever spent the night in another House dormitory.
With someone of the opposite sex.”

Draco took a long drink and met Millicent’s stare. “Padma Patil. Last year.”

Next to him, he felt Granger let out a breath.

Eventually, even a well-cast warming charm was bound to wear off, and the younger students
trickled back in, stamping their feet and asking for hot apple cider. Hannah and Oliver dragged a
few chairs back from the fire and threw a pile of cushions and pillows down near the hearth. First-
and second-years filled plates, grabbed favorite games, and nestled down. They were still mostly
split by house, Draco noticed, but that was only to be expected. He hoped Granger wasn’t
disappointed that clusters of students kept to their own friends. None of them were really fighting
anymore. From time to time, someone from one group would call over to a student in the next,
reliving a good sled run or asking for a turn with one of the games.

A few first-year Gryffindors whispered to each other and tittered.

Bellamy Ungleswitch flicked his wand at a sprig of mistletoe hanging over the common room
door. “Wingardium leviosa.”

The mistletoe drifted across the room to float over Draco and Hermione, accompanied by more
giggles from the younger Gryffindors.

“Oh, Bellamy, don't,” said Hannah.

Draco looked at Granger. He thought she raised an eyebrow, just a tiny bit. He leaned back on his
hands to inspect the floating mistletoe.

“Not a particularly impressive specimen, is it, Granger? Spindly little twig. Certainly not up to my
standards to kiss you.”
“Nor mine,” Granger said. “You’d have to cover a wall with it.”

The liquor was warm in his stomach. “Tell you what, though. Because it’s Christmas.” He caught
her hand, hooked a finger around her pointer, and kissed her on the knuckle. “Would you say that’s
about right?”

She smiled. “I’ll take it.”

When the evening wound down, Draco and Hermione separated themselves from the crowd.

“You’ve never been to any of the other dorms,” he said.

“There’s never been a reason.”

“Do you want to come and sleep with me, tonight?”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “It does seem only fair, doesn’t it?” Her breath made little clouds
in the air. “Let me grab my pills and pajamas, and a book. I’ll meet you at the staircase.”

Ten minutes later, Draco found himself leading Granger down the stairs to the Slytherin dorms.
The lights were out. The only illumination came from the blue-green light shining through the
window. For a second, Draco thought he saw a flicker of movement, but the shadows from the
water often sent phantom ripples of light into the room.

There was a moment’s awkward dance as both of them went for the closest side of the bed. Draco
stepped back. This situation wasn’t covered in the fussy etiquette books his parents made him read,
but it seemed to him that the lady probably got her pick of sides of the bed.

Some kissing followed, then, and a bit more than kissing. Granger was feeling a little tender, her
body still acclimating to new kinds of touch, but she liked his fingers, and took hold of him without
needing to be prompted, and seemed to enjoy grinding with him to get him the rest of the way
there.

After, she fluffed the pillow and opened her book. “Do you mind if I peek at a page or two?”

“I don’t see why not.” He yawned. “I don’t know how you aren’t already tired.”

“I am, but I always read a little before bed. It helps my brain stop spinning.”

“Figures.” Draco rolled onto his side, facing away from her, and the lamp. It was a little too bright
to sleep. He pulled a corner of the blanket over his face to shut out some of the light.

A feminine snicker came from behind him. “Do you always hide under the blankets?”

“No. I usually go to sleep in the dark. Like a normal person.”

“I’ll just read a chapter. I’m tired, too. Then I’ll go to sleep.”

There was a quiet moment, and then Draco felt tentative fingers stroke through his hair, the backs
of her nails tickling his scalp. A small hum of relaxation escaped his lips.

“That feels nice.”

Her fingers did a playful wiggle and resumed the soothing stroking. He could imagine her smiling
at the page.

What felt like a moment later, his eyes snapped open. He was aware of the weight of another
person behind him, but there was cloth in his face and for a second he was completely disoriented.
Then his vision clicked back into focus. He was in bed, with Granger, and he’d fallen asleep deeply
enough to be dreaming. He groaned and shifted position.

“One more chapter,” Granger murmured without looking up.

“It’s been--” He glanced at the clock. “An hour? How many chapters have you read?”

She instinctively pulled the book in closer to her chest.

“Give me that,” Draco said.

She rolled over onto her side, facing away and hugging her arms around the book. “Just one more
chapter, I promise--aah!” She cut off in giggles as Draco started tickling her.

“Give it,” he said, wiggling his fingers between her ribs.

“Never!” She swatted his hand, twisting and laughing. “Stop it--cheater--you’ll never get it--no!”

He had it, flipped the dog-eared pages. “You read eight chapters?”

“It keeps ending on a cliffhanger!” Her hand darted, not fast enough. He held the book out of
reach. He got up on his knees so he could tickle her with his free hand, scolding her playfully while
she squirmed.

“I’m the cheater? ‘One more chapter, then I’m going to sleep.’” He dropped the book on the
bedside table and rolled over onto her. “You’re a little liar. What am I supposed to do with you?”

She looked up at him through her lashes and bit her lip. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

He smiled and kissed her. She responded enthusiastically. At first, he thought she might be taking
her pants off again. Then he realized all of her writhing was scooting them toward the edge of the
bed. And that he could only feel one of her arms wrapped around him.

She broke the kiss. “Aha!” The book was in her hand. She wriggled out from under his arm and
flipped the covers over her head, wedging them tightly around her. Draco could hear a riffle of
paper.

“You little minx.” He poked the blanket. There was a satisfied giggle, but the covers were too thick
for him to tickle her. “You can’t even see what you’re reading.”

There was a muffled, “Lumos.”

Draco flopped on his back. “You grabbed your wand.” He sighed, then curled himself up against
the blanket huddle. “At least let me under there with you. I’ll read over your shoulder.”

A moment of deliberation, and then the covers at her back loosened. Draco tucked himself against
her and looped an arm around her waist. He yawned. It was toasty under the blankets. The trapped
air smelled like soap and parchment.

“Turn the page when you’re ready. I’ll just skim it.”

Two chapters later, both of them were asleep. Her hand was on the book and her wand was tucked
 between pages, marking her place.

Chapter End Notes

Big ole Christmas chapter! Thanks so much for coming with me this far! This is the
last post on a 5x/week schedule, but there's lots of story to come. The plan now is to
shift to weekly updates (we'll do Fic Fridays), starting this Friday. Now that they're
together, how much will Draco confide in Hermione? How does one relationship, at
the unlikeliest of times, change what might have happened to them both?

Specific chapter notes:

The crack about Flint's teeth is paraphrased from Brad Neely, whose voiceover,
"Wizard People," is the most delightfully ridiculous way I've ever watched HP:
Sorceror's Stone.

I originally meant for Hannah to be a throwaway character, a way to throw Draco and
Hermione together more often, but in quintessential Hufflepuff fashion, she turned out
to be so agreeable and helpful that I kept thinking of ways she'd be useful in moving
the story forward. I've got a low-key, background arc in mind for her.
 Flying
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Winter break was going by too fast. They were sleeping together every night, while it was still a
small thing to slip by a few other students and have a room to themselves. Hermione realized she
could get used to waking up in the morning with his arm flung over her and his head tucked into
her shoulder. She wasn’t ready for that to end in a few days.

Not least because there was a good chance that once they were both awake, there would be time to
try things out together. Not that the first few times they’d slept together hadn’t been good--they
had--but it was getting easier for Hermione to understand and know how to ask for what she might
like, even when that meant slowing him down. Empty rooms and empty schedules meant time to
kiss and touch and ask questions. She could learn the way his breath caught when he was getting
close, the way his fingers tightened on her when she was doing something exactly right. He knew
not to just flip her up on top of him and thrust, but wait for her to find the right tilt of her hips to
guide him in without wincing. The pleasure was getting quicker and easier to find. Hermione
wanted more time to keep learning how to get it right.

She was reading in one of the armchairs by the fire in the library when she heard footsteps.
Millicent Bulstrode dropped something on the table next to her with a metallic ping.

“This yours?”

Hermione looked. It was an industrial-strength hairpin.

“The thing is,” Millicent said. “Witches don’t use bobby pins. Ursula and Bridget don’t even know
what this is. So why am I finding Muggle hairpins on the sink in the Slytherin girls’ bathroom?”

“Why assume it’s mine?”

Millicent laughed. “I’m not assuming anything. You’re not as quiet as you think you are. You’re
lucky Marcus and Theo sleep like the dead.”

“What do you want?”

“A tidy bathroom, for starters. Maybe some peace and quiet when I’m trying to get some beauty
rest. Have you ever tried having him put a hand over your mouth?” She stared into Hermione’s
face, watching the color rise.

“Oh, calm down, I heard you talking in the common room.” She sniffed. “But if you’re going to
keep on fooling around with Malfoy, get better at cleaning up after yourself. And practice that face
in the mirror.” She turned to leave.

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said. She picked up the bobby pin. “How did you know what this is, if
‘witches don’t use them’? You’re part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Millicent crossed her arms. “If I were you, Granger, I’d be more worried about the fact that I know
who you’re sleeping with.”

“Are you planning on telling anyone?”

“I haven’t decided,” Millicent said. She sucked her teeth. “Do you think he likes you?”

“That’s hardly any of your business, is it?” Hermione said.

“I could ask him myself.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “You could do whatever you like.” Then she lowered her voice. “Yes. I
think he does.”

“That’s all for the moment, then. Enjoy your afternoon.”

Hermione stared at the page after Millicent left, not seeing the words. The other witch clearly
wanted to intimidate her, maybe threaten her with blackmail, but it didn’t make much sense.
Hermione couldn’t imagine what Millicent thought she stood to gain.

Talking to Draco might help. He knew the other witch better than Hermione did. And she was far
too antsy to read anymore.

It took longer to find him than she thought. She even checked the Room of Requirement. He’d
admitted, reluctantly, that he used the Room to practice whatever test he was still working on for
his father. He wouldn’t answer any of her questions about what he had to do. But when she passed
the stretch of hallway, she was able to conjure the door herself. The Room wasn’t in use. After
exhausting all the usual spots, Hermione finally caught Draco’s voice coming from a passageway
near the entrance to the Clock Tower.

“--not hiding anything,” Draco snapped. “I just don’t want you nosing in!”

“And you think your skill is enough to protect you against the greatest Legilimens of our age?”
Snape’s languid tone dripped with condescension. Hermione was used to hearing that tone directed
at her, but Draco was usually Snape’s prized student.

“Let’s see how you fare, then,” Snape continued. There was the crackle of a spell. “Your Aunt
Bellatrix has been teaching you, I presume?”

“Leave me alone.”

“I swore to protect you,” Snape hissed. “I made the Unbreakable Vow.”

“I don’t need your protection,” Draco shot back. “I was chosen for this. I won’t fail him.”

“You’re afraid, Draco. You attempt to conceal it, but it’s obvious. Let me assist you.”

“No.” Another sizzle in the air. “Stay out! I was chosen, not you. Leave me alone.”

“He will break you.” Snape’s voice was deadpan as ever, the words falling like a verdict. “You are
not strong enough. If you will accept nothing else, let me teach you. You will practice with me
once per week. Or I will intervene.”

Draco stormed into view a moment later. His eyes widened a little when he saw her and his pace
faltered for a second, but he collected himself. He caught her by the elbow, steering her along with
him.

“What was that about?” Hermione said.

“It’s not important. Come on. We’re going flying.”

“I can’t handle a broom,” Hermione said, hustling to keep up.

“I’m sure you’re fine. I’m not asking for a match, Granger, just a couple loops around the pitch.”

“No, Draco, stop. Wait.” She tugged his sleeve. “I’m not being modest. I can’t fly. I failed the class
first year.”

“You can’t fly at all?”

“No. Come on, let’s go do something else.”

He pulled her in the direction of the Quidditch fields again. “You have to know how to do this. It’s
easy, I promise. Once you get the hang of it, you’ll love it.”

“I don’t like heights.” She pulled herself out of his grip again. “Can you drop it?”

“No. What if you need to get somewhere else? You can’t always Apparate.” There were tense lines
around his mouth. “Just for twenty minutes? Let me show you how to get a broom up and hover.
Please.”

He relaxed considerably once they were outside, walking across the crunchy, frost-nipped grass to
the equipment shed. Hermione didn’t share the feeling. She leaned back when Draco opened the
door to the equipment shed, half expecting a broom to leap out at her.

He pulled one out and tossed it back and forth between his hands. “Cleansweep Eleven, for you?
It’s probably the most boring broom in existence.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Sorry, you wanted to ride a racing broom right off? You’re jumpy enough on the ground.” He
frowned at the Cleansweep. “The Model Three has a wider seat, but it steers like a puffed-up
Plimpy. Somehow, I don’t see you dealing well with a broom that won’t listen to you. This one’s
slow, but responsive enough.” He held it out for her, and took a sleeker model for himself.

“What did Snape want with you?” Hermione said.

“Snape thinks he’s my keeper at Hogwarts. I think he’s full of it,” he said. “Don’t change the
subject. Broom’s up.”

“I’m not great at that part.”

“Are you serious?” He shook his head. “Put it on the ground, then. We’ll start from the beginning.”
He laid his in the grass, too, and held out his hand. “You just say, ‘Up!’”

His broom sprang into his hand. When Hermione tried, hers gave a feeble twitch but stayed on the
ground. The experience was annoyingly similar to her first attempt, years ago.

“It doesn’t work.”

“You have to want it to come up. Speak with a little authority, Granger. Pretend you’re telling me
off.”

She glared at him, then thrust her hand out and gave a commanding beckon with her fingers. “Up.”
To her surprise, and a little chagrin, the broom leapt into her hand.

“Why am I not surprised?” Draco drawled. “Okay, time to ride. Up you get. Remember to grip it
firmly, so you don’t slide off. But not too tight. Cleansweeps have a tendency to accelerate if you
apply too much pressure.”

“You sound like Slughorn,” Hermione complained. “There’s no proper instructions with any of
this. It’s all bloody guesswork. ‘Speak with a little authority. Hold it tight, but don’t apply
pressure.’” The broomstick was already beginning to buck under her hand. “How am I supposed to
know what I’m doing? How tight do I hold the blasted thing?”

Draco was already on his broom, not even bothering to hold on. His arms were crossed, and he was
clearly enjoying seeing her flustered. “Pretend you’re holding my dick.”

“Draco!”

He grinned. “If it worked so well to imagine you were telling me off, why not keep to the theme?
Go on. The prospect of watching you ride is getting more interesting by the minute.”

“You are such a bloody prat. Smug little pointy-face condescending bastard.”

“Whenever you’re ready, Granger.”

Hermione curled her lip and gingerly hoisted her leg over the broomstick. For a second, she
wobbled in mid-air. Then she lost her balance and flipped upside down with a shriek. She clutched
at the broomstick, trying to clamber back on top.

Draco made a noise something like a cough and rubbed his upper lip with one finger.

“You weren’t kidding about being afraid of flying.”

“People aren’t supposed to be in the air!”

“Stop panicking,” he said. “It’ll right itself. They’re built that way. Just give it a second. It can’t
get a read on your position if you’re squirming around.”

“I don’t have a second if I’m going to fall off!”

“You’re not going to fall off.” He hopped off his own broom and walked over beside hers. He held
out his hands. “Here. I’ll make sure you don’t fall the entire three feet to the ground. You’re fine. I
promise.”

Hermione forced herself to stay still. The broom hummed, then swiveled, righting her.

“See?” he said.

“Get that smirk off your face.”

He poked her. “You need to use your abs.”

Hermione’s heart was beating fast. Her feet were dangling in mid-air. “How do you keep from
falling off?”

“Just hold on. Look, you can see the spellwork here.” He pointed at a fine engraving along the
shaft of the broom. “It’ll keep level, unless you’re steering it up or down. It’s self-righting. There’s
a second or so of anti-grav, so even if you slide, you’ve got that extra bit of time to grab hold
again.”

“I just point it to steer it?” Her brain was whirling, trying to map what was happening onto
something more reasonable. Riding a bike. She could handle that. That was intuitive too, just
leaning one way or another to steer. If she could pretend she was three feet off the ground the
whole time, she could shove the fear down. This was a weird, magic bike.

“Yeah, it’s simple.”

“How do I make it stop?”

“Just pull it up a bit.” Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s easier to explain when you’re up. Can we go?”

Hermione gripped the broomstick, trying unsuccessfully not to think about Draco’s dick, and
tugged it upwards. In a series of unsteady bobs, she found that she was floating higher in the air.

“Not bad, Granger. Not at all. Look at you.” He glided into place next to her, beaming. “Try a big
loop with me, so you can practice steering.”

After a lurching circuit around the Quidditch pitch, Hermione was ready to get down. She nudged
the broom down a foot or two at a time, still petrified at the thought of hurtling toward a broken leg
or worse. She was already beginning to get an idea of why Quidditch players had such defined
stomach muscles. The constant minor adjustments for balance, even when she was only trying to
keep level, were going to take their toll in sore muscles tomorrow. Hermione could only imagine
how it would feel if you were diving and careening all over the place for hours.

“Don’t tell me you’re done already,” Draco said.

“I’ve made good progress.”

“But you haven’t had much fun yet. Do you want to try mine?”

Hermione made a face.

“I’m serious. You can hop on behind me. I can show you how it feels once you know what you’re
doing.”

Hermione wavered. She didn’t especially want to leave the steadiness of the ground, but she’d felt
before like she was missing out on something. Harry and Ron, unlike certain slick-hair, rich-boy
types she could name, didn’t pressure her when she said she didn’t want to do something that
looked like more danger and trouble than it was worth. But if she was already out, maybe there
was something to be said for finding out what all the fuss was about.

“Promise you won’t go too fast?”

“I’m trying to teach you, not traumatize you.”

“Okay.” She let him help her up and wrapped her arms around his waist.

As soon as Draco kicked off, Hermione could feel the difference. Whether it was the higher-
quality broom, the rider, or both, the feeling was smoother and crisper, the two of them slicing
through the air. As promised, he kept the speed to a moderate pace. Hermione realized she didn’t
feel as panicky. Knowing that he was practiced enough to keep them from flipping upside down
forty feet in the air helped a lot.
 “You can try going a little faster, if you want.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.” He leaned forward,
urging the broom to accelerate. When he got to a sharper curve, he tilted the broom so Hermione
could see the blurred branches of trees between her feet. She yelped, but it wasn’t entirely out of
nervousness. There was a giddy feeling mixed into it, too.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” she yelled at Draco.

“Yeah, okay. I’m going to swoop, though.”

“Draco Malfoy, don’t you dare--”

He cupped his hand behind his ear. “What? Can’t hear you with all this wind. Better hold on, it’s
swooping time!”

Hermione clamped her arms tighter around him and shrieked into his ear. Cold wind tingled on her
cheeks. Her stomach lurched, and when Draco pulled up the broom there was a second of
weightlessness, one perfect, pure moment where even if the broom wasn’t there, they’d still be
flying.

He leaned into a curve again, spiraling down in tighter and tighter coils, so that by the time they
reached the ground they were both too dizzy to walk. Hermione rolled off as soon as ground
seemed in comfortable reach and sprawled on the grass, shaky with adrenaline.

Draco collapsed next to her.

“What do you think?”

Hermione nudged over to put her head on his shoulder. “I’ve never been so in love with the ground
in my entire life. I can’t believe you did that. Sweet Godric.”

“I took it too fast.” Draco propped himself up on one arm, his face serious. “Are you mad at me?”

“I didn’t say that. Give me five minutes to get my heart rate under control. And give me more
warning next time before you pull a stunt like that again.”

Yes. She could get used to seeing him smile like that.

Chapter End Notes

Part of the conversation between Draco and Snape is taken directly from the film
adaptation, although the interaction overall doesn't go exactly as depicted in the movie.

(Calm before the storm? What?? Why would you even say that? Clearly everything is
super great and fine.)
 Scritchles
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

There were more than a few places to sneak off to in the castle, of course. The best they’d found by
the end of winter holiday was the Lower Observatory in the Astronomy Tower. Trees had mostly
occluded the view (which was why the additional floors had been built), and the room now served
as a storage space for various telescopes and star divination tools. No one used the Tower during
the day, so it was a perfect hideout.

Hermione was curled up in the window seat, reading. She’d brought tea this time, as well as a few
packages wrapped in napkins. The House Elves who ran the kitchens were liberal over break. With
fewer students to feed, they had more time to experiment with new recipes or reprise old favorites.
They loaded Hermione up with whatever she could carry.

When Draco showed up, he wasted no time in throwing himself down on the seat, kicking his feet
up against the wall and resting his head in her lap. Hermione continued to read her book. She was
close to the end of an intense chapter. Besides, if he was going to flounce in like that demanding
her attention, she had to make him wait at least a minute or two for acknowledgement.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Hi to you, too.”

He tipped his head back, managing to look imperious even from a reclining position. “Are you
going to do the thing or not?”

Hermione put a finger in her book. “The thing?”

“The thing I like. With my hair.”

“You like hair scritchles.” Hermione grinned. “Does big bad Malfoy want scritchle time?”

It really was impressive the way he could look down his nose at her, even from below. Something
about the tilt of the chin. “Are you suggesting a Malfoy would back down because you give
something delightful a ridiculous name?” He crossed one ankle over the other and burrowed
himself harder against her. “Give me the scritchles, Granger, and put down your book. I want them
done properly.”

“I bet you do.” She marked her place, set the book down, and wiggled her fingers under his head.

He closed his eyes. “You are allowed to call me big bad Malfoy if you want, though.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Hermione let her fingers scratch a little higher. She liked the spot
where his hair was just long enough for her fingers to sink in to the first joint. “I’d imagine the
people who want to call you big bad Malfoy are also the people who expect you to refuse all
cuddles because you need to spend that time looking out a window at the rain. And smoking a
cigarette.”

“What if it’s not raining?”

“It would be. You’d have to plan out when you can have sex based on the weather forecast.”
He snickered. “Can you imagine?”

She settled his head back onto her thigh and moved her fingers in tiny circles over his scalp. “I
don’t know. You don’t come off especially cuddly most of the time, to people who don’t know
you. A few months ago, I might have believed you’d rather pick a pose that makes you look good
than stay close. I definitely would have hexed anyone who suggested I’d be caught dead giving
you a scalp massage.”

“Terrible move. My hair is amazing.”

“Yeah, I know that now.”

He opened his eyes. “What happens when your friends come back?”

She smoothed his hair one last time and rested her hand on top of his head. “That’s a question.
What are you thinking?”

“It feels weird to go back to keeping our distance. Especially since we're going to be on hall
monitoring duty together all the time anyway.”

“That's true. But it doesn't feel weird to you to imagine going public with this?” Hermione bit her
lip. “I've been trying to think how I'd even start the conversation to tell Harry. Ron still hasn't
forgotten things you said second year. Neither of them is going to have an easy time with this.”

A light went out in Draco's face, and Hermione knew she'd said the wrong thing.

“You want this to be a secret,” he said.

“That's not what I said.”

“No, it's fine. I know how to keep a secret.” He pushed himself up and slid down the bench.

“Why is it so important to you? You don’t act like you want to be openly dating. You move away
from me as soon as anyone else is in sight.”

“No I don’t.”

“We’re hiding out from everyone else right now, and there’s only a few dozen other people in the
castle. You expect me to believe you want to walk into the Great Hall holding my hand in front of
the whole school?” Hermione said.

“You’re the one blabbing on about House unity.”

“Don’t get me wrong, if you think you can look all your old friends in the face and not leave me
stranded, you go ahead. This just seems like a way bigger step than I expected you to take.”

“Or a bigger one than you want me to take. You don’t want Potter and Weasley seeing you with
me. Until--what? You wear them down bit by bit, or was your plan to make me more presentable
for your Gryffindor friends? I don’t fancy the idea of being your shameful little habit.”

“I’m not ashamed to be seen with you.”

“You shouldn’t be. But they’ll treat you like you should.”

“I’m confused. Do you want me to tell my friends or not?”

 “I want to know what you plan to do,” Draco said. “I’d like to know if I should expect to avoid you
until eight every night.”

“What? No, of course not.” Hermione tilted her head. “Were you going to avoid me when other
Slytherins are around?”

“I haven’t over break. For Merlin’s sake, I took the little ones to a bloody Hufflepuff party.” He
paused, thinking. “I don’t know that I’d kiss you or anything in front of Blaise, or some of the
others. But talking’s okay.”

“It does seem like a bit much to act like we’re not friends. If practically every prefect is willing to
switch out so we’re together, I’d hope they assume we’re getting along somehow,” Hermione said.
“So yes. Let’s go semipublic then, I suppose? We can find each other and talk or hang out a bit
without worrying what other company’s around, but maybe hold off on making any grand
announcements? I would still rather have a chance to tell Ron and Harry at the right moment, so
they don’t make a scene. I do want them to know. I’m just not looking forward to the fallout.”

Draco frowned. “They love you,” he said. “They just hate me, which is fine. They don’t have to
like me. Don’t work yourself up worrying about this.”

Hermione gave a brief smile. “I’ll try.”

There was a pause while they both thought. Then Draco said, “Honestly, most people around our
year won’t even believe it if I was nice to you anyway. We could do whatever we wanted. People
see what they want to see.”

Hermione smiled for real this time. “Especially with your definition of nice. The way you talk to
me, we could flirt in front of half the castle, and most people would still think you’re being an
ass.”

Draco grinned. “Is that a challenge?”

“You’re such a showoff.”

“That’s a yes. You’re in for it now, Granger. But first,” he said, eyeing her up and down, “My little
sugar quill, go ahead and take off your shirt, and lock the door.”

Chapter End Notes

Happy New Year!

I find myself getting a little self-conscious about posting short chapters. I love fics that
post long, meaty updates, but I don't seem to have a 10K chapter in me. I'm trying to
shake it off and remember that the whole point of any of this is for fun, on both sides
of the story, so I should let myself off the hook.

My resolution last year, incidentally, was what led to this thing getting written in the
first place! My 2018 resolution was to "do more of the things you enjoy, guilt-free," so
I got rid of a LOT of my shyness about fanfic as guilty pleasure, or showing my fiction
to an audience. Showing it to my BFF as a beta reader was a big step for me. Posting it
here in December was another major deal.
I've got a whole unwieldy list of plans and goals for 2019, nothing as pithy as last
year, but I'd like to keep up with that intention of making space in my life for things
that bring me joy, as well. (Feel free to share what you're doing--I'm clearly a
resolution geek and planner lover, and it's fun to hear what other people are up to.)
 Beginning of Term
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Harry and Ron over break until they came back.
She bounced up and down on her tiptoes when the Hogwarts Express chugged into the platform,
too excited to keep still. When they stepped out, she threw herself around their necks and hugged
them both to her, feeling like she hadn’t seen them for months, instead of a few weeks. Now that
the Gryffindor Common Room was back to its usual bustle of noise and activity, there was a part
of her that could fully relax again.

“What happened over break? Tell me everything,” she said that night, curled up in a wing armchair
by the fire.

“Lupin filled us in on what the Order is up to,” Harry said. “They’re spread thin. There’s already
so many Death Eaters infiltrating the Ministry, it’s hard to know who to trust--you knew this?”

Hermione realized she was nodding along. “I thought we’d talked about that already.”

“I must have missed that conversation,” Harry said. “Anyway, they know Voldemort is hiding out
somewhere, gathering his forces. The Order is working on tracking which former Death Eaters are
likely to return to him, and where they’d set up headquarters. Lupin said they’ve got it narrowed
down to a few possibilities.”

Ron tossed another log onto the fire and settled himself back into his seat. “If I were them, I’d
hunker down in one of the old Pureblood estates. Some of those old castles are protected with
almost as much ancient Warding as Hogwarts.”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “Like Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. Apparently Christmas break hadn’t done anything to distract Harry
from his animosity and obsession.

“Give it a rest, mate,” Ron said. “You heard Lupin. He told Harry to give up on tracking Malfoy.
We don’t have anything conclusive, and the Order’s got enough to figure out without adding Draco
Malfoy to the list.”

“I seem to remember saying something like that last term,” Hermione said.

“I’m going to ask Dobby to help me,” Harry said. “We need more eyes on him. We’ll catch him,
sooner or later.”

“See what you missed?” Ron muttered to Hermione.

“There’s more we should talk about,” Harry said. “Today, when Dumbledore called me into his
office? He showed me one of Slughorn’s memories. When he was seventeen, Tom Riddle came
asking Slughorn about a Horcrux.”

Ron’s face went white.

For once, Hermione couldn’t place the term. “What’s that?”

“Whatever it is, it’s dark,” Harry said. “Even Dumbledore didn’t want to go into detail about it.”

“I said it once, at home,” Ron said. “Just said the word, mind you. Can’t even remember where I
heard it. Mum washed my mouth out with soap.”

“It sounds like a swear word,” said Hermione.

“It’s not just that,” said Ron. “You’re right, Harry, that’s bad stuff. There’s a reason they only
teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and not the actual article. The further you get into Dark
magic--it can change you, just knowing the spells.”

“Do you know what a Horcrux is?” Harry asked.

Ron flinched at the word, and shook his head. “My mum and dad said even knowing too much
about what Dark magic can do isn’t healthy.” He took a deep breath, looking glum. “The worst of
the Dark spells hurt the caster, too. They rot your soul. That’s all I know.”

“Great,” Harry said.

“What do you mean, rot your soul?” Hermione said.

“Isn’t that bad enough?” asked Ron.

“I mean, it sounds horrifying, but what does that even mean?” Hermione said. “I must have read
half the thauma-theological texts in the library looking for information about souls. None of the
theories sound any clearer than Muggle beliefs.”

Harry sighed. “You can’t pin everything down and study it, Hermione.”

“You should be able to if they’re going to list soul-rot like it’s a side effect!”

“One thing’s for sure,” Harry said. “We’ve got our work cut out for us this term. Dumbledore
didn’t have any advice for how I’m supposed to get Slughorn’s real memory. I’m going to sleep on
it and see if I have any idea where to start in the morning.”

Ron hung back in the Common Room after Harry went to bed.

“I can’t believe you didn’t come have Christmas with us,” he said. “Mum asked after you probably
a thousand times.”

Hermione grinned. It was impossible not to like Molly Weasley. “Did she get my thank-you owl?
The sweater fits perfectly. She even stitched an H into it this year.”

“When it was just you and Ginny, she could keep the girls’ sweaters straight. Now that she was
knitting one for Fleur as well, she said it got too pesky to keep all the wool sorted,” Ron said. He
still looked troubled. He leaned his elbows heavily on his knees, shoulders hunching. “I know we
had that stupid row over Slughorn and all that. I didn’t think you were cross enough not to come at
all.”

“It wasn’t that,” Hermione said. “The Burrow seemed so full already--”

“We would’ve made room for you.”

“I know.” Hermione cast for the right words. “It seemed, maybe, better to leave Christmas at the
Burrow for your family. You’ve got all the rest of the time to catch up with friends.”
 “Harry came.”

“With the way things are going with Harry and Ginny, your mum may feel like he’s on the way to
becoming family. Not to mention it’s a bit different for him. She’s taken care of him since his first
time at Platform 9 ¾. Anyway, I had things I wanted to do here.”

“Like what? Harry didn’t give you much of a chance to talk about your break. What’s keeping you
so busy?”

Hermione crossed her hands in her lap. “Oh. Reading up. You know how it is. And I threw an
inter-House Christmas party, with Hannah and--and the rest of the Hufflepuffs,” she finished with
a twinge of guilt.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Ron said.

“We’ve spent too long concentrating our friendships in our own Houses. It’s hard to think of
anyone who’s got more than a token Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff friend. I can’t think of anyone else in
Gryffindor who’s got a Slytherin friend, either.”

“That’s because Slytherin’s full of a bunch of underhanded wankers.”

“That can’t be true,” Hermione said. “You know that.”

“Name a decent one.”

“That’s just it, though,” Hermione said. “If I did, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm not here for Ron bashing. I know it's fairly common in Dramione shipping to make
Ron out to be a real jerk or brute, but I don't really see it. TBH, all three of the Golden
Trio have their pig-headed moments sometimes, but that's another talk for another day.

My feeling is, vilifying Ron just makes it seem like you have to do all this work to
make him a bad fit for Hermione romantically, whereas I think the flaws are there in
the values, expectations, and strengths/weaknesses I think they each bring to a
partnership. As friends, though? There's so much good where his stronger emotional
intuition meets her logic and drive. I think Draco's a better match for her, but she needs
someone like Ron in her life, too, so you won't see me spending a ton of time focusing
on everything that could run sour between them.

As for the boys and Draco, well, that's another matter entirely...
 Birds
Chapter Notes

I don't usually do this, but I'm going to go ahead and suggest you line up "Malfoy's
Mission" from the HBP soundtrack, if you like. I listened to it on loop while writing,
and if you enjoy listening and reading together, it's the clear fit.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The heavy cloth draping that covered the Vanishing Cabinet whooshed as it tumbled into a pile at
Draco’s feet. The wooden machine loomed over him. No matter how many times he came here, or
how much progress he knew he’d made, the sight of it always sent a whine of fear through him.

The dimensions of the Vanishing Cabinet were wrong. The slant of the roof, the tight, stingy point
at the back, the narrowness and the lofty height didn’t seem designed with human passengers in
mind. It was the wrong shape for an object meant to shelter, to protect its owner from harm.

Draco wasn’t alone, this time, in a way. His two companions twittered in their wrought iron cage.
The birds came to him via an owl delivery from his mother, although Draco could feel his father’s
presence behind the words in the message as well.

“Draco: As you dedicate yourself to your tests, may these birds provide companionship and
inspiration. I look forward to word of your continued success, and hope for a visit soon. Your
devoted Mother.”

Don’t make the Dark Lord question our family’s devotion, she seemed to whisper to him. Draco
wondered if Filch or whoever tended the Owlery was bright or observant enough to notice that this
was the only care package his family had sent him this year.

He touched the wood, frowning at a dark water stain on the door to make sure it hadn't spread any
further. He knew certain panels of the Cabinet the way he knew his own body. All the hours spent
fussing over it, fiddling with finicky gears, staying in the Room of Requirement long into the night
to make sure the air wasn’t too cold, that the roof didn’t leak, that no rats or insects came crawling
out to gnaw at the wood. He’d anticipated that spending Christmas break at the castle would
involve a few overnights spent in the Room. That was before Granger changed his plans. It was
only a handful of days into the new term, and Draco already felt the difference, even though there
were hundreds more people filling the castle with chatter and busy movement. His roommates had
settled back into the dorms, but Draco was alone with his thoughts at night again. The heavy
curtains around the bed sealed him into his own world. It took longer to fall asleep.

Draco unhooked the door of the birdcage. One of the birds was pale gold, almost white. The other
was jet black. The black one was more daring and feisty. It pecked at Draco’s fingers when he
tried to catch it, and its tiny claws pricked his hand. The gold one was more trusting. Affectionate,
even. It nuzzled a cheek against his thumb and let him stroke the downy feathers on its chest.
When he took it into his hand now, it didn’t struggle. Draco could feel the rapid heartbeat,
thrumming so even and quick he couldn’t pick out individual beats. The bird was light in his hands.
When he set it on the floor of the Cabinet, it hopped out of his hand with an inquisitive expression
in its black eyes.
 Draco shut the door. There was a faint rustle inside. He closed his eyes, frowning. The wand
movements were exquisitely sensitive. Even for stationary objects, a minute imperfection in the
final point, or a hairline error in timing between the incantation and the wandwork, magnified over
the course of the journey between Cabinets. He was trying to send something alive and moving.

“Harmonia nectere passus,” he whispered, his voice harsh with concentration. If he were a master
craftsman, with the appropriate tools and spells at hand, he wouldn’t need to be so precise. No one
had been able to give him a complete set of instructions. In the last four months, he’d effectively
reinvented the Vanishing Cabinet, guessing and failing and trying new combinations of spells over
and over in an attempt to make it work.

A fleck of pale gold caught his eye. One of the bird’s feathers was on the edge of his sleeve. He
pinched it between two fingers. So fine. He couldn’t even feel it. The skin on his fingers was too
roughened to register the gossamer filaments. If he closed his eyes, he couldn’t tell if it was there.

He opened the door. Empty. Draco could picture the Cabinet in Borgin & Burkes. He could almost
hear the bird singing, the sweet sound incongruous in Knockturn Alley.

What if it didn’t come back?

Draco’s mission was clear. Repair the Cabinet, prove his skill, yes, but then open the door. If the
bird returned to him, it was time to send an owl to Malfoy Manor with the secret invitation hidden
in the message. I miss you. His parents would come. The plan, they told him, was for the Malfoys
to govern the school. They would honor the Slytherins, banish the dirty blood, join forces with the
other Houses who agreed to stay and restore Hogwarts to glory.

If his work still wasn’t ready, then he had more time here, in the Hogwarts he’d always known.
The place that awaited him at the long table in Malfoy Manor would wait a little longer yet. He
didn’t know how long he could extend that time before he’d run out.

What if, maybe, the shopkeeper at Borgin & Burkes had left the door ajar, and the bird simply flew
away? No one would think anything of it. The bird was curious and quick. A flutter, a few beats of
its wings, and it would skim past Hands of Glory and cursed objects, a streak of gold ascending
through the grey sky.

Draco put a hand on the door and pointed his wand. He whispered the incantation again. The
workings jammed so often. Whoever wrote the elegant spellwork behind the Vanishing Cabinet
was a true master. The words must flow like song. Draco’s best efforts were halting, jerky. More
often than not, it took multiple attempts for him to complete a passage.

Somehow, he hadn’t prepared himself for what he might find on the other side of the door.

“No.”

The bird was so much smaller, now that it was still. Its wings folded across its back, feathers
hardly ruffled. Its face lay against the dark wood.

Such a little thing.

Draco picked it up. He closed his eyes, listening to the flutter of the black one, still in the cage. He
held the gold bird loosely, feathers just brushing his skin, but he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there.
After a while, its wings stiffened, and he couldn’t spread them anymore.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter End Notes

Any of us intrigued by Draco Malfoy's story love the bathroom scene, but this scene is
my particular favorite. I love the direction, the lighting, the exquisite *completely
nonverbal* acting work from Tom Felton, the symbolism. Just--wow. What a
breathtaking coalescence in, what, a 2:30 scene? If that?

What surprised me was that neither my best friend nor husband made the connection
between the black and gold birds and Harry and Draco when they watched the film
version of this. Draco's role as Harry's foil throughout this series, the one who has so
many similar talents, even similar personality tendencies, and the thinness of the line
between being chosen and being doomed, comes through for me in so much richness
and nuance when I watch (and re-watch, over and over as I wrote this chapter) the film
portrayal of a moment when the true stakes become so much clearer to him than they
ever were before.

It was a special challenge for me to recreate with only words a moment in film I love
so much in particular because there are no words at all. Process-wise, I watched two or
three times before starting to write, and then re-watched five or ten seconds at a time
as I went, because I wanted to hug so tightly to the existing material. Writing is
naturally such a more time-consuming process than watching or reading, so an
unexpected delight of working on this chapter was having time to probe into what
caught me so much about moments that only last a few seconds (Why does he
concentrate so hard on this tiny feather on his sleeve? What's going through his mind
in the moment he sees that a piece of this bird -- and maybe everything it represents --
is still there, connected to him?).

If I can say so without sounding utterly presumptuous, I hope this chapter opens up an
additional detail or perspective for you, too.
 Talk
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The first week of term was always exciting, filled with promise. Hermione eagerly skimmed the
list of spells and potions she’d master over the next few months (the ones she hadn’t practiced in
advance, at least, and there was always some merit in refining technique). They were learning
Apparition this term, which Hermione had been itching to try. Ginny was astonished and delighted
to hear that Hermione could wobble her way around on a broom now. Since Harry and Ron didn’t
have Quidditch until closer to spring, they could plan excursions without scheduling around
practices and games.

The only thing preventing Hermione from being completely happy was Draco. Or, rather, the pang
she felt in her gut when she saw him look at Harry and Ron flanking her, and move past her
without saying hello. For years, Hermione had appreciated the way her boys closed ranks to shield
her from bullies. It was tough to request more elbow room now. It was strange, though, like being
in two places at once. She still felt the warmth of Harry and Ron’s protection, but it was jarring to
imagine them through Draco’s eyes.

She knew him now. She couldn’t unsee the way his body tightened when he saw her friends.
Tension pulled at his mouth. Like a sneer, very much so, but not. She watched the way he
narrowed his eyes and exaggerated his movement when he walked, and she wondered how she’d
ever seen it as anything but a performance.

In a weird turn of events, it was easier for Hermione to spend time with Draco in class, when Harry
and Ron couldn’t rush to her side. Draco was making good on his promise to flirt with her in front
of other students. If that’s what you wanted to call it.

“Granger,” he whispered behind her in Potions class. “Granger.”

Hermione ignored him. They were working on a levitation potion, and some of the ingredients
were slippery and unpleasant to handle.

“Granger.”

“What?” she whispered back.

“I’m out of Billywig stings.”

“So get more.”

“Share yours,” he whispered.

“Stop being a lazy git.”

“Come on, help me out.”

Hermione squinted at her tray, counting ingredients. She glanced back at Draco. “How many do
you need?”

He lifted his chin, eyeing her table. “All of them.”

“I am not giving you all of them!” In her indignation, her voice rose more than she meant for it to.

Draco held a finger to his lips, his face stern. “I’m trying to work,” he said at a normal volume.
“You mind keeping it down?”

In Care of Magical Creatures class another afternoon, it was Nogtail day. The beast looked like a
stunted, demonic pig, the notable differences from true swine being the onyx eyes and that Nogtails
chewed the cud. Hermione chose a prudent spot behind the front row of students.

Draco glanced behind him, a sly smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“Granger.”

“What.”

“Switch places with me.”

“No.”

“You know you’re just going to get distracted by the view,” Draco whispered. “I’m thinking of
your education.”

“I’m not switching with you,” Hermione whispered. “And it’s not just because I'm checking out
your ass.”

He flashed her another look, eyes alight with surprised amusement.

Just then, the Nogtail hawked its throat and spat a glob of foamy spittle on Susan Bones’ robes.

“They spit when they’re nervous,” Hermione murmured. “Watch yourself.”

Although he left her alone when Harry and Ron were around, whether out of intimidation or respect
of her request to talk to them in her own time, as the week wore on, Draco was more reckless than
Hermione would have expected in seeking her out. It was hard to snatch moments to themselves,
and he seemed prepared to compromise on privacy for the sake of getting to be close to her.

Late one afternoon, a handful of days into term, he stormed up out of nowhere and wrapped his
arms around her. Hermione could hear other voices just down the next corridor.

“Hey. What’s this about?” she said.

He grunted. “Just shut up and give me a hug.” He put his face down in the crook of her neck.

“Bad day?”

Draco shrugged.

“I got a new game for Christmas,” Hermione said. “I'll bring it tonight.”

“Okay.”

Draco took a long breath, squeezed her one more time, and set off again without saying anything
else to her. Hermione absently brushed a feather off the front of her robe and went to find her
friends.
By the next morning’s History of Magic lesson, he was in a rakish mood again. Professor Binns,
for lack of better idea, was assigning lengthy essays for them to work on in class. It took all of ten
minutes before Hermione heard the first bored sigh behind her, and the whisper came shortly after
that.

“Granger.”

“For Godric’s sake.” Hermione shook her head to keep from smiling.

“Granger.”

She hunched down, scribbling on her parchment.

“Granger.”

She tossed her hair behind her. “What?” she hissed.

He grinned at her. “I forget.”

She flicked her quill at him. “Stop being a twit.”

Harry looked up from his essay. “Is he bothering you?”

“No more than usual,” she said lightly. She looked over her shoulder at Draco and smiled. He gave
her a small smile in return.

For the next few minutes, there was no sound but the scritch of quills. Then Hermione reached the
end of her parchment before she reached the end of what she had to say, and got up for a trip to the
supply cabinet. This time, Draco’s voice rang out across the room.

“Granger, be a love and grab a few quills for me while you’re there?”

Hermione glared at him, pressing her lips together in mock annoyance. Most of the class perked
up, waiting to see how she responded to the challenge.

She took the inkwell and extra parchment for herself first. She tapped her fingers against the box of
quills, then grabbed three. A quick spell under her breath, and the quills fired at Draco, sharp point
first.

He was ready with an Arresto totale spell. He plucked the suspended quills out of the air and
flashed Hermione his best cat-got-the-canary grin. “Thanks, pet.”

After class, she came up alongside him and smacked his arm with the back of her hand. Draco
smirked and draped his arm across her shoulders.

“Took you long enough. Thought I’d have to do a handstand on your desk to get you to
acknowledge me in class.”

“How are you finding any time to get your work done when you’re running your mouth all the
time?”

“I’m brilliant.”

“Hannah, Luna, and I were talking about doing a skate race on Sunday afternoon. We’ll each lead a
team from our House. Now that Quidditch is done until spring, we thought it might be fun to have
another event of sorts going on. Do you think I should ask Millicent if she wants to get a Slytherin
team together?”

“Please. Yes. She’d love that, and it’ll save the rest of us from her asking. I swear, the girl grew up
on a moat.”

“Hmph. That's what I thought. I don't suppose you'd come with me to talk to her?”

“Granger, you’re not scared of her.”

“No,” Hermione said. “But I can be sensible. She put me in a headlock the first time we had to
duel. She probably wouldn’t now, but I don’t know if she wants to any less.”

“Mister Malfoy.” A bass voice broke into their conversation. Snape stalked up, cloak billowing
behind him.

Draco took his arm off of Hermione. His fingertips touched the small of her back briefly.
“Professor.”

“Come with me. We have matters to discuss. If--” Snape paused, letting his gaze flit from Draco to
Hermione, the rest of his face still as a snake. “It isn't inconvenient.”

Draco's posture was poised, face impassive. His lip didn't curl. “It would be my pleasure.
Professor.” He bowed his head formally at Hermione. “Excuse me, Granger.”

An hour later, Hermione saw Draco out of the corner of her eye, hesitating between two pillars in
the next corridor. She glanced over at him and saw his eyes shift between her, Harry, and Ron. He
put his hands in his pockets and seemed like he might retreat back down the hall. His shoulders
curved in a little on himself. A few strands of that pale blond hair fell over his forehead, waiting for
someone's fingers to push them back.

They were all her boys now, Hermione realized. She still didn't know what to tell Harry and Ron to
make them understand, but even saying the wrong thing would be better than making Draco hover
out of reach like this.

So, as usual, she'd have to take matters into her own hands.

“Draco,” she said, and held out an arm toward him.

He blinked, and sauntered toward her.

The other boys pulled closer in toward Hermione.

“Don’t you bother her enough in class?” Ron said.

“It might be better for all of us to talk,” Hermione said. “There are things we should have out in the
open.”

“Granger, can we not do this right now?” Draco said quietly. “I need to speak with you. Privately,
if at all possible.”

“Anything you have to say to her, you can say in front of us,” Harry said.

“Just give me a minute,” Hermione said.

 Draco looked over his shoulder, making sure she was following and perhaps also gauging how far
he could lead her before the rest of the Golden Trio got too riled to stay put.

He leaned against the wall, crossing one leg in front of the other with casual ease. “I wanted to let
you know you’ll have to do rounds without me for a few nights. Maybe you could cover my night
with Hannah. She prefers your company, anyway.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I got an owl. I’ve been called home,” Draco said, his voice as nonchalant as his posture.

Hermione froze. “Why would they send for you?”

“Not the foggiest.” Draco’s gaze flashed over Hermione’s shoulder at her friends. “I wanted to tell
you. Can't have you worrying when I don't show up.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don't know.”

She touched his upper arm, eyes searching his face. “Are you okay?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Of course.” He shifted away from her. “I need to throw some things
together. They want me on the next train.”

Hermione lowered her voice so only he would hear. “Be careful.”

Draco looked at Harry and Ron again. Then he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, and strode
away before she had time to react.

Chapter End Notes

It is great fun to get into character and needle your significant other. I am pleased to
report that all the above-mentioned pestering has been field-tested and found equal
parts annoying and charming, i.e., well-suited for the little ass which is Draco Malfoy.

See you next week with the fallout...

 Snape's On a Train
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco had never ridden the Hogwarts Express alone. He wondered if any student had. For a
funeral, maybe, although more likely your parents would come and get you. The train shook and
rattled as it hurtled across the countryside, toward Malfoy Manor. He was glad he’d brought
something to distract himself.

Snape slid open the door to the train compartment, swept his cloak aside, and sat across from
Draco.

Draco raised his eyebrows.

Snape did, too, in an exaggerated mockery of his student. “Am I encroaching on your space, Mister
Malfoy?”

“You’re welcome to accompany me, Professor, as I’m sure you know.”

“Aristocracy doesn’t impress me,” Snape said. “Save your manners for your games with your
peers.”

“Fine,” Draco said. He opened his book. “I’ll entertain myself for the journey, then, if you’ll
excuse me.”

“You expect to waltz into Malfoy Manor with Muggle literature tucked under your arm?”

“My parents don’t inspect my bags when I walk into my own home.”

“You’re being foolish.”

“I’m doing everything they’ve asked of me.”

“Is that all?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Snape brandished his wand. Draco had been practicing. Slam and lock the doors in his mind, let
other memories, some true and some false, come to the surface instead. Snape had been practicing
with Draco at probing his experience repairing the Cabinet. Highlight the progress, show the
flashes of pride in his success, bury signs of fear or dread out of reach. Give no one reason to
complain about his commitment.

Except that Snape didn't pry his mental reach into that door.

Draco scrambled to stay ahead. Snape was tunneling through an unexpected avenue of Draco's
mind, into a place inhabited by the green smell of plants and fruity conditioner, the smarting rap of
glass against the back of his head, a whirl of shock and confusion and elation. He flung up an old
memory to deflect. Astoria’s fragile smile and translucent skin. The seams of the memories didn't
quite fit--the emotional color didn't match--but it gave Draco the second he needed to lock Granger
behind another door.

Snape sniffed. “You're quick.”

“Don't you have anything better to do than snoop?”

“I don't have to,” Snape said. “Taking pains to protect your mind is wasted when you let yourself
be so obvious with your...dalliance.”

Draco bared his teeth. “I didn't realize you were so invested in your students’ personal lives.”

Snape's haughty sneer could put even a Malfoy to shame. “I would consider it a great
achievement,” he said in clipped tones. “Not to know a single vapid detail of student life. As it
stands, I cannot afford to stand aside while you flaunt your infatuation for anyone who may happen
to pay attention.”

Snape struck again. Draco flung up his defenses. Not much escaped. A smell of parchment, a
feeling of safety.

“Do you have any idea what you are doing?” Snape's mouth contorted with scorn.

“I’m putting in hours of work. Every day. I’ve lost more blood in that Cabinet than you’ve shed for
anything in your life,” Draco lashed back. “I also happen to have a few moments in my life that
aren’t spent in front of the blasted thing. Should I put more guards around any memories of taking a
shower? Did you want to check those, too?”

“You arrogant child. You treat your orders like a tiresome school assignment. The Dark Lord is
already displeased that you haven’t completed your task. He will test you. If he finds any reason in
your mind not to trust you, your life is forfeit, which means so is mine.”

Draco paled. “You’re bluffing.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“Mother and Father have news. Or instructions. Something came up that they can’t communicate
via owl,” Draco said. He thought of them, standing on the doorstep waiting for him, with the
cavernous rooms of Malfoy Manor stretching behind them, inside. He wondered if they spent most
of their time in the house withdrawn into their rooms, the way he had spent the summer. “Maybe
they’ve decided to change my orders. I could be a spy, like you.” His fingers stroked the cover of
his book, the pebbled leather reassuring to touch. “I won’t know until I get there. I don’t care to
speculate before then. I’m going to read.”

“I thought I made it clear that I expect you to use your time to practice.”

Draco ran a weary hand through his hair. “Did you have anything special in mind?”

“You are using her. The Mudblood girl.”

Draco clenched his jaw and hooded his eyes. “As you say.”

Bitterness clouded Snape’s eyes and rippled in his tone. There was something cruel in the way his
fingers gripped the wand he pointed at Draco. “Make me believe it.”

Back at the castle, Harry’s and Ron’s jaws had both dropped when Draco’s lips touched
Hermione’s cheek. It was probably a good thing that shock kept them from finding their voices
until he was out of sight.
“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron demanded. “What the two-headed Skrewt has gotten into
Malfoy?”

“Hermione, what’s going on?” Harry said.

“I should have told you both sooner,” Hermione said. “I wanted to, earlier, a few times. I didn’t
know how to start. Draco and I started talking, a while ago by now. We have more in common than
we thought, and we’d both had reason to write each other off, before. We had a chance to actually
get to know each other.”

“Haven’t the last five years been more than enough?” Harry said. “They bloody well have been for
me.”

“Things aren’t the same as they used to be.”

“But he kissed you!” Ron kept looking down the hall, as if he expected Draco to reappear and
explain himself. “He kissed you .”

“Why is it so outrageous to think someone would be affectionate toward me?” Hermione

demanded. “That’s what you do when you like someone, Ronald.”

“Why in the blazes would he like you?”

Hermione pulled back, stung. “Why indeed? Don’t hold back. Draco and I have only spent the last,
what, four months being around each other for hours almost every night. He can’t possibly have
noticed anything good about me.”

“You’re not really his...type,” Ron said lamely.

“Just because the two of you can’t manage to scrounge up a reason why I’m worth chasing after
doesn’t mean no one can.”

“Come off it, Hermione, you know what he means,” Harry said.

“I’m perfectly aware of what he means, Harry, thank you.” Hermione crossed her arms. “Blood. It
all comes back to blood. Except that it doesn’t, not anymore. Once you both start seeing the other
person as--well, as a person. Someone who’s capable of being smart, and open, and kinder than
either of us thought we could expect. Draco--”

“Stop calling him that!” Ron’s voice was sharp.

“You called him that before,” Harry said. “At Slughorn’s party. You asked me to help him stay.”

“He doesn’t hate me. We talked, and he listened, and I could make him see things no one he knows
would ever tell him. And he sees me, too, sometimes better than anyone. This is a good thing.”

“Not when it’s Malfoy,” Harry growled. “Not when I know he’s up to no good.”

“Based on what?” Hermione said. She pointed a finger in his face. “You’ve been accusing him all
year. Surely you have some evidence. Go on. Convince me.”

Harry sputtered. “The fact that he’s somehow managed to twist you around into defending him
seems like a bloody worrying sign to me.”

Hermione let out a strangled scream of frustration. “How am I supposed to have a rational
conversation with you when you’re blind with hatred?”
 “You sound like Remus.”

“Then he must be right!” Hermione snapped. “Maybe if you listened to him once in a while, it
would do you some good.”

“Hermione, I’m trying to help you.”

“Since when?” Hermione folded her arms around her, hugging herself. “Can you really blame me
for not telling you Draco and I were friends, when you’ve been bashing him nonstop? Harry. I love
you, really I do, but when’s the last time you asked me anything about how I’m doing? I haven’t
seen my parents for nearly a year, have you thought about that? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you both
sooner, but it also would have been nice if you’d looked hard enough to notice something was
changing for me.”

Harry exchanged glances with Ron.

“Hermione, I’m sorry we haven’t been paying attention to you,” Harry said. “I suppose it makes
sense that you’d want to find someone else to listen to you. But whatever you think Malfoy’s told
you, it’s probably a trick.”

“We’re going to be here for you now,” Ron said. “And it sounds like Malfoy’s gone, so that’ll give
you time to clear your head.”

Hermione ground her teeth. “I am quite clear already. I am trying to make myself clear to the two
of you. I care about him.” Her voice came out shakier than she expected. “I don’t want him to be
gone.”

“This is barking,” Ron said. “You’re completely mad, Hermione. I could understand if...if you
liked someone. But everything that Malfoy is. Everything he stands for. You’d put all that aside?
Because he has good marks, and nice clothes, and he’s a smooth talker? That’s all it takes?” He
backed a few steps away from her. “You’re not the girl I thought you were.”

Harry and Hermione watched him retreat and push his way through the crowds of students in the
main corridor.

“Harry?” Hermione said in a small voice.

“I can’t believe you’d do something like this,” Harry said. “I’m going to make sure Ron’s all
right.”

Watching his unruly black hair until his bobbing head got lost in the crowd, Hermione had the
sinking feeling that she was going to be alone for quite some time.

Chapter End Notes

I'm no Snape apologist. In my estimation, turning an unrequited crush into a lifelong

obsession qualifies you for the status of creepiest man you know, not bravest. (Also,
Harry--really? Hagrid? Lupin? Sirius? WTF is wrong with you?) Snape's outlook on
life strikes me as jaded and bitter and stagnant and frankly more than a little
dangerous, rather than romantic.

That said, I do believe, from what I infer from canon, that Snape cares about Draco, as
much as his weird, stuck-in-the-past heart allows him much genuine care toward
anyone. And I enjoy the idea that Draco might have more freedom to be open or
rebellious with Snape than other adults in his life (his father, for instance). I like to
imagine that there could be some buried kernel of actual respect or regard between two
characters who are basically dicks a lot of the time. (You know I'm on board for
giving Draco the arc JKR neglected, but we can agree he's a bit of a twerp sometimes
too, right?)

The question for me, when it comes to Snape, is whether that kernel of sincerity is
something I can believe in enough to count him in my own ranking of HP-verse "good
guys," or if it's too little, too late.
 Claimed
Chapter Notes

CW: Ambiguous sexual consent, elements of torture (unrelated)

We're not in non-con territory, or even quite where I often see dubcon going, but given
that I've made a point of tagging things like "explicit consent" and "healthy
relationships," I want to be mindful of readers who are only interested in reading clear,
enthusiastic consent.

Four days shouldn’t feel like a long time. Only two days of weekend, and two days of classes. A
blip. But four days still meant twelve meals in the Great Hall with two boys who couldn’t look her
in the eye. Or ten meals, rather. Once, she’d picked up her bag, told Harry and Ron she may as
well eat with someone who could manage to say a word to her, and stormed over to the Hufflepuff
table. Hannah, Ernie, and even Oliver were friendly enough, but Hermione had the sense that she’d
cut a pleasant conversation short, forcing them to talk about more general things in an attempt to be
inclusive. Another time, she’d given up on the Great Hall altogether and eaten a sandwich on one
of the staircases.

Four days, even if Hermione slept eight hours per night, meant sixty-four hours awake with her two
best friends in seething silence and a worrying absence that had her hunting for a swagger anytime
there was movement in the corner of her eye.

On the fifth day, she was spreading marmalade listlessly on a slice of toast when she saw a flash of
white-blond hair on the opposite end of the Great Hall. She jumped to her feet so fast she knocked
her orange juice onto Harry’s plate.

It took her a minute to make her way around the long table and start crossing the hall. By that time,
Draco had seen her, too, and had gotten up from his seat.

She followed him out of the Great Hall, but after a minute he was still walking away from her. If
anything, he was picking up his pace.

“Wait,” she called.

He didn’t slow down.

Hermione raised her volume. “Draco, don’t think I’m going to let you walk away without a fight.”

Draco turned around. Hermione could get a better look at him, now that he was close. She hadn’t
seen him look like this since before the truce. The shadows under his eyes and the starkness in his
expression were back.

“When did you get back?” Hermione said.

“Last night. Late.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Yeah, well. Not surprising,” he said. “Give me a couple days, I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-
tailed.” There was no hint of a smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“Like you said, I’m exhausted,” Draco said. “Let me be.” He softened his tone. “I’ve got a pile of
things I need to take care of. When I’m done, I’ll find you.”

Except that he didn’t. He showed up late for classes, kept his head down, and made sure he was
first out the door. He was nowhere to be found during lunch or free period. Hermione just barely
caught him after the last afternoon session.

“I told Harry and Ron, after you left.”

His lip slanted up, but there was no humor in it. “How did they take it?”

“They’re not speaking to me.”

Draco’s expression was hard to read. “That’s what you said would happen.”

“I’ve been worried about you. Why are you avoiding me?” Hermione wrapped her arms around her
stomach. “I thought you at least would be happy to see me. Unless being home changed your
mind.”

It looked like he was going to touch her, but he stopped himself. “It’s nothing to do with you,” he
said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t want you thinking that.”

“But there is something,” Hermione said. “Can we talk about it?”

“Another time.”

“Tonight?”

“Sure,” he said tonelessly.

That evening, Hermione waited fifteen, twenty, forty minutes for him before admitting to herself
that he wasn’t going to come.

He wasn’t at breakfast, either. Or the morning’s Transfiguration class. Hermione eventually found
him on the sixth floor, near Slughorn’s office. He startled when he saw her. Hermione strode up,
shoulders back, curls bouncing against her back.

“You didn’t show, last night.”

“I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Are you planning on talking to me?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Granger, don’t do this here.”

“Then where?” Hermione stepped in closer, less than an arm’s length away from him. “Name the
place.”

“Find your friends. Tell them you made a mistake. Tell them I jinxed you, if you want. They
wouldn’t put it past me.”

“No.”

“Granger, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Hermione stared. “I’m not in the habit of abandoning my friends.”

“You picked the wrong one.”

She realized, as they weaved through the halls and over staircases, turning corners by instinct, that
they were close to the Room of Requirement. Perfect. He was apparently in no mood to duck into a
classroom or study area, but if she could conjure what they needed--

A place for us to hide, she thought as they neared the blank stretch of wall. She glanced away,
grabbing Draco roughly by the arm, and when she looked back, the door was there.

Hermione dragged him into a vast space that nonetheless felt close and cluttered. Dusty
chandeliers had been stripped of their candles. Discarded trunks gaped, waterlogged books spilling
from behind broken latches. Faded wall hangings showed signs of moths and mice. Furniture in
various stages of disrepair and decay leaned against stone pillars. The air smelled like dust and rot
and mouse droppings.

“Why did you bring me here?” Draco’s voice grated with alarm. “How did you know about this?”

“Know about what?” Hermione said. She looked around, horrified. “Is this where you’ve been
going to practice? This is where you have to spend all that time?” She walked deeper into the
Room, trying to catch sight of where he’d hidden whatever project he was attempting to complete.

“Forget it. Just leave it alone.” Draco followed her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Should you?” Hermione widened her stance, planting herself in place. “I’m not going anywhere
until I get answers.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“No, of course not, because you’re not telling me. You don’t get to disappear and then decide
you’re done with me with no explanation. After what we've already been through? I thought we
meant something to each other, Draco. For Merlin's sake, I deserve to mean more to you than this-
-”

“Granger, will you shut up for once in your life?” he snapped. Then he was kissing her, but
everything was wrong. Or not wrong, exactly, but not like any of the other times. His hands
clutched at her, and then when she didn’t react quickly enough, they were tugging roughly at her
arms, pulling them around him. He was kissing her too hard, but he was whimpering, pressing his
body against hers like he was trying to burrow inside her.

Everything happened differently. There was no laughter. Draco pressed her hands against him,
clearly craving the feeling of her on his skin, but when she tried to move them herself, he pulled
away. He let her unbutton his shirt, but wouldn’t take it off. He barely undressed at all, in fact. He
stripped her down, though, and kissed down her arms and across her chest. Hermione put her hands
on his face, but he wouldn’t look at her. He nuzzled against her, burying his face anywhere soft.
He was trying to be close to her and hide from her, all at once.

Hermione put her hands on his back and moved them down slowly, wanting to feel his muscles
relax under her fingers.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He didn’t listen, or his mind was somewhere too far away to hear.

He wasn’t rough with her, not as such. He didn’t pin her down or pull her hair. He touched the
places that made her respond, checked that she was wet, waited for her to lift her hips before he
pushed himself in. But he wasn’t really there with her. His body moved differently, more forceful,
less responsive to hers. He needed something, and she was letting him have it, so he was taking it.
Hermione could feel the strain in his shoulders, hear harshness in the small sounds he made.

Not that there was much to hear. Groans in the back of their throats, little catches of breath, faint
rasps of skin on stone as they shifted weight or found a more comfortable way to angle their
bodies. The hard rhythm felt good, better than she would have expected, but he didn’t hover over
her, smirking, to watch her come for him. He just leaned in and held her against the side of his
head, so she was gasping into his ear. Then he moved faster and harder, enough to make her wince,
allowed himself one long, shaky sigh, and rolled off to button his shirt and pull his robe back on.
Hermione stared at the ceiling, half-dazed.

“What on earth was that?”

“What’s the matter, Granger, didn’t you like it?” He folded his arms over his knees. He clearly
meant to strike a cocky pose, but when his left arm touched his knee he hissed and repositioned. He
tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, even though it was already buttoned at his wrist. When he looked
back at her, he looked afraid.

“What happened?” Hermione felt the pang of fear too, low in her stomach. She didn’t want to
know, and she told herself she didn’t really know, couldn’t be sure, but her skin prickled, as though
the robe she pulled around her shoulders was itchy wool instead of soft fabric. “Just tell me. It’s
worse not knowing.”

His mouth twisted. “Why don’t I just show you?”

He unbuttoned his sleeve. Even though his hand was trembling, the habits were long ingrained, and
he folded the cuff neatly to keep it crisp before pushing it up his arm. The Dark Mark was
glistening and tacky to touch, red at the edges. The tail lashed, and he bit back a cry as the muscle
beneath the skin jerked with it.

“It’s hurting you,” Hermione said.

“Don’t you understand?” Draco said. “This is the part where you leave.”

“I could do that,” Hermione said in a low voice. “Or, if you trust me, you don’t need to go through
this by yourself.”

He told her in half-sentences, watching her the whole time for any sign that she was pulling away.
The sickening, scaly head of the Dark Lord. The woman, bound and terrified, tortured for fun at
the table. The way Bellatrix giggled and clapped when the snake took the Muggle feet first, so
she’d scream longer. How when Draco had to look away Narcissa nudged him discreetly, picked
up her fork and knife, and indicated that he should cut his food if he didn’t have the stomach to
watch. By the time he told her about the end of the evening, he was hugging his knees into his
chest, fighting to keep his voice under control.

“They put me in a chair. The snake--he talked to it. He made it go around my legs, to hold me
down. He wants you to be scared, when it happens. So it takes hold deeper. He made my father
hold my arm out, to keep it still. Then he took out his wand. It--it hurt .” Draco’s voice broke. He
hid his face in his arms and began, helplessly, soundlessly, to cry.

“Draco,” Hermione said. “Oh, sweetheart. Come here.”

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t let her hold him. He was curled into himself, a tight, hard
ball. She stroked his back, and he tipped his head toward her, and then she could settle him in
against her and fold herself around him.

His whole body was shaking. He was still fighting to stay quiet, still only letting the ragged breaths
betray him.

Hermione put her lips in his hair. “I’ve got you,” she said. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

A thin, keening sound slipped past his lips.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered.

A shudder rippled through him. He was leaning his whole weight into her now. Each sob wrenched
out hard enough to make his body jerk. There was something brutally efficient in the way he cried,
so that he'd be spent as quickly as possible. When the worst of it had passed, Hermione could feel
him holding his breath and letting it out slowly, working on regaining control. She didn't let go of
him.

“I don't have anywhere to be,” she said.

“He told me things,” Draco whispered, without lifting his head. “He was in my head . I couldn’t
keep him out. I couldn’t do it.”

“Ssh, it’s okay,” Hermione said. Her stomach was a ball of ice. “What did he see?”

“I thought he was going to kill me. And then his voice--” He pushed the heels of his hands against
his forehead. “He laughed at me. He said killing me now would be a waste. He can do what he
wants with me. All anyone needs to hear is that I’m a Death Eater, or a blood traitor.”

Hermione put her hands on his face and wiped her thumbs under his eyes. “You are still you. They
can't take that away from you, not unless you let them. They can tell you that you're one of them,
but they can’t make you be like them.” She leaned in closer, her forehead almost touching his.
“They’re not the only ones who claim you. If that fucking shitstain thinks his precious Mark is
going to scare me off, he’s a bigger fucking knobhead than I thought.”

For a second, she thought he was crying again. Then she realized he was laughing weakly. “I don’t
think I’ve ever heard you swear like that. I didn’t realize you knew how.”

She took a shaky breath. “We’re just getting started. Come here. You’re going to need to know all
of these. Don’t ever tell my parents you learned them from me. They’d have a fit.”

They spent a while there, together, going through every slur and curse word they could think of,
laughing the wild, high laughter of the terrified. When they ran out of bad words and nothing
seemed funny anymore, anyway, they were still sitting with arms looped around each other. He had
his head tucked on her shoulder, and she leaned her cheek against him.

“We’re going to find you a way out.”

 The Lower Observatory
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The Dark Mark hurt all the time. It was supposed to burn when the Dark Lord called you. Draco
didn’t know how he was supposed to tell the difference. His sleeve felt like it was scraping him
raw, and the weight of a blanket was more than he could take. Holding his arm under the stream of
water in the shower was out of the question. It was a struggle all day to pull his attention away
from his arm and attempt to focus on whatever was happening around him, so he did the only thing
that made sense to bear it. Pull himself in, shut as much of his mind away as he could, and stay
away from anything that could make him break again.

His father talked about the Mark being an honor. He never mentioned pain. That meant one of two
things. Either his father had borne it like a man, in which case Draco’s display could only have
embarrassed his parents. Or, worse, it hurt more for Draco because of his fear and doubt, and he’d
shamed his family by feeling the pain of it at all.

Draco could curse himself for being so sodding weak.

The only glimmer of optimism was that he was alive, which meant that he must have done more to
protect his mind than he’d thought.

As the initial horror abated, Draco could look with a more calculated eye at his Occlumency
performance on that night. It had felt like Voldemort’s reach infused every thought and tainted
every memory. But in that case, the Dark Lord would have seen too much of Draco’s hesitation
and killed him on the spot. Maybe part of how the Dark Lord’s Legilimency powers worked was
by convincing victims that they were found out, weakening their resolve to protect their minds. The
Dark Lord had probed deeper than Draco wanted, but Draco was trying to convince himself that
the feeling he’d had, of being splayed open and dissected, wasn’t true.

He hadn’t been able to relax around Granger since the breakdown in the Room. Draco knew it
must hurt her feelings to see him withdraw into himself, but he couldn’t help it. She’d seen the
nightmare on his arm, and watched him sob like a frightened child. He couldn’t face looking at her
and knowing how differently she must see him now.

“Hello?” Theo waved a hand in Draco's face. “Anyone home?”

Draco swatted at the movement. “Keep your bloody hands to yourself, Nott.”

“No problem, Malf oy , just thought you might want to stop mooning over your porridge for a
second. Blaise asked you a question.”

“What is it?”

Blaise angled his head, watching Draco over the breakfast table with a cool, half-lidded stare. “I
wondered what you were doing, last weekend. A private train ride isn’t cheap, even for those who
can afford it.”

“Visiting home,” Draco said. Blaise watched him expectantly. “I had some business to attend to.
It’s taken care of.”

“Is your mother all right?”

“She’s fine.”

Blaise’s gaze held, unwavering. “The word in certain circles is that the Ministry is taking more
energetic measures toward monitoring ‘families of interest’ from the Wizarding War.”

“So?”

“Your dad’s in Azkaban,” Theo mumbled. “I’d guess that’s pretty bloody interesting.”

“Don’t you have enough to occupy your attention at your house?” Draco said. “Your father isn’t
exactly the Ministry’s darling. In fact, I seem to remember him facing Azkaban, as well.”

Theo’s mouth pulled down in an embarrassed sneer. “My aunt and I had three ‘courtesy visits’ last
summer, before he was let out. I wouldn’t doubt a few Aurors dropped in for Christmas tea, either.
Are you saying that’s not why you went home? I thought you might be answering questions, with
your mother.”

“I’ve heard the Ministry is looking into some attacks on Muggles,” Millicent said. “Got the smell
of Death Eaters all over. If your father’s in Azkaban, you don’t need to worry about the Ministry
listing him as a suspect. In a way, it might not be entirely bad for your father to have an alibi. The
Aurors might feel like they have to make a show of due diligence, but then they’ll leave you
alone.”

“I’ll thank you not to speculate about my family,” Draco said. “That goes for you, too, Blaise. I’m
surprised your conversation’s reduced to this.”

“Merely taking an interest,” Blaise said, a glint of something like amusement in his eyes. “Nothing
meant personally.”

Draco’s arm throbbed. This was why he’d kept his distance from other Slytherins last term. Secrets
were currency, and everyone wanted to prove that they knew the most about the rumors that had
been growing darker and stronger over the last few years. His task was more than enough. He
didn’t need talk of raids and Death Eaters spoiling his appetite.

“My father isn’t a subject for your halfwit gossip. It’s easy to sit on your soft asses and talk big talk.
Try not to say anything you’ll regret, later on.”

After Magical Theory class let out, Millicent fell into step with him.

“A sixteen-inch essay by the end of the week? Does McGonagall think we don’t have work for
any other classes?”

“Just spit back the lecture. She wants to think everyone gets as caught up in every miniscule detail
of Koldov’s Laws of Spell Creation as she does.”

“That would involve listening to her blather on closely enough to remember all those details. We
can’t all memorize her lectures the way a few of you seem to be able to,” Millicent said. “Speaking
of, have you seen Hermione Granger lately?”

“I’m in six classes with her, and we’re both prefects. What do you think?”

“Touchy, aren't we?” Millicent said. “Is that why she’s upset?”
“She’s not upset.”

“Medusa’s head, are you saying you haven’t noticed? She’s been eating at other House tables,
moping around. I went down to Animal Keeping to pick up some litter for my cat and she was
there crying. She’s got her knickers knotted about something.”

“What’s it to you?”

“To me? Nothing,” Millicent said. “I wondered if it would mean anything to you. Apparently I was
mistaken. Forget I mentioned it.”

Draco knit his brows. “Did she say something to you?”

“Lately? No. I’ve taken an interest, though. A bit surprising, almost, that she’d head to the
Hufflepuff table. She found Slytherin company cozy enough over break.” Millicent gave him a
crafty smile, then sighed. “It was just for break then, wasn't it?”

“What was?”

Millicent waved a vague hand. “All of it. You, Granger, all the Houses joining in a song and dance
about unity. Theo thought the Hufflepuffs threw the most brilliant Christmas party he’s ever been
to, not that he’s had much for comparison, poor blighter. You and Granger should never be on a
Runes team together, you’re both too clever by half, but it’s funny to watch you get frustrated with
each other.”

“I didn't realize you'd taken such a shine to Granger.”

“You're one to talk.”

“She’s cocky even for a Gryffindor,” Draco said automatically. Then, cautiously, he added,
“Though out of any of them, she’s earned it. She’s quick on her feet. You complain about a paper
on magical theory, but she’s already inventing spells. If it weren’t for her blood, she’d be headed
straight for the top of the Ministry the second she walks out of here.”

“Some of us wouldn’t see it as such a bad thing if there were more of an alliance with families
outside what’s left of the Twenty-Eight.” She peered around and lowered her voice. “The attacks
on Muggles aren’t random. Someone’s tracking genealogy records, going after Muggle families
who married into Wizarding ones.”

“So?”

“So that means they're coming after relatives, you dolt,” Millicent said. “Any Purebloods with an
outside branch are damned either way. Either your grandma or cousin or what have you is a sitting
duck, or you end up in a Charms race against spell-crackers trying to bypass concealment spells
and find traces of magic leading right to the doorstep of whoever you want to protect.”

Draco couldn't hide his dumbfounded expression. “Are you suggesting you have Muggle
relations?”

“Obviously not.” Millicent's round face was blank. She met Draco's eyes without flinching. “That
would be a terrible scandal. My family's official documents show us to be rightful members of the
Sacred Twenty-Eight, and I would never say anything to damage my family's reputation.
Especially in dangerous times like these. A Pureblood who gives a whiff about anything to do with
Muggles is hard to find. It seemed for a little while like you might be one.”
 *

If he hadn’t been so distracted by the pain in his arm, he would have noticed Granger’s absence
sooner. The Dark Mark attacked him in different ways, preventing him from acclimating to it. The
edges itched and burned. Draco kept imagining that he could peel it off, like an enormous black
leech, and his own skin would be waiting underneath. When his nails scraped over it, the snake
winding out from the skull’s mouth writhed, wrenching his muscles along with it. He could feel
the unnatural way the deep tissue in his arm pulled against the bone. The ripping pain brought with
it a shout of fury in his mind that didn’t sound like his voice.

He could feel the Mark moving, at night, when he was trying to sleep. Whenever he was alone
with his thoughts and couldn’t hold back the memories of what had happened to him, the corrosive
stinging ate away deeper. The Dark Mark sensed weakness, they had told him. The harder he
wriggled, the tighter it would grip.

Once Millicent had called it to his attention, though, Draco couldn’t shake the needling idea that
something really was wrong with Granger. It wasn’t like her to keep quiet and out of the way.

The trouble was, considering how often he saw her during the day, it was surprisingly difficult to
get ahold of her. She fled after class periods ended, and she switched with MacMillan so she could
spend her shift with Hannah, instead of with Gemma to be with him.

The next day, when Granger was still subdued in class, Draco resolved to get some answers.

She wasn't in the library. Or the Potions lab. Or the Prefects’ lounge. Draco didn’t have the latest
password to Gryffindor Tower, but he spotted a first-year he remembered from Christmas, who
checked and said she wasn’t there, either.

Draco racked his brain. She was missing those knobheads Potter and Weasley. She’d try to make
up. Which meant, Draco thought with distaste, that now he had to go and bloody try to think about
where the pair of them would be in hopes of catching her on the way.

The Quidditch pitch was deserted except for a few Ravenclaws, and the Room of Requirement was
empty. Draco checked the library again for good measure, and even took a stroll outside toward
Hagrid’s hut. Nothing, with a side of bloody nothing. For Salazar’s sake, he must have laid eyes on
every other student in the castle, with all the criss-crossing. He should have run into her by now.
What was the blasted girl waiting for?

“Oh.”

It was like a small voice, deep in his chest. A tiny prodding. Maybe the reason she wasn’t
anywhere he’d expect to encounter Potter or Weasley was that she wasn’t looking for them.

“ Oh .”

He mounted the steps to the Astronomy Tower slowly. If he was wrong--obviously there’d be no
one to see it, but there was a limit to how much humiliation he could take, even by himself.

He heard the soft sniffle when he reached the Lower Observatory landing. Her eyes were red when
he opened the door.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn't,” Draco said. He shut the door behind him and took a cautious step forward. “I was
looking for you. What are you doing hiding up here?”
“I’m not hiding. I was trying to give myself a break,” she said. “I needed a place to just be, for a
little while.”

“Why come here, if you wanted to be alone?”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s not a restricted part of the castle. I can be here, if I want.”

“I thought maybe you were waiting in case I showed up,” Draco said, defeated. “You weren’t.”

“I didn’t think I could ask that of you. I know you’re dealing with more. I’m trying to handle things
myself.”

Draco shifted on his feet. “Do you want someone to sit with you?”

Hermione nodded. Draco crossed and settled himself next to her. He wasn’t sure what to do. She
wasn’t crying anymore. He didn’t know if he was supposed to hug her anyway, or if it would set
her off again and it was better to keep to himself. He didn’t know if he was ready to handle it if she
did start again.

“I’ve been trying and trying to do the right things, and no matter what I say or do, it all keeps
falling apart,” she said.

“If you’re looking for comfort, I’m not exactly the best person to ask.”

“Okay.”

After a while, the silence made him uneasy. “Do you want to talk to me?”

“It’s been a bad week.”

“Is that it?”

She hesitated. “I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me, or think it’s dumb.”

“Let’s hear it and go from there.”

Hermione put her chin on her knees. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me.” Draco nudged her. “I won’t tease you.”

“I didn’t know if you were mad at me about something.”

“What? No. Why would I be?”

“I expected Harry and Ron to need time to cool off. But after you showed me--I thought we
understood each other. I thought we were going to figure something out together, and then you just
shut down.”

“I didn’t know how to talk to you.” The words came out reluctantly.

“I’ve missed you.”

Draco felt a painful squeeze of emotions in his chest, a weird mixture of guilt and shy pride.

Hermione looked at her hands. “It’s bad enough with my friends not speaking to me,” she said.
“But you had to go and pick now to decide you’re bored with me, or you don’t want to be around
 me anymore.”

“Hermione. How can you think that?” Draco said. “Do you have any idea how rare you are?” He
grabbed her hand and craned his head, trying to make her look at him. “I love everything about
you.”

Her eyes rose to meet his. There was a fine line between her eyebrows. Draco knew that line. It
appeared when she was captivated by something she was learning, pouring her full focus and
wonder and imagination into a perfect spell. He'd seen it when she was dreaming. Suddenly, the
idea that he could be the one to make it appear seemed like the most important thing he could
know about himself.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

“I know you do.” Surprising, a little, how true it felt to say. He’d been so sure, on the train ride
back to Hogwarts, that there would be nothing left for him there. Her reaction to his Mark had
stunned him, and yet it felt strange to remember that he'd convinced himself that she'd turn her
back on him. “So then don’t shut me out, either.”

She scooted over and tucked herself under his arm. He moved her hair over to the opposite
shoulder and rested his hand on her back, his thumb stroking the dip of her shoulder blade. It felt
good to sit like that, with her head close to his heart. It was only after a minute that he realized his
left arm was the one around her.

Hermione’s voice sounded more confident again, more like herself. “We shouldn’t hide from each
other anymore.”

Draco cringed. He’d told her so much already, and even so, there were things he didn't dare tell
anyone. This was the first moment since he’d stepped over his doorstep that he’d felt like more
than a failure. “We find each other. Whatever happens.”

That much, at least, was a promise he could try to keep.

Chapter End Notes

Happy belated Valentine's Day, everyone! It's actually a delightful coincidence that
the chapter where they Say It for the first time falls now. I decided on my pub
schedule back in December so I could post the Christmas chapter on Christmas, and
only realized this timing later. For a while I was cranking out a chapter and change per
week, so that might play into it.

I've thought a lot about the Dark Mark, as well. I found it so interesting that Wormtail
had it, and that's what clarified for me that there must be different versions, although
the design is identical. The symbol of esteem vs. the punishment/brand. It's the kind of
sick joke I could see appealing to Voldemort. I am...pretty stoked to geek out over the
physiological/psychological/magical consequences of this weird bit of magic, ngl.
 Potter
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco came across Harry on the Quidditch pitch, marking out plays in a thick notebook
emblazoned with the Gryffindor crest.

“Potter. We need to talk.”

Harry flushed, his scar stark against his reddening forehead. “Damn right. I should kick the shit out
of you. What kind of sick game are you trying to play?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You drugging her, is that it? Slipping love potion into her pumpkin juice? Whatever you think
she’s going to tell you about us, you’re wrong. Hermione’s too loyal to get taken in by you.”

“I don’t need to coerce a girl to get her in my bed,” Draco snarled. “She’s sleeping with me because
she likes it, Potter. She chose me. I haven’t laid one finger on her that she didn’t want me to.”

“You keep your slimy hands off of her!” Harry lunged at Draco.

“Potter, get a grip!” Draco wrestled with Harry, trying to keep the other boy off him. “You idiot,
back the hell off for a second and listen to me. You need to lay off her. She’s coming to me crying
because of you and that ginger bastard. I’ve got my own affairs to handle without cleaning up your
messes.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Hermione’s a mess to you.”

“Of course she’s not!” Draco clenched his teeth, willing himself to regain some composure. “Don’t
tell me what Granger is to me. That is not your concern. What should be, and apparently isn’t, is
that you’re supposed to be her friend and you’re driving her to tears. You don’t like me, fine, I
assure you I have no problem with that. But don’t drag her into it.” He shoved Harry away from
him.

Harry’s face was slack with shock.

Draco frowned. “Don’t goggle at me like a fish, Potter. You going to back down or are you
spending the next few hours in the equipment shed under a Bodybind hex?”

“Expelliarmus!”

Right. Bloody Potter and his stinking fetish for disarming spells. Draco should have known better
than to threaten him with magic.

“Really?” he said. “Flattering as it is to see you so scared, Potter, I’ll have that back.” He held out
his hand.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “Not until I get a few things straight.”

“You split-face bastard, give me my wand.” If Potter thought to cast a Priori Incantatem spell, he’d
be in for a nasty shock. Draco had spent considerably more time practicing Dark spells and Cabinet
work than perfecting the assignments for Charms.
“Why Hermione?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“What do you want with her? Why target her?”

Draco almost laughed in derision. “I don’t know if you’re asking what my intentions are, or
accusing me of a crime. No, you know, now that I hear it out loud, it’s all essentially the same to
you, isn’t it?”

“So what’s going on, then?” Harry said.

“She said she told you.”

“She said you didn’t hate her anymore. That the two of you were friends. Ron and I saw you kiss
her.”

“If you’ve managed to piece all that together, give me back my wand and quit asking me questions
you already know the answers to.”

Harry was fiddling with his own wand, twirling it and drumming it against his trouser leg. Draco
kept half an eye on it, but it didn’t look like Potter planned to attack him. More like he thought with
his hands. Good for him, at least he was thinking with something.

“You’ve been acting suspicious all year,” Harry said. “I’ve been watch--er, I’ve been paying
attention to what you’re doing. When I can. You’re always sneaking off somewhere.”

“I swear to God, if anyone else in this castle takes a bloody interest in me, I’m hiring a bodyguard,”
Draco muttered.

“Are you suggesting you’ve been going off to, um.” Harry fumbled. His face was getting red again.
He rubbed a hand on the back of his head, making the hair stick up. “You and Hermione--she said
you’ve been talking all last term--”

“I’ll spare you the details, shall I?” Draco drawled, folding his arms.

“But she likes Ron.”

“I wonder if that wouldn’t come as news to her, at this point.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to keep a stiff upper lip and live with that,” Draco said. “But that doesn’t
change that she and I are together. You and Weasley are going to have to live with that. You
making her life hell over it doesn’t seem to be having any effect other than to make her miserable,
and I won’t stand for that.” He held out a hand again, palm up. This time, Potter’s hand lifted, and
then he gingerly placed Draco’s wand back into his outstretched hand.

Draco thought he’d want to give Potter one last parting shot. But there was something in the other
boy’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t respect, not quite, not yet. Acknowledgement
though, perhaps. Every once in a while, no more than once or twice a year, Draco still wondered
what would have happened if Potter had shaken hands with him, their first night. If Draco hadn’t
picked the worst time to take a shot at Weasley. He felt one of those twinges of memory now, but
Potter would take anything he said, even something simple like, “Good talk,” as condescension and
sarcasm. So he nodded instead, lifted his wand hand briefly, and went inside to find his way back
to the Cabinet.

Hermione flexed her feet rhythmically in front of the fire. She had a pencil in her hand, which she
was twirling and flicking as she read. No one used pencils at Hogwarts, but she always brought a
box with her at the beginning of the year. It helped her to practice wand strokes while she read.
Quills were too light, and using the real thing--well, suffice it to say she’d broken enough of the
Gryffindor Common Room in her first year that McGonagall had taken her aside and gently
suggested she find a substitute study aid.

“Can I join you?”

Hermione looked up. Harry was standing there, with his hands in his pockets and a sheepish
expression.

“Yes. Please. Have a seat.” She gestured at the armchair opposite her and marked her place in the
book.

Harry sat. A small pop caught his attention, and he smiled.

“You know, your toes crack when you do that. I could tell you were back from the library.”

Hermione pulled her feet into a butterfly position, squeezing her toes through the thick socks. “It
gets chilly in there in the evenings. Madam Pince doesn’t like to keep the fires lit after the day
librarians end their shift.”

Harry cracked his knuckles. “I talked to Malfoy.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, he found me on the Quidditch pitch.”

“He did?” Not her strongest conversational gambit, but it was getting late and she’d been deep in
thought a moment ago.

“He was pretty upset. He, er, accused me of being mean to you.”

A slow smile spread over Hermione’s face. She lowered her eyes.

Harry was watching her when she looked up again.

“I have to say, I would never have expected to have Malfoy telling me I wasn’t being a good
enough friend to you. Whatever Ron and I missed over break, it was apparently important.” He
sighed. “I still don’t understand, Hermione. But you’re one of my best friends. You always have
been. So, I’d like to.”

“What did he tell you?”

“I mean, it’s Malfoy, so he ran his mouth a lot. You know how he is.”

Hermione grinned. “Yeah, I do. Did he get to a point, or did the two of you end up brawling with
each other?”

“Essentially, it more or less came down to, the two of you are an item, and that’s it, and Ron and I
have to deal with it.”
“So what I told you.”

Harry took his glasses off and rubbed them with the dirty hem of his T-shirt. “I guess I owe you an
apology.”

“I did think you were starting to figure it out, at Slughorn’s party. What changed your mind?”

Harry shrugged. “You were being weirdly nice to him, but the idea that you’d give someone the
benefit of the doubt isn’t the part I have as much trouble with. I can’t even picture what he’d be like
if he wasn’t being a complete bastard.”

Hermione looked up, thinking. “He likes to talk, a lot. And argue. He always thinks he’s right.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“But he won’t dismiss the other side out of hand, either. He really listens. He wants to win, but he
wants it to be fair. He’d probably say he wants it to be clear why the other person lost.”

Harry made a face. “Doesn’t sound like my idea of a fun date.”

“It’s not like we sit around and argue all the time. We teach each other things, and he’s easy to talk
to. Really. He’s so ridiculous sometimes, but when I’ve needed someone to come and find me, he’s
been there, too. He--” This was new territory. She’d always been able to tell Harry and Ron
anything, but things had to be different now. She’d been so amazed to discover how free Draco was
with his affection, and she’d been on the verge of telling Harry about tickle fights and late-night
cuddles. One night over break, Draco had murmured how much easier it was to sleep when he was
next to her. She couldn’t say any of that. “He’s warm. I was surprised, too, but it’s the truth. He's
good to me.”

“You sound happy,” Harry said reluctantly.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, Hermione, of course it’s okay. I want you to be happy, I just, ugh. I wish it was someone
else. Do I need to hang around Malfoy now?”

“Sometimes, maybe? He’s not exactly keen to spend his free time with you, either, you realize. I
don’t expect you to be best friends, but it would make my life so, so much better if you could
handle being in the same room with Draco without getting into a fight. I like him a lot.”

“What about him?”

“I’ve asked him the same.”

“Well, I’m not going to be accused of being a worse friend to you than Malfoy. I’ve had enough of
that for one lifetime. If he keeps his mouth shut, I’ll stomach the git.”

“Tall order. And you still called him a git.”

Harry pouted. “No cracks about my family. Or Ron’s. If he can manage that, I can let up, too.”

“That sounds more fair.”

“What are you going to do about Ron, anyway?”

“I may as well ask why Ron isn’t down here with you. Why not tell him what Draco told you?”
 Hermione bit her lip. “I miss him, too. He won’t even look at me. But maybe if you talked to him?”

“I’m not going to go rub it in his face.”

“Do you think I’m rubbing anything in anyone’s face?” Hermione said. “Look, I want to be
sensitive, but I also don’t want to hide. I’m not doing anything wrong by liking Draco. It’s not like
I’m making out with him in front of Ron.”

Harry made a face.

Hermione pointed at him. “See? That. Stop that. Ron snogs Lavender anywhere he likes, and you
never say a word about it. I’d be in my rights to drag Draco right into the middle of the Common
Room, bend him backward over the table, and--”

“Okay, okay, enough, I get it,” Harry said.

“I won’t. But I could,” said Hermione. She took a deep breath. “I want us to be okay. All of us.”

Harry smiled at her. “Aiming high, but I wouldn’t expect any less from you. We’ll figure it out as
we go, I guess. I’ll try not to be the one messing things up again. I still think you should be the one
to talk to Ron, though.”

“You’re probably right.” Hermione sighed.

Harry leaned forward and hugged her. “It’s good to be back to normal,” he said. “I’ll try and let
Ron know he should talk it out with you.”

Hermione hugged him back, hard.

After Harry left her alone in the Common Room, Hermione pulled another book out of her bag.
There wasn’t much in the library about the Dark Mark. Whether no one had written a report on the
psychological and medical effects or whether the librarians had excluded any such documents out
of cowardly pseudo-diplomacy, Hermione didn’t know.

The best information she’d found came from books she snuck out of the Restricted Section. There
were a few similar-sounding spells, in old grimoires of hexes. Banishing charms to Apparate
someone against their will. Calling charms that sank your voice into the victim’s head, a whisper
they’d never be able to shake from their mind. There were references to certain torture spells in
history books, spells that had been outlawed for hundreds of years, until they were forgotten
altogether. Even a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor may not know how some of these old
hexes used to work, but the similarities made her shiver. Curses that twisted, forcing muscles into
unnatural positions, and potions that made the drinker see horrible visions. Hermione suspected the
spell that created the Dark Mark didn’t appear in any book, but knotted elements from many
cursing spells together. No wonder Draco was grey-faced and jumpy.

He couldn’t handle this alone. And for once, even Hermione had to admit she wasn’t up to the task
of shouldering everything Draco couldn’t carry. He needed help, and he was too scared to seek it
out on his own. Hermione had one idea that might work, but she didn’t much like what she was
going to have to do.

Chapter End Notes

Flummoxed Harry is my favorite Harry to write :). Especially when I get to write some
classic Harry/Malfoy antagonism, but give us all a chance to root for the other side.
Kind of a continuation of the flip side of Draco's bullying from the party scene, too:
that when you're on his good side, it can feel more like protection. I wonder a little bit
if that's part of why Crabbe and Goyle stayed close for so long. Maybe there was some
of that, "I get to talk shit about these guys, but let anyone else try it and I'll END
THEM" energy. Not that bullying is a great look in any case, but we all have our
faults.

Man. Also. It's probably a matter of being in my early 30s, and a parent, but sometimes
when I read Dramione and Hermione is just throwing herself into trying to solve
Draco's problems, I want to hug her or shake her. You are 17! You are not a therapist!
It's no one's job as a friend or girl/boyfriend to handle the full mental health load of
someone you care about! /soapbox. But for real though, the Mark is a mess.

Anyway, I think Harry is largely a sweetheart. Ron needs to process things in his own
time, but we'll see how he copes. Let's go, Golden Trio.
 Cursed
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Gryffindor or not, Hermione paced in the hallway for a good ten minutes before she worked up
enough nerve to knock on the office door. If it could only have been anyone else, or any other
conversation than the one she had to have, but she hadn’t been able to think of a single other person
who might understand.

“Enter.” Even with a closed door and only two syllables at his disposal, the former Potions Master
managed to convey impatience at the interruption.

If Snape was surprised to see Hermione standing in the doorway of his office, he didn’t show it.

“How can I be of service?” he drawled. “Did you neglect some minor facet of curse classification in
your essay? You’ve already submitted more than twice the required length of parchment.”

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Time, yes. Inclination is another matter. Unless you have a concern regarding your work in my
class, I am not obligated to entertain you indefinitely.”

“I need to talk to you about Draco.” Hermione swallowed. Her throat felt dry. “Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes, I know who he is.”

“He needs help.”

“Mister Malfoy is perfectly capable of finding my office on his own, should he wish to speak to
me. The fact that you are here, and he is not, suggests otherwise.”

“Just because he’s too proud to reach out doesn’t mean he doesn’t need support,” Hermione said.
“He’s--stressed, and I thought--”

“You thought, as usual, that you would barge in and meddle with things that are none of your
business. I should have expected no less, given how brazen and arrogant you are in class, although
your lack of self-esteem comes as a surprise. One hardly expects such a conceited student to
display such a sharp compromise of personal standards.”

“That seems like a cruel way to talk about a student.”

“I’m not talking about you. I’m talking to you.”

“I wasn’t talking about myself.” Hermione flicked a tickling lock of hair back from her neck, not
thinking about how disdainful the gesture might look. “I’m not arrogant. Having confidence in my
talents isn’t the same thing. And I’m proud of the company I keep.”

An eyebrow moved a fraction. “Indeed. In this world, many would consider Mudblood to be the
ultimate insult. Are you so confined to your books that you don’t understand the depth of that
meaning, or so weak that you won’t defend yourself against it?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Neither. Those aren’t the only two options.”
“What would you suggest?”

“I don’t think it’s right to define someone by one word. Even if it’s a word they said. I believe
people can change, and be better.”

Snape’s expression didn’t move. “How touching.”

“He needs people he can talk to. Will you help him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I will not waste time assisting someone who does not desire my intervention. For that matter, I am
no longer interested in wasting further time continuing this conversation.” He reached for a stack of
essays on his desk.

“Did it hurt when you got the Mark?” Hermione blurted.

Snape drew himself up several inches, his hand frozen in place on the pile of parchment. “How
dare you?”

“How did you deal with the pain?”

“Fifty points from Gryffindor. Show yourself out at once.”

“I’ve been reading,” Hermione pressed on. “There’s nothing on the exact spell, but I recognized
elements from seven different curses. If I’m even close to right, the imprints from the Fidelis Curse
alone would be excruciating for anyone who had doubts, never mind acted as a double agent. How
did you stand it?”

“I have never heard such insolence in my entire tenure here.”

“There had to be something that helped!” Hermione smacked her hands on Snape’s desk.

Snape clipped each word through gritted teeth. “Miss Granger, sit down. Be quiet. And do not
abuse my belongings again, or you’ll have detention every day for the next month.”

Hermione shrank into the seat.

“We’ll say another twenty points from Gryffindor, seventy in total,” Snape said. “And four
detention sessions.”

Hermione waited. She put her hands on her knees, pressing down to remind herself not to jiggle her
legs. Her fingernails were bitten down to the pink. After a moment, she thought maybe he’d
forgotten to dismiss her, and she scraped her chair back a few inches.

“I’m not finished,” Snape said. There was another lengthy pause. The room was quiet enough for
Hermione to hear Snape’s hissed intake of breath before he spoke. “Only the Dark Lord knows the
complete thaumatological workings of the Mark he created.”

Hermione looked up, eyes wide.

Snape held a finger up, although there was no need. Hermione was astonished that he’d mentioned
the Dark Mark at all. She didn’t dare say a word to interrupt.
 “There is every possibility that he borrowed elements of several curses and enhanced them with
embellishments of his own design. He is a powerful creator of spells, the most prolific and the
most deadly in hundreds of years,” Snape said. “The Dark Mark places a powerful hold over those
who bear it. And yet, it is not unconquerable. It cannot invade the mind, although it appears to.”

“How does it work?”

“The body produces substances in the blood, in response to fear.”

Hermione nodded. “Hormones. Adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine--”

“The Mark aggravates in response to these,” Snape continued. “Master your fear, and this aspect of
the Mark abates.”

“Oh God,” Hermione said. Draco was afraid all the time. She could see it in his face. She knew it
hurt, but he hadn’t told her much about how it felt. Now she understood. Talking about it, even
thinking about it too much, probably made it worse.

“How do you stop being afraid when you’re reminded of it all the time?” She hadn’t meant to say
it out loud.

“The Dark Lord has never given serious consideration to most emotions. Power and fear, weakness
and strength are his areas of interest. Professor Dumbledore believes that the miraculous survival
of your celebrated friend after his mother’s sacrifice demonstrates potential to harness hope or love
for magical purposes.”

“Find the people you love,” Hermione said. “The more time you spend around them, the more
chance that your blood is full of other hormones, and people you care about would help you be
stronger and less afraid. And if there’s a way to channel love through magic--Does it work?”

“It is possible that love could help. It is equally possible, if not more likely, that the Dark Mark
dampens most bearers’ ability to love over time. There would be utility in weeding out feelings of
devotion to those outside the Dark Lord’s circle of followers.”

“But if Dumbledore thinks it’s possible--”

“Dumbledore’s critics have called him optimistic to the point of foolishness before.” Snape folded
his hands. “I believe this interview has extended far enough.”

Hermione had more questions, but she also didn’t feel eager to face Snape longer than she had
already. She stood, then paused, one hand on the armrest of the chair. “The detentions,” she said in
a hollow voice. “You didn’t tell me when the first one will be.”

Snape’s black eyes scrutinized her. “You detain yourself in the library regularly enough. I have no
wish to spend more time in your presence than necessary. I will leave instructions for you with
Madam Pince. Reading assignments, perhaps a brief essay.”

Hermione’s mouth nearly fell open. If she was hearing Snape correctly, he was not only waiving
the detentions, but offering to point her toward material that would help her learn more on her own.

“Thank you,” she said, and rushed out before Snape had a chance to change his mind.

Chapter End Notes

So this is the one where my husband came up behind me and asked, "Why do you
have a tab with a clinical study on hormone responses to fear and stress open?" And
I'm like, "Because this fanfic magic needs to be backed by the SCIENCE, dammit!"

I got some neat feedback on my note last week, about my chagrin at the
Savior/Therapist Hermione angle that's common in Dramione! I do agree that it's
nearly OOC for her *not* to want to jump in and fix everything. She's a take-charge
kind of lady. To me, it's a matter of her realizing that, especially given how intensely
social Draco is, the support structure he needs has to be bigger than one person, even if
that person is her. Plus, of course, the continuing matter of whether there's time to save
him at all.

Also: Snape is so damn fun to write. He may or may not be garbage as a person, but
goodness, JK wrote up some people who are fun to take for a spin.
 Dark Magic
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco wiped sweat off his face. “Try it again.”

Granger had her hair tied back, but the ponytail was slipping and lopsided. There was enough static
energy in the air that her head was surrounded by frizzy flyaways. She was shaking with the effort
of maintaining the wandless Shield spell Draco had taught her.

Draco eyed her face. Tired, but still determined, and her wand hand looked steady enough. Push
her for a few more minutes, and then they could take a break.

“Keep your wand hand up,” Draco said. “Can you see the edge of the shield?”

She rubbed her forehead on her upper arm. “There. It’s like a heat shimmer.”

“Right. Make sure you fire around that. That’s important. If you miss--”

“The spell could ricochet. I know. That’s not the problem.”

“Just get on with it, Granger.”

“I don’t want to curse you!”

Draco gripped his wand tighter. “You wanted to learn this. You’re not going to know you have it
until you get it to hit.”

Granger’s face contorted. Draco saw her swallow. Then the hand on her wand was a fist, and she
struck. “Morstim tuus!”

The Stinging Hex hit Draco in the chest and spread over him like fire eating a scrap of paper. The
mildest version of the hex hurt no more than a bee sting. A powerful version could make the
victim’s entire body feel stung. The hex wouldn’t kill, but it could certainly incapacitate. Draco
couldn’t keep himself from clutching at his chest, and pain tears prickled in the corners of his eyes.

She rushed next to him, rattling off the counterspell so fast she almost tripped on her words. The
stinging subsided gradually. Granger tried to put her arms around him, but he shrugged her off.

“Yeah, you got it. Next one.”

“No, no more.”

“If you want to know these spells, you need to practice,” Draco growled.

“Not on you!” Granger’s voice was tight. “Draco, you have to stop. I can’t keep doing this. I
won’t.”

“Take a breather, then. Get some water.”

Granger shook her head, frustrated, but she dropped whatever she wanted to say and crossed the
Room of Requirement for her water bottle.
Draco sat with his back against a pillar and rubbed his hands, trying to shake some of the last
tingles from the Stinging Hex out of his fingers. They’d been practicing for two weeks now, a
couple times a week. If Granger was serious about wanting to know some of the Dark magic he’d
learned, she’d have to get over her squeamishness.

She kept coming to him, trying to help. Some of her ideas weren’t bad. Granger was the one who’d
convinced him to ask at least for enough help with the Mark that the pain wouldn’t give him away
in class. Snape had seemed to expect him when he knocked. The potions he brewed for Draco
didn’t make the pain stop, but they took the edge off. Draco noticed that the Occlumency lessons
had altered, as well. There was more practice clearing away fear, instead of focusing solely on
memory.

But that was as far as he was prepared to go. She didn’t realize how dangerous her other
suggestions were. Granger assumed that because she cared for him, other people would naturally
fall in step to protect him, too. Draco could imagine how much her precious Order would love to
get their hands on him in a “safe” house. The only child of one of the wealthiest, slipperiest, and
closest of the Dark Lord’s followers, with a fresh brand on his own arm to prove how much inside
information he knew. He’d be the ideal bargaining chip.

“You ready?” he said. “Take your stance.”

“It’s not sparring when you stand there and wait for me to hit you. I told you, I’m not doing any
more of that.”

“Fine. Conjuring, then.”

Granger nodded. She smoothed her hair back into a neater ponytail. Then she picked up an old
book and tossed it into the air. “Incendio!”

The book burst into flames. Granger stuck the tip of her tongue out. Her shoulders wiggled as she
geared up for the spell.

“Wingardium homoncula, Imper-Incendio Tria!” The sweeping movements of the wand were like
a dance.

Draco cast a Shield spell for himself, just in case. Granger was using the strongest version of the
fire-making spell that they knew, intensifying the original blaze. She’d cast a binding quality onto
it, but even so, Draco didn’t want to catch himself in the wrong spot.

The ash and embers from the burned book caught new flame, leapt into the air, and assumed a
rough humanoid shape. An Ash Golem was mostly air, making it impervious to most weapons and
spells. It could walk, though, and hit. A wallop of cinders to the face could stall an enemy long
enough to give someone a chance to run.

The Ash Golem staggered forward. Granger canted her body forward, whispering under her breath.
Her wrist turned, coaxing. The Ash Golem’s arm swung, following the arc of Granger’s wand. As
the Golem continued to cross the room, Granger’s body found its frequency.

That was how Draco thought of it. He could watch her endlessly and never decide whether she
relaxed or tightened in that moment. Suddenly, every movement had purpose. Her face was calm,
even blissful. Draco could tell from the fluidity of her movement that all her muscles were working
seamlessly together. Granger didn’t know how to be graceful in day-to-day life, but she found it
here. Something in her vibrated at the right resonance, and all the reflexes she sometimes struggled
to master clicked into place. She was working the Ash Golem faster now, making it respond to a
battle in her mind. There was something not exactly like a smile on her face that Draco hoped he
never saw opposite him.

Draco didn’t realize how run down Granger was until the roiling belly of the Golem stilled and the
last curling wisps of burnt paper settled to the floor and winked out. Granger had her back to a
pillar. She lowered her wand, and it was only then that Draco saw her knees shaking. She must
have been bracing herself against the pillar. Granger let her legs give underneath her. Her face had
a sickly, sallow pallor.

“Merlin’s wand, Granger, what the hell are you doing?” Draco snatched her water bottle on the
way over and crouched next to her. “You can’t spend yourself like that. The whole point of
conjuring one of these things is to give yourself a chance to get away. You’ll get yourself killed.”

She put her head between her knees. “I won’t do that in real life.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m practicing. If I don’t push myself, why bother?”

“Drink.”

She gulped water, gagged, and put her head back down. “Give me a sec.”

Draco rubbed her back. It was easier for him to touch her when she pushed herself too far like this,
when he was worried about her. It felt good to take care of someone, instead of constantly being
the one needing help.

He kissed the top of her head. He wished she would tilt her face up to him for a real kiss. She
didn’t reach out to cuddle him much lately, the way she had before. He didn't know how much was
her giving him space and not pushing him to give more than he could, and how much was her
subtly starting to pull away.

“Feel better?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Take some more.” Draco handed her the bottle again. “You surprise me. You always make such a
thing about being the best in class. I didn’t think I’d ever see you mess up.”

Granger leaned against his shoulder. “Who says I messed up? My Golem was phenomenal.” She
took another long drink. “I don’t mind making a mistake, around you. That’s why I take it that far.
I know you’ll look out for me. I promise I wouldn’t do something like this if the stakes were real.
I’m figuring out where my limits are.”

Draco let his hand brush against Granger’s leg, palm up. She didn’t take it. Probably she was still
recovering from the attack of nausea. This wasn’t even the arm with the Mark. There was no
reason for her to refuse to touch it, unless the knowledge that the Mark was on him at all tainted
the rest of his body in her eyes, too. The thought made his tone come out more snappish than he
meant it to.

“Are you finished taking a break yet? We don’t have all afternoon.”

She straightened. “Yes. I didn’t realize I was wearing on your patience. Let’s get to it, then. Tell
me what you want to work on.”
The session took a sour turn. Draco kicked himself. He should have done counterspells first. He
should have known she’d do some stupid, showy, Gryffindor thing when he gave her a chance to
conjure. She wanted so badly to convince him she could shoulder everything he could throw at her,
and now she was tired and cranky when she needed to be patient.

She gave an exasperated sigh. “I hate these bloody things. They’re so finicky.”

“They’re supposed to be.”

Draco’s father had taught him the counters over the summer, when they practiced hexes in the
grounds. They were designed as multi-person charms. They took precision, although they sounded
chaotic, and the cacophony of voices over each other would make the spells hard for the Resistance
to overhear and use to their own advantage during battles.

As Draco expected, they’d barely made it into the spell before they were getting distracted by the
other person's voice and stumbling on their own recitation. Granger had a tendency to try to solve
the issue by getting louder and more forceful with her part, which threw off the balance the dual
spell was supposed to achieve.

“Not everything’s a competition,” Draco said. “You’re trying to make your spell overpower mine.
The point is to defeat the curse, not my half of the countercharm.”

“I’m not trying to overpower you,” Granger said. “Maybe if you brought the level up to match me-
-”

“You’d just strengthen your part again. You’re fighting me.”

“I’m doing exactly what you told me to do. We say our parts at the same time.”

“You’re doing it wrong. You need to fit it into the spaces between words. The sounds of the
incantation need to link up properly. You’re not hearing the gaps right.”

“Why can’t you fit your part around me, then?”

“Gorgon’s breath, do you need to be this stubborn all the bloody time?” Draco set his wand down.
“Granger, can you sing at all?”

She gave him an incredulous look.

“Do you know ‘Ah, Poor Bird’?” Draco asked. “The incantation fits. I tried it earlier. You have to
fudge a little bit in the second line, but it’s not hard. If you sing it, it’ll help you keep the timing of
the spell better.”

“Sing it for me. I think I learned it once.”

Draco cleared his throat. “Ah poor bird,” he sang, a little self-conscious. “Take thy flight, high
above the shadows of this sad, sad night.”

On the third repetition, Granger joined him.

“Right,” he said. “So now replace it with the countercharm.”

They practiced it twice together, and then Draco dropped off her part. There was another old
melody that intertwined. Slower, maybe not quite as sad, a song about a rose waiting for her
wedding day. His part of the counterspell reset bone after a Skele-Splinter Curse, laying fatty
ribbons of marrow back into place and nudging jagged edges of bone to fit against each other
again. Granger’s part unspooled countless tiny blood vessels to seal the breaks, while also mending
burst vessels or torn muscle from the effects of the curse. They needed to keep time with each other
so bone and blood would work together, neither outpacing the other.

For the moment, they were using models from the Transfiguration Lab, treated with an Animation
Charm to demonstrate how, for instance, a dragon’s forearm would move in life. While they
worked, they could watch the arm twitch as the countercharm coaxed bone and muscle back into
familiar shape.

When they were done, Granger broke into a grin.

“You brilliant little idiot.” Finally, she hugged him. Her voice in his ear held a note of disbelieving
laughter. “Only you would come up with something like this. I can’t believe that worked.”

Draco hugged her close. He took a breath, feeling his chest press into hers. She was already
drumming her fingers on her back, which meant she was going to want to tell him what she was
thinking any second. If he wanted to be the one to pull away first, he had to make himself do it
now.

“Do you realize what this means?” Granger said when he let go. “You’ve created a key. The Death
Eaters think they’ll have the element of surprise as well as confusion, and you’ve taken away both.
If we teach this to more people--Merlin, if we teach this to the Order, we could gain a serious
advantage. We could be better than the Death Eaters at their own spells.”

Draco curled his lip. “I’m not joining the Order.”

“What’s your idea, then? Do you have a backup plan, if things get too dangerous for you to go
back to the Manor?”

“Teach me to make Polyjuice Potion.”

She blanched. “That’s illegal.”

“Why let that stop you?” Draco snapped.

“We’re supposed to be trying to find you a way out, not get you further into trouble.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think it would be worthwhile for me to have an escape
plan? Too many people know my face. I might need to be someone else.”

Granger shook her head. “It’s a bad plan. Polyjuice takes a month to brew, it requires multiple rare
ingredients, and it doesn’t last long. The longest I’ve ever heard of was twelve hours, and my best
was only around four. It’s not worth it.”

“Why don’t you let me make the call on whether it’s worth it to try to save my skin, Granger.”

“Can we talk about DA? I still think it’s your best chance at a way out.”

“And I’ve told you, it won’t work. You’ll only hurt yourself if you try it.”

“You talk like they'll treat you like a monster.”

“You talk like they won't.”

“Draco, think rationally. We've all grown up together. You weren't on good terms with the people
 in DA, sure. I'm not saying that they're going to tell you it's all water under the bridge. But you're
not some hardened criminal either. No one thinks of you like that.”

“Until my sleeve slips.”

Granger put her hands in her lap. Her voice was quieter. “Are the potions helping?”

“They don’t make it invisible.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling anyone about it, you know. I haven’t told Harry. He’s agreed that it
makes sense to bring you into DA, especially with things getting more dire.”

“How tempting. Practice jinxes with the Potter-freaks and losers, with Potter himself lording it over
me.”

“These are my friends,” she warned.

“Exactly. Not mine. Potter likes outcasts. Good for him. Just because you think I'm one now
doesn't mean I want to have anything to do with those people.”

“Who said anything about outcast?” Granger said. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re an asset,
Draco. Harry leads because he’s the only one who’s fought Voldemort. You’re the only other one
who’s seen him. Even if we don’t bring that up, for obvious reasons, you’re the only one who can
tell us what to expect from Death Eaters, and how to prepare ourselves.”

Draco flinched. “Don’t talk about them like that. Don’t call them Death Eaters.”

She frowned. “That’s what they are. They call themselves that. You call them that.”

“They’re my family,” he said. “I don’t forget that.”

Granger crept forward. They both sat in cross-legged position, close enough that their knees
touched. “I know you love them. I’m not telling you to change that, but you know it’s not safe for
you to be too close to them, at least for now. Who knows, maybe one day things will be different
again.” She didn’t sound hopeful. She rubbed her eyes. “You could save people. If nothing else, I
think that’s an important reason to have you in Dumbledore’s Army. I also wouldn’t ask you to do
this if I thought everyone would hate you. I’ve seen you go through too much to do that to you. It
may not feel like it immediately, but I promise, you belong with us, on our side. Officially.”

When he said yes, she kissed him. Draco took the barbed worry that he would have said yes to too
many things right now for a chance to feel the warmth of her affection, and he locked it deep away
from himself.

Chapter End Notes

A/Ns are usually about the fic, naturally, but I want to take a moment to share some
more personal news: I had a baby! My water broke last Friday. Posting last week's
chapter was actually the last thing I did before heading for the hospital, and my new
daughter, Quil, was born early Saturday morning. We're both doing well, big sister is
fascinated by the baby, and it has been delightful to read everyone's comments while I
rest and recover!
On the fic level: Battle magic is cool stuff. I wanted to reach a little further than
straight blasting curses back and forth, so I hope you enjoy some new spells! The Ash
Golem actually came about from my husband kidding with me. I was brainstorming,
and he gives me this kind of flippant, "You know--turning people into ashes. Turning
ashes into people." And I thought, that second one is actually really interesting...

Magic and music seem like a natural fit as well. I see Draco as someone who is
attracted to art in various forms, and for whom creativity comes easily. Not that he's
amazing at all kinds of art, but probably has a knack for more than a few, and tends to
doodle or twist things into pretty shapes or sing in the shower a lot (when he's happy,
at least).

(Hermione would like high-logic, structure-oriented hobbies, so she'd probably get

absorbed in some epic jigsaw puzzles and get *extremely* competitive in board game
tournaments.)
 Clean
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco touched the door to the prefects’ bathroom. There was a slight, buzzing feeling of magic, but
he couldn’t make out what the spell was. Granger would be on the other side of the door. She had
slipped him a note asking him to meet her there. Even before he opened the door, there was
something calming in the air. He couldn’t place it at first, but once he was inside, he realized it was
the steady, pummeling sound of rushing water.

All the faucets were on in the giant tub. The air was hazy and warm. A few thick towels were piled
on a nearby chair, and then Granger opened the glass door of a closet and came out with an
armload of bottles. She unstoppered them and poured liberally from each one, tipping her head to
cast an appraising look into the tub. The air filled with fragrance, soothing and heady. Fluffy
clouds of bubbles began to form.

“Is it okay?” she asked. “Not too strong?”

The smell coming from the bath was intoxicating, warm and fresh. An after-rain smell. Draco
wanted to breathe in and in, forever. “It smells incredible.”

“I thought maybe we could take a bath.”

Draco’s stomach did a little twist. Warmth and weightlessness, silky smooth bubbles touching his
skin. Her touching him. Until-- “You go ahead.”

Her face fell. “I thought you’d like this.”

“I do. I don’t want--” He thought of her eyes turning cold, her body pulling from his in a reflexive
recoil. “It wouldn’t be a great idea for another prefect to decide they need a shower.”

“It’s safe. Did you feel the wards at the door?” She poured a little more of one bottle into the tub,
nodded to herself, and replaced the stopper. “Anyone besides us who gets within three feet of the
door will remember something they need to do. Far away.”

Draco inhaled steam and soapy fragrance. “No one else is coming in here.”

“Just us.” Granger turned off the taps. There was silence, except for the crinkle of bubbles. “We
could make everything stop for a little bit. Be...here. With each other. If you want.”

“How long will the wards last?”

“As long as we need them to.”

She started to take off her clothing. There was nothing showy about the way she undressed. She
could be alone in her room, getting ready for bed. It felt good to watch her. Not that Draco would
have minded a performance if she’d wanted to give him one, but Hermione’s unconscious gestures,
the way her hair swung when she bent to unlace her shoes, pulled at something in him. He’d felt
the same way over break, watching her sit on the edge of his bed in the morning to brush her hair
or hook her bra. Granger wasn’t most people’s idea of a knockout, but the longer you looked at her,
the more you wanted to.
So it caught him by surprise when she stepped forward to the edge of the bath, completely naked,
achingly perfect, soft curves and shapely legs, the tilt of her head and dimples over her hips and the
way she was resting one elegant hand on the rail, skimming her toes in the water to test the
temperature.

“Do all girls know how to do this somehow, or is it just you?” Draco said.

She stopped.

“The way you’re standing, with your foot in the water like that, and your hair tumbling
everywhere,” he said. “You look like a painting.”

Her eyebrows knit and forehead crinkled almost like the words hurt to hear.

“You say these things like they’re so obvious. You don’t know what it feels like to hear you talk
like that to me.” She shook her head a little bit, and one arm wrapped around her waist, her fingers
curling against her belly. Her mouth curved in a shy, crooked smile. “Come in the water with me.”

Draco hadn’t been naked in front of her since break. He took his robe off slowly. She was sitting in
the water now, waiting for him. A puff of bubbles rose and fell with the swell of her chest.

He felt clumsy, although the water looked gentle and inviting. He stalled in undressing,
unbuttoning his shirt and then switching to take his belt off, then changing his mind again to find a
dry place to keep his socks and shoes. He took his shirt off last. She was still watching him with
that soft, steady gaze.

“You don’t need to hold your arm like that.”

Draco glanced automatically. He’d turned it without thinking to hide the underside.

“It’s not going to hurt us,” Hermione said. “You can show it to me. It’s okay.”

The water was warm enough that he could feel the change in the air the moment before his foot
broke the surface. He sighed, lowering himself into the tub with her one careful step at a time.

When he was all the way in, he tilted his head back to wet his hair. Warm water filled his ears,
bringing with it the soft roar of his pulse. She dipped herself under, too, and came up blinking.

They threaded their fingers into clouds of bubbles. Draco had settled on the opposite side of the tub
from Hermione. He wished he hadn’t. Letting her watch him undress had already taken so much. If
he’d just gone to her side when he got in, and sat next to her, he wouldn’t have this distance to
cross to reach her.

Hermione swam forward to the middle of the pool. “I want to kiss you.”

He opened his arms, and she floated forward into them. She touched her forehead against his. He
saw her close her eyes, and when she kissed him, he could feel her body sink into him as she let
herself relax. Draco leaned back against the smooth wall of the tub, pulling her to lie on top of him.
The water stirred the ends of her hair to sway over his shoulders.

It was like coming in after hours spent outside in the cold. His hands moved, and there was an
instant of recognition, that oh yes, this was how it felt to touch her body, and his hands felt like his
own again. Her knees were on either side of his waist. The gentle pressure of her inner thighs
against his skin made the places she touched feel more real.
“I want you,” she whispered in his ear. She took his hands in hers and kissed his palms and the
insides of his wrists. She traced the outline of the Dark Mark hesitantly.

“Does it hurt if I touch it?”

Draco watched her fingers. “No. It just feels like you.”

She covered it with one hand. Her other hand rose to his neck. She kissed him again, not as deep as
before.

Draco pulled back. “What is it?”

Hermione’s eyes flicked back to his arm.

Draco removed his arm from her hold. “Don’t touch it, then.”

“Draco, please,” Hermione said. “You need to give me some space, too, to get used to it. I’m--I’m
scared it’s going to move, when I have my hand there.”

“What do you want me to do about that?”

“Would you tell me about it? A little? I don’t want to make it flare up, but I barely know anything
about it. It feels weird to have it be this presence that neither of us can mention. It would help if I
could think of it as a part of you.”

“How would that help? Wouldn’t it just revolt you more? Why would you want to think that?”

“Because I love you,” Hermione said. “I don’t want this for you, you know that. But it’s here, and
when I see it--”

“You’re disgusted.”

“When I see it,” Hermione said more firmly, “I think of...times people have looked down on me, or
hated me. I know you, I know you don’t think that, so if I could look at this and tell myself it’s just
another part of your body, it would be okay. Because you love me. If it’s not you, I get scared that
it’s, I don’t know, some independent thing that can almost think. I don’t want to feel it move when
I’m with you and think it senses me somehow and is punishing you for touching me.”

Draco hadn’t thought about it that way. “It doesn’t work like that.” He took her hand and pressed it
over the Mark again, then caressed her face and breasts, looking her in the eyes. “It moves when it
moves. More if I’m feeling bad, or thinking about it a lot, but sometimes other times, too. Pretend
it’s like a cramp. It can’t see you. Even if it could, it couldn’t stop me from wanting you.”

Her eyes closed. Draco kept stroking his free hand over her. Her fingers were tracing over his arm,
touching both clean skin and the Mark. The edges of the Mark were healing. It would be more and
more difficult to tell, without looking, where it began and ended. The thought sent a jolt of horror
through him, and he felt the Mark twist under Hermione’s hand. Draco’s voice cracked.

“I don’t want to be a Death Eater.”

Her kiss cut off any other words. “Baby, don’t talk like that,” she murmured. “You are mine.
That’s all I want you to think about right now.”

So he let himself go. The water and the oils in the bath from the bubbles made their skin sleek and
surrounded them with warmth. Not so difficult, here, to imagine he couldn’t determine the precise
boundaries between his body and hers.

Draco let her guide him back toward the shallow steps. Hermione nudged him gently up the
staircase until he was sitting with his lower legs dangling in the water. The air was cool on his wet
skin.

She kissed the hollow in the base of his throat, and his chest, and then the tight skin under his belly
button. He still didn’t entirely register what was happening until she was crouching in the water
between his legs, taking him into her mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” said Draco. “Oh, fuck .”

Hermione had her lips tight around him. Her tongue slid down the underside of his penis, rolled
around the tip, and licked back up.

Draco’s fingers clutched at the polished tile under him. “Granger, what are you even doing ?”

She made a pleased noise, her mouth still around him. He could feel the vibration of her throat.
There was a gush of wetness, and an undulating pressure as her tongue lapped against him again.
She sucked, and the tightening of her mouth made his eyes roll back. Her hands spread over his
thighs, and there was a swirling, and it was hard to make his brain make sentences.

“I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” he gasped.

She took her mouth off him. “Not yet,” she said. “I’m not done with you yet.”

She crawled up over him, breasts skimming against his belly and chest on the way up. Draco
kissed her as soon as she was within reach. He reached down to stroke between her legs, and she
convulsed when he touched her.

“Easy, easy,” he whispered.

“I need you.”

She spread her legs over him. Draco held his dick in one hand and put the other on her hip to help
steer her. She shivered a little again when the head brushed against her. Then he found his angle
and got the tip in, and she sank the rest of the way onto him with a low groan.

Draco moaned, too. Granger's mouth was on his throat. Her hands leaned hard into his chest, the
weight firm and reassuring. The water rocked him, echoing the rhythm of her riding him. Every
movement she made felt like she was giving him his body back. He pulled her hips toward him,
wanting to be as deep inside her as he could, letting himself slip further into the water. He was
cracking open. He didn’t know if he was going to cry or scream or come, or all three at once. He
closed his eyes, and it was good, it was all so good.

“I love you, I love you.”

She was crying out too, pleasure so keen it sounded like anguish. Her body was trembling and
weak over him. When she came undone, his hands were there to catch her. They held each other,
leaning into each other’s shoulders, not quite ready to look each other in the face until some of the
intensity passed. They didn’t say anything else. There was no need.

Draco would sleep without pain that night, and for many nights after.
Chapter End Notes

Thank you very much to everyone for your congratulations, and as always for
continuing to come back and read this story!
 DA
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione and Draco walked in near-silence through the grounds, toward a long, shabby-looking
building near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The sky was just pinking up, and the ground was
spongy muck, with bedraggled threads of old grass. The chill seeped up from the wet ground and
numbed Hermione’s feet. At least there wasn’t any wind.

She’d picked the spot carefully. Dumbledore’s Army usually met in the Room of Requirement.
Introducing Draco into the group was going to be--delicate. The DA members would feel
protective of the space where they had practiced and bonded together. Draco already had bad
associations with the Room. Hermione thought it best for everyone to meet in a new space, even if
it was cold.

The two of them got there first. Next to the building, a large section of land was fenced off.
Hermione watched Draco’s eyes track across the empty field.

“You can see them,” she said. “The Thestrals.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t.” She looked up at him. He was watching the field intently. “Are they scary?”

He held her hand. “No. Just sad.”

Hermione looked at the ground. She thought she’d notice new hoofprints appearing in the wet
earth. She could tell the ground was tramped down, but she wasn’t catching new prints appearing.
Maybe it was difficult to spot new prints in a large area, or the Thestrals were standing still, or even
the marks they left behind would be invisible.

“Nott can see them, you know. Theo,” Draco said. “His mom died. People talked. Some of them
said his dad had a hand in it, if not directly, then being the one to drive her to. Well.”

“Harry’s mother died in front of him, but he was barely a year old. It was only when he saw Cedric
that the change happened.”

“My mother had a soft spot for Theo. She was always telling me to go play with him, when we
were little. We grew up together. When he got tired at events, she’d go and pick him up if his dad
wasn’t paying attention. It drove me mad. I was probably something of a little prick about it,
looking back.” Draco grimaced. “Nott was a mess on the carriage ride to Hogwarts, second year.
This explains it.”

Hermione looked behind her. Harry and Ron were too far for her to read their expression, but
they’d be here soon. She thought she could make out a few tiny figures back at the castle, as well.

“They’re coming.”

“Hermione.” His arms were stiff by his sides, fingers drumming over his wand. “I can’t do this.
This is a bad idea.”

“We said this was our best shot to give you a way out.”
“You think that. They hate me.”

Hermione opened her mouth, wanting to say something like, “Only for now,” or, “Wait until they
get to know you.” But he’d know she was lying. She couldn’t promise he’d ever be met with more
than grudging tolerance.

“You’re a Malfoy,” she said instead. “You’re part of one of the oldest and most respected families
in the Wizarding world. Show them that.” She looked him up and down, keeping her gaze and
voice cool. “Fix your tie.”

His hand reflexively went to his throat to adjust the knot.

“Better,” Hermione said.

When Harry and Ron reached them, Ron put himself between Harry and Draco.

“I’ve practiced my part,” he muttered, just loud enough to reach Hermione.

“Good. You won’t need it.”

“We’ll see.”

Harry rubbed his hands together. He deliberately faced away from the pasture section, eyes
scanning ahead toward the other approaching figures in the distance. “Hermione. Malfoy. Beautiful
morning. Well done picking a spot no one else will bother coming out to.”

“Bit of a shame about the skeletal death horses,” Draco said, glowering.

Harry looked over, surprised. “You can see them?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Creepy bastards.”

“Right?” Harry said. “Top marks for Hermione on finding somewhere out of the way, but for me,
the ambiance could do with a little improvement.”

“‘Learn Dark magic with Draco in the spookiest place at Hogwarts’ wouldn’t have been my first
choice for a fresh start, either,” Draco said.

“Seems fitting,” mumbled Ron.

“No one asked you, tosser,” said Draco.

“Stop it, both of you,” said Hermione. “They’re almost here.”

Not all of the members from DA the previous year had returned. But there were enough. Ginny and
Neville, Luna and Susan Bones, Angelina Johnson and Dean Thomas, the Patil twins, Hannah.
Suspicion clouded most of their faces. Ginny went white when she saw Draco, and Neville’s jaw
clenched.

“What’s he doing here?” Angelina demanded. She put an arm around Ginny’s shoulders.

“The hell is any Slytherin doing here?” added Dean. “But for sure that slimy git.”
“Hermione, Ernie told me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t make it,” said Hannah. “Um. Hi,
Draco.”

“Really, Hannah?” Ginny said.

Luna glided right past Draco and Hermione, hopped up on the fence, and nuzzled the air. “Lovely
meeting place, Hermione,” she said. “I don’t come out here as often as I should.”

“Thanks, Luna,” Hermione said, throat dry. “Um. How many of the rest of you can see them?”

Harry raised his hand gamely. People looked around at each other. Neville crept his hand up
halfway. Draco didn’t raise his until Hermione looked at him hard.

“You can only see Thestrals if you’ve seen death,” Hermione said. “It changes something in you.
It’s weirdly fascinating in a way, there’s a magical field surrounding Thestrals, and there seems to
be a sort of psychic lock so you can only see through it after that particular kind of trauma--but
that’s not the point,” she added.

Harry cleared his throat. “The point is, the way things are going, there’ll be more of us standing
here who can see them this time next year.”

“Forget the bloody Thestrals,” Ginny said. “Is someone going to explain why Malfoy is here?”

“He’s joining us,” Hermione said. She could feel how tense he was, next to her, and she reached
out to squeeze his hand without even thinking about it.

There was a ripple of voices, and it took Hermione a moment to realize why several people in the
group looked so stunned. She would have thought it was obvious Draco was going to be included
in DA now, since he was here, after all.

Ginny found her voice first. “You’re dating the flipping ferret ?”

“Well yes, of course they are,” Hannah said. “Since Christmas at least, right, Hermione? I’ve
barely seen one without the other since end of last term. They’re sweet together. They did a lovely
job with the Christmas party.”

Draco’s brows furrowed. “Thanks, Hannah.” He sounded surprised, and genuinely pleased.

Hannah put the end of a braid in her mouth.

Angelina looked skeptical. “I mean, good for you two, but I don’t see why that means he should be
here with all of us. This is supposed to be a secret group.”

“What if his family finds out?” Neville said. “He could put us all in danger, just by being here.”

“And that’s if he isn’t already planning to sell us all out to his Death Eater parents the minute he
can get ahold of an owl,” Ginny muttered darkly.

“That’s enough,” Hermione said. “Someone we lost last year said the world isn’t split into good
people and Death Eaters. It’s more complicated than that. Harry and I have seen people be betrayed
by people they thought were their best friends. Enemies can be misleading, too. We’re not twelve
or thirteen anymore. War is coming. The time for old grudges is done. What matters now is what
we do, how we stand by each other when we need it.”

She drew her wand out of her pocket and pointed it at Harry’s leg. “Osteo protero!”
Harry cried out in pain, clutched his knee, and collapsed. Ron started forward, then managed to
hold himself in place. He glared at Hermione. He’d been even harder to convince about this idea
than Harry.

Draco’s eyes were round with shock. “Granger, you psychopath, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
He knelt by Harry's side, drawing his own wand. His hand hovered over Harry's leg, which
crumpled impossibly. “Shit, shit, shit. ”

“Countercharm?” Hermione stepped closer.

Draco's face was pinched in an anxious grimace. He rolled his eyes anyway. “Yes, the bloody
countercharm, Granger. Come on .”

Harry clenched his teeth.

“Weasley,” Draco barked.

Ron's shoulders were high and rigid. He looked bigger than Hermione had ever seen him. His face
harder. “What?”

“Hold his hand, or whatever. I don't know how much this will hurt.” Draco's hand skimmed over
the length of Harry's leg, assessing the pattern of breaks from the hex. “We'll be as careful as we
can, Potter. Ready?”

“Do it,” Harry gritted out.

Hermione was more nervous than she expected. Casting the charm on a reanimated model
suddenly felt very different from performing the spell on living flesh.

“You start, Granger.”

She hummed one round of her part under her breath, looking at him to confirm the rhythm. He
nodded, and they both came in together. Draco’s voice was shaky, and it took some effort on
Hermione’s part to lower her voice to match. As they went on, she could tell he was focusing better
on what they were doing. He sounded stronger, so she could work more effectively, too.

“Oh, wow,” said Harry.

“You okay, mate?” Ron said quickly.

“Yeah,” Harry panted. “It’s-- ah --it’s weird. I can feel things moving. But it’s okay. It’s like--ugh--
like having to cough, or yawn, but I can’t do anything about it.” He pulled his hand free from
Ron’s and cracked all his knuckles, one by one.

“What did you do to him?” Ginny demanded.

Hermione held up a finger. The spell was almost complete.

When it was done, Harry sat up, still wincing a little. Draco hurried to his feet and backed away,
then turned to face the fence. Ron offered an arm to help Harry up. Harry tested his weight on the
healed leg gingerly, then stood straighter. “It’s fine. It feels normal.”

Hermione stood and wiped her palms on her trousers. “That was a Skele-Splinter hex,” she said.
“That’s one of the curses we can expect from the other side. What they won’t know is that we can
learn the counterspells they’ve kept secret.”
“We can look out for each other,” Harry added. “But I can’t teach this new stuff, which is why we
have Malfoy. He knows the curses and hexes, and more importantly, he can teach us how to heal
each other. Hermione said Malfoy was the first one to set a countercharm to music. We have a shot
at being quicker and steadier than the other side, if we get started practicing.”

“Where’s he learning all this in the first place, though?” Ginny said. “It sounds to me like Neville’s
right. You can’t play with Dark magic without getting hurt, one way or the other. Maybe he’ll act
all right in front of all of us, but who knows what he’s up to when our backs are turned?”

“Hermione's not an idiot, Gin,” Ron said. “If she says he’s on our side, I’d hear her out, at least.
And he's hardly got a chance to get away from the worse stuff if we all tell him to piss off.”

Hermione was so surprised by Ron's vote of confidence that she didn’t notice Draco was still
standing with his back turned to the rest of the group until, in an instant of stillness, she caught the
sound of him releasing his breath with slow, careful control.

“Draco?” she said.

His normally pale face was redder when he turned around. “I taught you that spell so you could
protect yourself. You can’t--gods, you can’t just blast that at someone like it’s a parlor trick. What
if I froze up?”

“Ron knew your part, too.”

“What if you misfired and got him in the chest? You could have splintered a rib into his lung. You
could have killed him.” Draco rubbed his forehead. When he lowered his arm, his expression had
fixed back into a distant, cool mask. “I knew all of this was a mistake.”

Harry stepped closer. “I know this is, well, it’s awkward. There’s no denying it. It’s no secret
there’s been bad blood between you and me since the beginning, and especially after last year, I’m
not surprised it’s not exactly a sea of friendly faces. It would make sense if you didn’t want to be
here, what with that history, and your parents wouldn’t like it much, either.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my parents, Potter,” Draco said.

“Harry,” Hermione warned.

Harry held up his hands. “I’m just trying to see Malfoy’s point of view, Hermione. And I owe it to
everyone else to be honest, too. This wasn’t my top choice. I wanted to say that I could give it a go
to put some of the old stuff aside, if he wanted to stay.”

“Don’t we get a say?” said Ginny. “We met in secret last year for a reason. It’s dangerous, and it’s
got to be at least ten times worse if he knows what happens on the inside. Malfoy didn’t come
through when I nearly died. I don’t want to risk my life to protect his now.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Neville said slowly. “What you did there, Hermione, I don’t want to
learn that. I’d rather die sticking to clean, defensive magic than send anything Dark through my
wand. I wasn’t too sure about Malfoy at first, either. Anyone can suck it up and do a countercharm
in front of everyone to save their skin.” He looked over at Draco, who was sneering at him out of
what Hermione guessed was a mix of nerves and sheer force of habit. “But you getting upset with
her isn’t set up to make you look good. You were actually concerned about Harry. If you can teach
me some of those countercharms without me having to do the actual curses, I’ll listen.”

“Should we have a vote?” Ron said.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said. “What kind of people are we if we treat DA like some kind of
popularity contest? We’re looking at a war coming, sooner or later. You’re going to throw people
away over old spite?”

Draco folded his arms. “Let them vote. If you’re that scared they’ll keep me out, it proves I never
should have come here.”

“All right,” Harry said. “All in favor of inviting Malfoy in?”

Hermione almost closed her eyes. She couldn’t have imagined a worse thing to put Draco through.
Having to watch, having to stand there and let people judge him. She could cry from the anger and
humiliation of it. She didn’t dare take his hand again now. He needed to keep whatever shred of
dignity he could still hold, at this point.

Then hands went up. Hannah’s first, then Neville. The Patil twins. Susan Bones, seeing both
Padma and Luna, added her hand with the other Ravenclaws. Harry lifted his hand as well and
nodded in satisfaction.

“And Hermione, obviously, makes eight. I suppose I should ask for fairness’ sake. Opposed?”

Ginny, Angelina, Dean. And Ron.

“She’s my sister,” he said when Harry and Hermione looked surprised.

“That’s that, then,” Harry said. “Malfoy’s in. Brilliant.”

Draco scoffed. “Spare me the false congratulations.”

“I’m serious.” Harry looked it, too. “That magic was incredibly complicated, and the two of you
know it well enough that it didn’t even hurt much. Hermione was right. We need you here.”

The two boys looked at each other. No one said anything. Hermione wondered if everyone else felt
like this could be the moment that really decided things, more than the vote, or even her persuading
Draco to come with her that morning. She wondered if either one of them would offer a hand, but
they didn’t, just sized each other up. They both looked so young.

“Okay,” Draco said. “So. Now what?”

“Hermione says you know things we don’t. Maybe tell us some of them.”

Draco sucked in his bottom lip and nodded. He looked at the rest of the group. Hermione saw his
chin lift and shoulders drop back, and she smiled.

“Granger said you were practicing fighting, last year. I’ll tell you right now that’s a load of
bollocks,” he said.

“Harry’s faced down You-Know-Who four times and survived, and he’s trained us,” Ginny said.
“The Death Eaters underestimate what we can do.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Draco flicked his eyes up and down at her
dismissively. “The Death Eaters aren’t even your biggest problem. Most of them don’t want to hurt
Pureblood kids. Once you involve yourselves, you’ll get in more trouble than you counted on.
What about werewolves? What about giants? They won’t hold back the way someone with a kid of
their own might. If you’re standing against them, they’ll see an enemy. That’s it.”
Neville shook his head. “Not even all Purebloods are safe. I’m not going to abandon any of my
friends. None of us will. We’re here exactly because we’d rather stand against Dark wizards and
fight for what’s right.”

“Do you know what happens when you’re wetting yourself because you’re terrified, and you fire a
Stunning Spell at a full-grown werewolf charging at you?” Draco said. “Nothing, for about a
second, and then you get your throat torn out. A lot of the DADA stuff we learned doesn’t work
well on non-humans, and nothing works as well as you think when you’re panicking.”

Hermione touched his elbow. “The countercharms,” she prompted. “We all want to know those.
They can help whether you decide to fight, or get hit with something when you’re trying to get
away.”

“Yeah.” Draco looked around.

Luna hopped down from the fence she’d been sitting on. “I’d like to try it,” she said lightly. “I’ve
always been interested to see if music would strengthen magic. It attracts Glimflams, you see, and
they excrete thaumic energy. It’s all quite clear.”

“Are you going to hurt anyone again?” Neville asked.

“No,” Draco said firmly. “You don’t need to. Granger and I used models to practice on, but even
those are for later, when you know what you’re doing.”

“How many do you know?” asked Hannah. “Are there songs for all of them?”

“I know,” Draco said, and broke off, wiggling his fingers as he counted in his head. “Enough to
keep you busy. And no, I don’t have music for all of them yet. Maybe four of them.”

“I’m in the choir,” Padma volunteered.

“Me too,” said Hannah. “We can help.”

“Let’s all watch Draco show Luna,” Hermione said. “He can explain how the spell works. Then we
can split into two groups. I’ll teach one part, and Ron can teach the other. Then we’ll switch.
Everyone should know both pieces to a countercharm, since you won’t know what might be
needed. That leaves Draco free to work with anyone who needs extra help, or talk to Hannah and
Padma about setting the other counters.”

Draco and Luna took out their wands. They practiced for a few minutes, with Draco pronouncing
the incantation slowly and Luna repeating it back.

“You need to aim the magic in a lot of directions at once, without losing control,” Draco said. “The
blood needs to get everywhere it needs to, but nowhere it shouldn’t.”

Luna’s gaze drifted somewhere far away. Suddenly, her face broke into a radiant smile. “It’s gone
all humming and tingly.”

Hermione was impressed. It had taken her two full sessions before she got a handle on how to send
the magic through all those tiny threads at once. Luna lost it a moment later, but the effect on the
group was noticeable. People started filing over either to her or Ron, ready to hear the parts. Draco
worked with Luna for another minute, then sent her over to Hermione and sidled over toward
Hannah.

They worked for just under an hour more. People needed time to get back to the dorms before their
 absence seemed strange, gather textbooks, and get ready to start the day. Hermione noticed more
than one person humming as they walked back toward the castle, faces serious with concentration.

Draco headed back toward the far side of the stable building. He raked his hands through his hair.

“Well, that was bloody excruciating.”

Hermione hugged him around the waist and beamed up at him. “You. Were. Brilliant. You were
amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you kidding? Even the vote. Didn’t you see? It wasn’t even close.”

Draco kissed her. Hermione felt all light and bubbling inside. She’d been afraid to hope it would go
this well, but it had, and on top of it she got to hang back and have kisses. She pulled back to
admire the grey eyes, dark lashes, and delicate features, and to stroke back the hair by his temple.
The hint of pain was still there in his eyes, but it was gradually turning into something richer, a
kind of thoughtfulness. Hermione thought she was catching a glimpse of who he might become,
one day. She kissed him again, enjoying the way he relaxed against her.

“They did listen more than I expected,” he said when they took a break.

“They want to learn this stuff,” she said. “And don’t sell us short, either. We can teach you a few
things, too.”

“And Hannah knows we’re together.”

“Well, at this point everyone knows.”

“True. The next few days might get interesting.”

“It’s about time.”

He made an amused sniff and leaned in again. They spent the next few minutes snuggling into
each other. Draco flinched when she wriggled her cold fingers under his shirt to warm them, but he
apparently didn’t mind enough to say anything about it.

Hermione sighed. She didn’t really want to say it, with Draco here looking all warm and content
and well-kissed. “We better get back to the castle, or we’re going to be late.”

“So be late.” He bit her on the ear.

“They don’t call me--” She kissed him. “The brightest witch of my age.” Another. “Because I
saunter into classes late all the time.”

“And you call me cocky.” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back, wrapping his arms
around her from behind so she couldn’t walk any farther. “It’s about time you worked at a
handicap, then. Consider this a service to every other student at Hogwarts.”

They ended up having to run back across the field to the castle, but they made it to class on time.
More or less.

Chapter End Notes

Again, although the Golden Trio canonically has plenty of beef with Malfoy, and
Gryffindor Quidditch players probably wouldn't like him much either, I found myself
suspecting that even DA might not be quite as hostile as I'd initially assumed. Draco
was involved in the Inquisitorial Squad last year, which is a significant ding on his
likability, to be true. But it was also last year, and he bungled that badly enough that
DA didn't really suffer for it. I just feel like DA members probably wouldn't hate him
across the board. I think there'd be a range, from "He's the worst," to "He's kind of a
little twerp/dickhead sometimes, but I don't have a personal vendetta against him," to
"IDK, I don't really know the guy," to "Malfoy is Extra as Hell and everyone knows it,
but sometimes he's kind of funny?" I'm finding my cast of characters naturally
expanding now that the love story I started initially has turned into a more grounded
relationship, and I'm finding again that if I leave Harry Potter's canon perspective and
look at other students' individual perceptions of Malfoy, there's more nuance to
explore than the source material might suggest.

Also, I ended up sitting staring into space for a good bit imagining evolutionary
reasons why it would be good for Thestrals to be visible when you've seen death
(they're scavengers? they were on their way to a symbiotic relationship where early
humans would lead these creatures to remove the dead before disease-causing bacteria
set in?), and why the Wizarding world might attempt to selectively breed these
animals to retain visibility for people who have seen death at all, rather than, for
example, recently enough that a body could be fresh enough to be useful. But that
seems outside the scope of the story I'm telling, so I'll just tuck it here in the AN and
you can speculate for yourself about why wizards have skeletal death horses tamed,
never mind in use at a boarding school.
 Merpups
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione wouldn’t have recognized the trill, except that she’d spent enough nights in the Slytherin
dorms to know Mersong when she heard it. This was song unlike any she’d heard before. The
Mersong she remembered was as melancholy as it was beautiful. This clear, chiming melody made
her want to lift up onto her tiptoes and swing her arms in the air.

She found the source of the sound, then ran inside the castle and hurried down the steps to the
Slytherin dorms. She and Draco told each other their House passwords now, just in case. It
occurred to her that she could probably try her hand at the Ravenclaw riddles, too, and come and
go as she pleased throughout the castle.

“What in Salazar’s name do you think you're doing?” Pansy Parkinson said. “This is for
Slytherins. We don’t want your kind in here.”

“I'll be out in a minute, Pansy, I just need Draco for something.”

“Like hell you do! He’ll hex you into next week for tramping around down here.”

Pansy stalked behind Hermione into the Slytherin Common Room. A few other Slytherins were
relaxing or doing homework. Millicent was standing behind a tall table, mixing a potion. Draco
looked over from his position lounging on a couch, and set his book down on his chest.

“Granger,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you down here.”

“I bet you bloody didn’t!” Pansy said.

Draco ignored her. “Did you need something?”

“Come with me,” Hermione said. “I want to show you something. Right now.”

Draco frowned as he sat up. “What’s wrong?”

Pansy fumed. “Draco, are you serious? The Mudblood barges into our place and you’re just going
to sit there?”

“Pansy, shut your trap.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Hermione said. “It’s a surprise. But you need to come quick.”

Draco smiled. “All right, calm down, I’m coming.”

“How did she even get down here in the first place? Sneaky, spying Gryffindor.”

“I thought being cunning was a Slytherin thing, Pansy,” Draco said. “Maybe my excellent
influence is finally rubbing off on Granger.”

“You wish,” Hermione said. “I’d say it’s much more the other way around.”

“Draco’d slit his throat before he’d let you rub off on him, you filthy slag,” Pansy scoffed.
Millicent snorted. “Pansy, don’t be daft,” she said. “This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. It’s
hardly new.”

Pansy squinted. The way she pouted her upper lip made her pug nose even more pronounced.
“What are you talking about?”

“They’re prefects,” Millicent said, face perfectly straight. “They spend a lot of time together.
Surely you’ve noticed. Stop being a bint and let them go off and handle whatever’s come up.”

Draco put a hand on Hermione’s back as he walked her out of the Common Room. Hermione
couldn’t resist a quick glance behind her. She didn’t get to see Pansy’s face; Pansy had swung back
to Millicent in her outrage. Millicent, however, was looking right at Hermione when she turned
around. Her face was straight and inscrutable as ever. Then she flicked her eyes skyward, just for
an instant, and her mouth curved in a hint of a smirk.

“That was, er, nice, of Millicent,” Hermione said as they walked outside.

Draco smiled. “Mill's a good one.”

“She found me in the library over break, the day we went flying. She sounded like she was trying
to blackmail me.”

“What did she say?”

“That you and I were too loud.” Hermione's ears felt warm, remembering. “She asked if I thought
you liked me.”

Draco looked more interested. “What did you tell her?”

“The truth. There didn't seem much point in denying it.”

His thumb stroked the outline of her shoulder. “Mill likes you. You don't need to worry.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Things are changing,” he said. “You and Potter aren’t the only ones reading between the lines in
the Prophet . People are trying to figure out which side they’re on.”

“Why would that have anything to do with me?”

“Be serious. You’re the only Gryffindor giving any Slytherin the time of day. If anyone’s
interested in an alliance with the Golden Boy, their best chance is through you.”

Hermione was worried that they’d be too late, but as they neared the bend in the moat, she heard
splashing first, and then another trill of Mersong.

“Good, they’re still there,” she said.

Draco lifted his chin, eyes scanning for the source of the sound. “Was that--?”

Hermione pushed some rushes aside. “Merpups.”

Merpups, unlike adult Merfolk, hadn’t developed the thick, rubbery hide that would insulate them
and protect them from injury. Their tails were as downy as a baby seal’s, and they had the same
soft, liquid eyes, with eyebrows like surprised apostrophes. Adult Merfolk were hard-muscled, but
the babies, like human infants, were roly-poly.
The two Hermione had found were chirping at each other, wriggling up to a pile of rocks, and
reaching chubby hands at something.

“Oh, look at that,” Draco breathed. His face broke into a wide smile. He crouched by the water.
“Are the parents anywhere around?”

“I saw a tail. I think it was a tail, as I came nearer. But if it was them, wouldn’t they take the pups
with them?”

Draco shook his head. “They see students all the time through the glass. They’re not afraid of us.
It’s a better sign that they left the pups behind. They know they can trust you not to hurt their
babies.”

“There’s a little shoal of fish,” Hermione said. “They’re trapped in a pool behind those rocks.
That’s what the pups are reaching for. I threw them a couple, and they ate them right up.”

“That would do it. If you’re feeding the pups, I’m not surprised the grown Merfolk gave you some
space to play,” Draco said. He watched the Merpups twirl in the water. “Are there any more fish?”

“Tons. Here, I’ll show you.” Hermione picked her way carefully over the rocks. A pool rippled
with silver minnows. It wasn’t even hard to catch them. There were so many that if Hermione
scooped her hands through the water, she was almost certain to trap a few wriggling fish in her
cupped palms. “Hold out your hands.”

Draco did, and she poured water and two minnows into his hands. He almost dropped them.
“Wiggly little things.” He crept a little further down the bank and whistled at the Merpups. “Want
a treat?”

The Merpups swam forward, unafraid. One of them caught a minnow in both plump hands, and the
other dove for it when Draco threw the second fish and resurfaced, licking her lips.

Hermione threw a couple more, and the babies squealed, splashing each other playfully. Every
sound they made filled her with a giddy rush. Draco must have felt the effects of the Merpups’
song, too. He sat with his eyes closed, basking in the sound. Hermione had a sudden, wild impulse
to scratch him on the crown of his head, like a cat.

She gave a nervous giggle. “It feels weird. I don’t know how much I’m feeling is the Merpups and
how much is really me.”

He kept his eyes closed. “It feels good to feel happy, Granger. Just enjoy it.”

She sat on one of the flatter, drier rocks, tossing minnows at the Merpups and feeling her heart
lighten as the babies warbled in delight.

Draco beckoned a hand. “Give me a couple more. I want to try something.” When Hermione
picked her way back to the bank and handed him the fish, he gripped a minnow firmly between his
fingers. He held it out for the Merpups to see, repeating the coaxing whistle.

They swam forward, pausing just out of reach. One of them trilled back at Draco. Then she swam
in a little closer, and then the temptation was too great and she tugged at Draco’s hand. The other
one darted in, too, grabbing his other hand and nearly pulling him into the water. His feet plunged
in, startling the Merpups, who flipped around and dove, splashing him liberally in the process.

Draco yelped, and then he was laughing too hard to sit up straight. He didn’t bother trying to push
himself further up the bank or even take his soaked shoes out of the water, just put his elbows on
his knees and cracked up.

Hermione’s throat felt tight. Before she could stop herself, the tears sprang into her eyes, and a
choked half-laugh, half-sob escaped.

Draco looked up, concerned. “What is it?”

Hermione shook her head.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“You’re laughing,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

Draco put a hand on the back of his neck. There was a ripple in the water, and one Merpup poked a
curious face above the water again.

“Give me another fish,” Draco said.

Hermione looked at his face, and decided to take a chance. “Get it yourself. You’re all wet
anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s like that?” He snatched her arm and tugged her into his lap,
leaning forward so she had to clutch at his shoulders to keep from tipping into the moat. “Fancy a
swim?”

“Put me back!”

Draco tutted. “So rude. Not even a ‘please.’” He dangled her a little farther.

“You--oh, don’t you dare!”

“Better ask nicely.” He put his face closer to hers and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Say please.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. “Please.”

He pecked her on the lips. “Oh, were you not asking for a kiss?”

“You smug prat, put me back on the grass before your skinny arms give out.”

“I should drop you for that alone,” Draco said, but he hauled her back up with a grunt and
deposited her next to him. Then he reached down and flung water back, splashing her face and
chest.

“It’s on,” Hermione said.

Splashing escalated to kicking water at each other, and a few minutes later, Hermione was barefoot
in the pool, flinging tiny fish at Draco so they wriggled through his hair and down his collar. He
scrabbled at his shirt, then yanked it out from his trousers so he could whisk the minnow away.

“Merlin, Granger, if you want me shirtless, next time just ask.” He sat on the bank, dipping his toes
in the water.

Hermione had another double handful of fish flicking their fins against her palms, when a pair of
approaching figures caught her eye.

“Is that Theo Nott?” she said.

“Is that Hannah ?” said Draco, sounding even more incredulous.

It was unmistakably Hannah. Hermione would know those blonde braids and that gait anywhere.
Almost no one else at Hogwarts would get the reference, but Hermione always thought Hannah
walked like one of the earlier Disney princesses--light on her toes, and quick to startle, with her
hands clasped or floating somewhere around the level of her heart. From a distance, Hermione
might have been less sure about Theo, but the pair of them were walking closer, and anyway, you
didn’t have to get too close to identify the color green.

Hannah waved as they approached. “Hi Hermione, Draco. Nice day for a walk. It finally feels like
spring.”

“It does,” Hermione said. “Hey, Theo.”

Theo ducked his head and raised a hand in greeting.

“Really? You’re all going to leave it up to me?” Draco said. He leaned back on his hands. “Theo, I
don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you would appear to have a Hufflepuff on your arm.”

“You’ve got a Gryffindor on yours.”

“I think you’ll find she’s in the minnow pool, technically, but point taken.”

“We got to talking at the Christmas party,” Hannah said. “Theo wanted to see how I made some of
the decorations. From there, things just clicked.”

“I didn’t even notice you together,” Hermione said.

Hannah gave her a gentle smile. “Your attention was somewhere else.”

“What are you two up to?” Theo asked.

“Granger found Merpups.”

Theo perked up. “Are they still around?”

“We got into a splash fight, and it looks like they decided there weren’t any more fish in it for
them.”

“Sounds like you both got a decent pick-me-up out of it, at any rate.”

Hannah looked uncertain, so Hermione chimed in.

“Adult Mersong is sad, but the babies make you feel euphoric. It’s a survival thing, so anyone
nearby will want to protect them.”

Hannah nodded. “That sounds adorable. I’d love to see that one day.”

“I’ll keep a look out,” Theo said. “Or maybe you could come down to the Slytherin quarters? It’d
be easier to show you one, underwater.” He looked over at Draco, as if asking permission.

“Might as well,” Draco said. “Pansy already caught Granger out in the Common Room. It’s a bit
late for anyone to get in too much of a snit over a Pureblood Hufflepuff watching for Merfolk.”

Theo smiled, and squeezed Hannah’s hand. “I’ll show you, later. You’ll love it.”
 “We should get going,” Hannah said. “We’re meeting up with a few friends. I’m so glad we ran
into you two.”

“Same, Hannah,” Hermione said. “Have fun.”

They watched Hannah and Theo walk away.

Draco shook his head. “I’m the bloody poster child for inter-House relationships. My father would
have my head.”

“Theo really looks up to you.”

“I don’t exactly need the added pressure,” Draco said.

“I think it’s nice,” Hermione said. She wiggled her toes in the water. “I should probably head in,
myself. I’m getting chilly in these wet things.”

“Need help getting out of them?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Chapter End Notes

Let's talk about fluff.

Fluff is, like smut, one of the most popular fanfic "tropes." (I hesitate even to say trope
here, because it's an entire category/mood of writing, rather than a somewhat
predictable-but-enjoyable narrative sequence?) Fluff, like smut, is also pretty
thoroughly ignored in a lot of spaces dedicated to "serious" or "literary" writing, such
as a lot of MFA programs.

On the surface, this makes sense. MFA programs are generally expected to cultivate a
fairly literary, highbrow approach to writing. It's not that writing about sex or domestic
fluff for entertainment doesn't have merit to readers, but it could be considered outside
the purview of what MFA writers are hoping to do with their craft.

Except that not only does this box MFA writers up pretty tight (one of the most
successful writers from my year is a genre author, which is yet another field of writing
that gets the short stick in most workshop discussions), but I'm finding myself
increasingly of the opinion that this doesn't serve the stories as well, either. I've
mentioned before in endnotes that sex is a significant part of many people/characters'
relationship to loved ones/intimacy/identity, so it should be worth discussing in more
detail for lit. Fluff, with its depiction of quiet, romantic domesticity, can be filler, but it
can also be the quintessential "show, don't tell" mechanic to develop a believable
relationship on the page. The question is how to use quieter, low-conflict moments in a
way that strengthens character and doesn't sacrifice too much of the tension and
momentum of the overall plot. In other words, writing fluff well seems to me to be a
valuable technique to learn.

I learned a ton about writing by going through an MFA program. Writing fic has also
been a much more fresh and surprising experience than I would have anticipated in
terms of what I'm continuing to learn how to do. I'm incorporating more into my
understanding of the tools and techniques that go into the craft side of writing.
 Hogsmeade
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The Room of Requirement had been empty for days. Draco knew he should be working on the
Cabinet. He’d hit another wall, and the stress and isolation and dank surroundings didn’t make it
easier to drag himself out for another punishing session of spellwork. He would work on it, he
promised himself. He’d just research it first, in the library with Granger writing essays nearby.
He’d go back to it soon.

He was finding himself, more and more often, hanging around more people than he could
remember since the train ride at the very beginning of the year. It was good, even if at times the
company was wildly off his usual standard.

He even made it out on the spring Hogsmeade trip. He got Granger all to himself long enough to
pore through elegant supplies at Flourish & Blotts together and buy her the disgusting salty
caramels she liked at Honeydukes, but Granger made it clear that she wanted the two of them to
meet up with Potter and Weasley at the Three Broomsticks. Potter insisted on getting the first
round of drinks, and they all hurried to claim some open seating near the hearth while they waited
for the order to be ready. Granger grabbed a corner spot on a couch, and Draco sat next to her.

Weasley plopped down on a leather ottoman across from Granger, apparently ill-tempered even
about the prospect of sharing a piece of furniture with Draco. Granger removed her feet from the
ottoman and crossed her legs under her to make room for him, and Weasley spread out. His elbow
jutted out inches away from Granger’s knee.

Draco glared at him, then shifted his attention.

“Granger, don’t twist yourself into a pretzel. Give those pretty feet here.”

She stretched her legs out so her feet were in his lap and pursed her lips. “Don’t be an ass.”

He put a hand to his chest in mock dismay. “You wound me.”

“Quit with the theatrics,” Ron grumbled. “I thought you prided yourself on being so bloody subtle.
You’re with her. We’ve heard. You don’t need to go on about it.”

“I’m not the one who all but sat in Granger’s lap.”

“And I’m not the one who still can’t bring himself to call Hermione by her own name. Why she
puts up with you, I’ll never know.”

Granger curled one of her feet back in under her. She tried to pull the other back, but Draco had a
hand clamped around her ankle and wouldn’t let go.

“Can you stop it?” she said, looking between both of them. “All I want is a drink out with you.
Why is that so impossible?”

“He’s just trying to rile you, Ron,” Harry said quietly. “Don’t give him the satisfaction. If Malfoy
can’t keep a civil tongue in his head, it’s only going to reflect badly on him.”

Weasley made a “humph” noise and stuck his feet out a few inches further.
When he and Potter left to collect the drinks, Draco circled a thumb around Granger’s ankle bone.
“Does it bother you, what I call you?”

She flexed her foot, nudging her toes against his stomach affectionately. “I would have told you, if
it did. They’re used to having to protect me from you. It’s easier for them to look for what might be
going wrong. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but I can tell they’re trying. Will you try, too?”

Draco met her eyes and sighed. “You are really difficult sometimes, you know that?”

When Potter and Weasley returned with a tray of glasses and a few plates of fries and onion rings,
Draco sipped his drink and cleared his throat.

“How’s business at your brothers’ shop?”

“Fine.”

Draco gave Hermione a sidelong look before continuing, keeping his tone measured and polite. “I
imagine it must be. They certainly chose the right industry to invest their talents in.”

Both Potter and Weasley were eyeing him suspiciously now. Draco wrinkled his nose over his
drink.

“We are talking about Fred and George Weasley, yes? Have I tripped into a delicate subject? I’d
imagined no one in your family was surprised that the twins would open a joke shop.”

“They weren’t,” Ron said. “You’ve never said a good word about a single member of my family.
I’m surprised a snob like you deigned to notice my brothers.”

“I have a sense of humor,” Draco said. “And I doubt Fred and George escaped anyone’s attention. I
thought the fireworks display last year was some of their best work.”

Potter snorted. “I’ll do you one better, although admittedly they didn’t realize how brilliant they
were being at the time. Do you remember Professor Quirrell, back in first year? Purple turban?”

Draco tried to remember. “He stuttered.”

“Fred and George poked fun at him. There was one day when it snowed a ton, and they were
enchanting snowballs to hit him in the back of the head,” Potter said. His eyes crinkled at the
memory, and Weasley was grinning, too. Draco didn’t see what was so genius about that particular
prank.

“I suppose you had to see it,” he said drily.

Potter shook his head, clearly trying not to laugh. Weasley’s knees bounced in anticipation for
Potter to get to the punchline. “We found out at the end of the year, Quirrell had Voldemort on the
back of his head the whole time. Fred and George were pummeling the Dark Lord himself in the
face.”

Both boys burst out laughing.

Draco’s stomach lurched. “You’re having me on.”

Hermione looked proud. “They’re not. I was there, too. Well, Ron got hurt, so I was back with him.
Harry’s the only one who saw under the turban, at the end. But still.”

“And this is funny to you?”

Weasley gave him a smug look. “Gryffindors are brave.”

“Gryffindors are fucking insane.”

Potter and Weasley exchanged a look.

“We’ll take it,” they said in unison, and cracked up again.

Draco looked at Granger, incredulous.

She smirked. “You think the Slytherins have exclusive rights to black humor?”

“Gods, they were legends, though,” Weasley said. “Hogwarts isn’t going to see anyone like that
again.”

“I don’t know,” said Potter. “Sirius said he and my dad were the main ones hatching schemes, back
in the day. Maybe one day there’ll be a new set of kids marauding around the place.”

Weasley smiled.

Draco frowned. “Sirius Black?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he to do with you?”

“He was my godfather, if you must know,” Potter said stiffly.

Granger touched Draco’s arm. “Draco, I always forget. He was your cousin, right?”

“We weren’t close.”

Potter and Weasley drew up even further. Draco thought he saw Potter’s throat work.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Draco said. “There were rifts in the family before I came along. My
mother spoke fondly of him. I would have liked to have known him. It just didn’t have a chance to
happen.”

Potter relaxed somewhat. “He was a good man.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Weasley said.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Neither of you has ever had a good word for anyone in my family
before, either.”

Potter and Weasley shifted. Draco drummed his fingers against the sweating glass in his hand.

“Have any of you noticed that Moaning Myrtle’s acting strange?” Granger said, breaking the
silence.

All three boys looked at each other.

“Er, I hate to break it to you, Hermione,” Potter said. “Moaning Myrtle’s always been weird.
Remember when she tried to get a look at me in the bubble bath, fourth year?”
“Shy, Potter?” Draco said.

“I don’t need someone who’s been dead Godric knows how long checking out my bits.”

Draco stretched. “The poor mite’s been stuck in a bathroom for decades. The least you could do is
give her a show.”

“You would,” Hermione muttered.

“Don’t worry, love, it was long before you.”

“If you’re quite finished,” she said. “I meant Myrtle’s different than she used to be. Haven’t any of
you noticed?”

“We don’t spend much time in the girls’ bathrooms,” Ron pointed out.

“She doesn’t look like she used to. She’s gone all stretched out. Her voice is wrong, too. It’s all
gravelly and garbled. You can hardly understand her anymore. Sometimes she’s talking, and her
mouth doesn’t match up with her voice.”

Potter snickered. “Like a bad videotape.”

“Exactly!”

“A bad what?” Draco said.

Potter waved a hand. “It’s a Muggle thing.”

“Ghosts don’t disintegrate like that,” Granger said. “Something’s happening.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with what you did to her?” Draco said.

Granger laughed. “Flattering as it is that you’d think I’m powerful enough to kill a ghost, no, I
doubt it. Listen. We’ve thought for ages that ghosts are the spirits of dead people--their souls. But
now I’m not sure that’s right at all. I think it’s their minds.” She looked at them all expectantly.

“Are we supposed to get something from that?” Potter said after a moment. “Because I don’t have
a clue what you’re talking about.”

“For one thing, it would explain more about why some people become ghosts and others don’t.
Like your parents, Harry.”

Potter looked at Draco and bristled. “Can we not talk about my parents right now, Hermione?”

Hermione winced. “Sorry,” she said. “But you get what I’m saying. It wouldn’t have anything to
do with emotions, or--or anything like that. I’ve wondered for a while why nearly all the ghosts in
Hogwarts lived in roughly the same era. I’ve been reading, and all the texts on ghosts say someone
is much more likely to become a ghost if they had a strong fear of death, and possessed an
extraordinarily strong connection to the place they’d come to haunt.”

“So?” said Draco.

“So what if becoming a ghost was by design? Immortality was all the rage in the same rough time
period that the Hogwarts ghosts date back to. Nicolas Flamel invented the Philosopher’s stone, but
what if there were other ways to prolong a sort of life indefinitely? People who were involved in
violent movements, like the Bloody Baron, or Nearly Headless Nick, might have taken precautions
to restore a part of their mind, even after their body died.”

“How would that even be possible?” Harry said.

“Like a familiar?” Draco said. “Didn’t they used to teach students to put their minds in an animal?”

“Draco, thank you, finally someone’s actually cracked open their copy of Hogwarts: A History ,”
Hermione said. “It’s archaic magic, to be sure. No one practices it anymore, although interestingly
enough, it’s why students can still bring cats and toads, as well as owls, in the official rules.”

“That was only for brief extra-corporeal excursions, though,” Draco said. “Even if you could
sustain it, you wouldn’t manifest an apparition like a ghost. And it would only last until the animal
died, not for hundreds of years. It’s a pretty theory, but it doesn’t hold water.”

“You’re not letting me finish,” Hermione said. “Of course you couldn’t put yourself in an animal
indefinitely, I'm not daft. What if, instead, you could sort of put a part of yourself into something
inanimate, that wouldn’t decompose over time? Something personal, intimate even, so it would feel
like an extension of your body. Your wand, for instance. You’d be interred with it, no other witch
or wizard would be likely to tamper with it out of respect for the dead, and as long as it was intact,
it could sort of trick your mind into believing you weren’t really dead. The object would serve as
your body. I’d bet you fifty Galleons all the ghosts haunting Hogwarts are buried on the property.
The ghosts’ appearance could be caused by low-level residual magic still running through their
wands.”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron.

“How long have you been studying this?” Draco said.

“About six months, off and on? It was some of our conversations about souls that got me
interested, and I sort of fell down a rabbit hole, reading.”

“What does any of this have to do with Moaning Myrtle, though?” Ron said. “She wasn’t born in
the 1300s, or whenever. She was only 13 or 14 when she died. Even you weren’t bright enough at
that age to practice magic to store your mind somewhere, and there’s no bloody way Myrtle was
smarter than you.”

“That’s the bit that concerns me,” Hermione said. “I haven’t figured things out to my satisfaction
yet. I need to do more research. But I thought talking it over with all of you might help. She wasn’t
tied to a wand. Her mind, if that’s what it was, was bound up in Tom Riddle’s diary, second year. I
was Petrified in the hospital wing when some of the big things happened, but Ron and Harry saw
more of what was going on in the Chamber.”

“Why involve me?” Draco said, a warning note in his voice. “I was never in the Chamber.”

She met his eyes. There was tenderness in her voice. “You know more Dark magic than any of us.”

“If she was bound to the diary,” Potter said, “why didn’t she disappear when it was destroyed?”

“That was the first thing I wanted to check with you,” she said. “Are you absolutely sure you
destroyed it?”

“Completely. Stabbed it with a Basilisk fang. It bled. It wasn’t pleasant. It came out of the
Chamber with me, in the end. Dumbledore still has it.”

“Do you find yourself in the possession of a Basilisk fang often, Potter?”
Ron grunted. “That or something like it. Werewolves, Dementors, bit of a mix. You’re usually
somewhere in the background, too, pissing and whining and generally making messes Harry’s got
to clean up.”

“Lucky he’s got you then,” Draco snapped. “Swabbing up other people’s piss sounds about like the
lot I’d expect for you in life. You must have plenty to teach him.”

“That’s it,” Ron said. “I’ve had enough of this sodding arsehole. Harry, you coming?”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Draco sneered. He gathered his cloak and Granger’s bags, opened his
pouch, and scattered a handful of coins over the ottoman where Ron sat. “Potter, I’m afraid I can’t
accept your hospitality after all. Since my company is so taxing, I insist on at least paying for the
fare. Have a second pour, Weasley, if you want one. My treat.”

He stalked out. To his mild surprise, and much more considerable pleasure, Granger caught up
with him before he was more than halfway down the row of shops. Her face was set.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He was out of line.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“It’s going to get better.”

“I don’t need for it to,” Draco said. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking the Weasel and I are ever
going to be cordial. We have to play at being equals while we’re in school, but as soon as we’re
out, I won’t have to lower myself to his social circle again, and he knows it.”

“I’m in his social circle.”

He creased his forehead. “If that’s where you decide to contain yourself. Your station’s higher than
you give yourself credit for.”

“Oh, because I’ve got you to smooth the way?”

“Nothing so fanciful. Weasley gets along because he’s Potter’s best friend. You’ve got the merit to
shine in your own right. You’ll want to fly, sooner or later. If Weasley, and maybe even Potter,
can’t deal with you outpacing them someday, they’ll lose you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face contorted with anger.

“Never. If you think I’d abandon my friends for glory, you don’t know me at all.”

Draco put his hands in his pockets and picked up his pace. She quickened her steps to keep up with
him, and he felt another little knot of tension ease. “If they have half a brain between them, they
won’t let it happen,” he conceded. “You were going to say more about Myrtle, before we were so
rudely interrupted.”

For a moment, he wondered if she was still too irritated to answer. She must have decided, though,
that she’d rather talk about what she’d learned than keep holding his dislike of a certain pack of
gingers over his head.

“Harry’s sort of right. If Myrtle’s mind was contained to the diary, she should have unraveled
when it was destroyed. I’ve only been able to think of one solid link between the end of second
year and now,” she said. “Voldemort.”
Draco cringed.

Granger didn’t seem to notice. “Harry saw Voldemort, in the Chamber. Or a version of him, at
least. The diary was his, back when he was still only Tom Riddle. Hardly only, I should say, he
was shockingly powerful, even then. But now that he’s back--”

“He’s been back,” Draco said curtly. “I don’t see why he’d have anything to do with a school
ghost.”

“Because of you.”

Draco shook his head, more in protest than convincing denial. “That doesn’t sound right. That can’t
be right. I’ve checked my mind, with Snape. It’s clean. He didn’t--he can’t reach in, from this
distance.”

“You’re carrying around his magic, all the time. She might respond to that,” she said. “She’s
sensitive to you, isn’t she? She shows up when you’re around?”

He had been seeing the ghost more often, although he’d tried not to pay too close attention. The
image came to him, unbidden. His body immolated in invisible flame, the Mark glowing brightest.
All the creatures that existed on the edges of what felt like reality, the ghosts and the blood-
mouthed Thestrals, turning toward him, hovering like moths.

“If she does, try not to engage with her,” Granger said. “Don’t tell her anything.”

“Do you think I’m sitting around in bathrooms, pouring my heart out to a moping ghost?”

“I’m just telling you it’s wise to be careful.”

“You want to talk about careful ? How much of all this would you have told the others? Watch
how openly you talk about any of this. I’d prefer if you left me out of it altogether.”

“I plan to tell Harry and Ron that Moaning Myrtle might be an important sign to watch. I’m not
sure why or how she’s linked to Voldemort, but if her decline is in any way associated with his
power, we can’t afford to miss anything.”

“Noted,” Draco said. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for the unbelievably subtle signs that certain well-
known forces are gaining power.” He grasped at the door handle of the nearest shop, which
happened to be a milliner’s. “Do you like hats? At all? They must have invented something that
can cover even your hair. I will buy you literally anything you want if you promise to change the
subject.”

Granger spotted her friends heading into Zonko’s Joke Shop later on and left Draco to his own
devices. He passed by Spintwitches to see if the spring broom models had anything interesting to
offer, but he didn’t bother going inside. There wasn’t much time for things like flying, anymore.

Dogweed and Deathcap held his attention for longer. The herbology shop owners prided
themselves on maintaining ample stores of rare and exotic specimens. A charming smile, a
question or two and a few minutes of nodding politely while Thymophylla waxed on about
Mongolian fanged geranium or the lunar cycle of fluxweed bloom, and he could slip most of the
ingredients for Polyjuice among sundry innocuous purchases without anyone being the wiser.
Crabbe and Goyle weren’t much use to him anymore, but they could at least serve as lookouts if he
wanted to snatch an uninterrupted hour to work on the Cabinet. A few practice brews, and practice
subjects, could also ensure that his skill level was where he needed it, if he should have to prepare
a dose for himself.
Draco didn’t see Granger again until the end of the afternoon. He’d wondered if she’d choose to
join him on one of the carriages back to Hogwarts, but when she spotted him, she handed her bags
to Potter and gestured for him and Weasley to wait. She’d be walking back with the pair of them,
then.

She hurried over to him.

“Sorry, we spent a long time in Zonko’s, and then when we got out I didn’t see you, and Ron
wanted to go to Sugarwings for ice cream.”

“It’s fine.”

She cocked her head. “Fine fine, or upset but don’t want to talk about it fine?”

“Don’t you ever get tired, being this much of a busybody all the time?” Draco said. “I’m perfectly
capable of entertaining myself for a few hours absent your company.”

Her expression didn’t change.

Draco sighed. “I’m ‘fine fine,’ Granger, except for the fact that you’ve now forced me to repeat the
most inane bit of teen girl patois I’ve heard in ages. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a
carriage ride?” he added.

Granger made an apologetic face. “I’ve already said I’d go with Harry and Ron.”

Draco waved a hand. “I assumed as much.”

“Can I come see you, tonight?”

Draco’s throat was tight with wanting at the thought of it, but it was pointless. “How do you expect
to tiptoe past everyone in the Common Room, not to mention my roommates?”

Granger gave him a mischievous smile. “Don’t you worry your cute blond head about that.” She
kissed him on the cheek and went back to join her friends for the walk to the castle.

He didn’t. Specifically, he discarded the fact that she’d mentioned it at all. The nightmares were
coming back, maybe stemming from his guilt over neglecting his task. It would be enough trouble
getting to sleep without wishing she was there.

Lying in bed that night, he heard the whisper of the bed curtains and felt the press of her hand on
the mattress before he saw her. It was dark, but not that dark. Draco sat up in alarm at the unknown
presence, and then there was a shimmer, and Granger was standing at the edge of his bed.

“What are you--”

“Ssh,” Granger whispered. She pulled out her wand. “ Muffliato .”

“Granger, what are you doing here? How?” Draco grasped at his night table until he found his
wand and cast a Lumos to prove to himself that she was here.

“I told you I had my ways.” She dropped a heavy cloth over the blankets. “Your roommates can’t
notice what they can’t see. Or hear, now, although we should still keep our voices down.”

Draco gaped. “Where in the hell did you get an invisibility cloak?”
“Harry’s had it since first year. We all use it from time to time, when we need to be discreet. I
borrowed it off him. Well, I’ll ask when I return it, and then it’ll count as borrowing.”

“Merlin’s hairy tits.” Draco pulled his legs back, almost afraid to touch the cloak.

Granger laughed softly. “You’d think you were the one who hasn’t grown up around magic all his
life. It’s an invisibility cloak, Draco, it’s not going to bite you.”

“It’s not that.” Draco tried to collect himself. He didn't know where to put his hands. “Do you have
any concept--any idea at all--what an item like this is worth?”

She shrugged. “Harry didn’t buy it. It was part of his inheritance. I suppose it could be worth
something.”

“For all that you’re the best in your year, you can be so bloody thick sometimes,” Draco grumbled.
He reached for the cloak, but habit stopped his fingers before he touched the fabric. His voice
came out small. “Can I hold it?”

Granger frowned. “Sure. Why not?”

Draco touched the cloth reverently, then draped it over his hand. His own hand disappeared from
his view, and the flutter of wonder stirred in his heart. “My father would never let me touch
something this precious. He took me to auctions or appraiser’s visits, sometimes, so I could learn
the business. Look, don’t touch. There were beautiful things, sometimes. You saw them and you
just wanted--but most of those items are worth more than every bone in your whole body, so you
have to be respectful and keep still.” His voice took on a dreamlike tone by the end, lost in
memories. He let the shimmering fabric slide over his hands.

“Did he hurt you?”

The concern in her voice snapped him back to the present. “Did he--No. It was just a thing he said.
To get me to behave.” He peered at the invisibility cloak more closely, reaching back in his mind
for the quality indicators and the list of numbers his father had drilled into him. “Let’s see. Quite
large. A touch threadbare here and here, and there’s old stains all over the hems, although some of
those may still come out with careful treatment. The weave is quite nice, and feel the stitching on
the hem. That’s unicorn hair. That’s why it had to be hand-sewn. You can’t use any iron tools or
machines on it, or you’ll lose the magic. Then you need to account for the rarity.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “Do you and the cloak need a little privacy?”

He poked her in the side. “I’d rather have you in my bed. I thought you might like to know that
you’ve been wearing a 5,000-Galleon garment around like a dressing gown.”

Now it was her turn to look shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Based on the somewhat shabby condition, that’s what I expect the Malfoys would aim for as a
buying price. If it refurbishes well, my father should be able to get double that for it, easily,
although he’d probably be hoping for 20,000.”

“Oh, shit.”

He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his nose against her shoulder. “Someone has more of
a taste for nice things than they let on.”

She grinned. “Don’t be so shocked. I’m dating you, aren’t I? Dropping 5,000 Galleons to come see
you sounds about right.”

Draco was more pleased, even touched, than he would have expected. She said it so offhand, and it
caught him off-guard. He didn’t exactly know what to say in response, although it turned out he
didn’t need to say anything at all.

Granger brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead before she kissed him. Her lips were soft
against his mouth, but assured. This wasn’t an early, inquisitive kiss, testing his response. She led
the kiss, switching from light kisses at the corner of his mouth to deeper, firmer connection as the
mood struck her. She touched her tongue to his and hummed her approval when he twisted his
fingers in the underside of her hair. Draco got the not-unpleasant impression that, should he go
along with it, she’d satisfy herself on him without him having to do much but let her take him.

He pulled his shirt over his head. Granger cuddled in closer, rubbing his back in slow, even strokes.
Draco was always aware of where his Mark touched her. Granger didn’t seem to pay it any mind,
but he slid his other hand between his forearm and her back anyway. He couldn't let his guard
down like this in front of anyone, anymore. He wanted any part of him in contact with her to be
purely him.

Her hand curved over his backside, and her thumb hooked the waistband of his pajama pants, but
Draco found that he wasn’t quite ready yet. He wanted more of that assured feeling first, the
pleasure of knowing she felt so comfortable with his body. That he was wanted and worth
something even when all he was doing was lying back and allowing himself to be touched.

“Can I have a back rub?”

Granger pulled back and laughed quietly. “You are such a little prince, you know that?”

He tilted his chin at a lofty angle. “I want one.”

She sighed in pretend annoyance. “Roll over, then.”

Draco made himself comfortable, adding an extra fluff of the pillow before settling into position.
She didn’t have to understand everything. It was better, even, for her to chalk certain moments up
to him indulging himself than catch the note of hunger in his voice.

Her hands slid up his back, fingers reaching to find the knots. There was a thing Granger did
sometimes that Draco liked, making a sort of butterfly out of her hands and using the heels of her
hands on either side of his spine to crack his back. She leaned hard into him when she did this,
forcing his breath out in puffs.

“Easy on the goods,” he said.

“Baby.”

“Yes?”

He could almost hear her eye roll. “I meant of course, darling, I’ll try to be more delicate.”

Draco smiled into the pillow. Granger was working a couple knots with her thumbs, hard but not
painfully so. Her fingers were lighter, and all of him felt nice and loose and warm as she massaged
her way down from his shoulders to the small of his back.

He felt the mattress shift again as she resettled her weight. She was sitting on his backside, legs on
either side. She leaned forward to dig her elbows into a couple stubborn knots, then lay down on
his back. Draco felt bare skin. She wasn’t wearing her shirt anymore, either. Granger bit his
shoulder, kissed it, kissed his neck. He kept his eyes closed.

“Done already?”

“I hope not,” she murmured in his ear. “I'm pretty sure it's my turn.”

A few minutes later, and some rustling as they found the position that suited them for this or that,
and he was the one over her, holding her hands over her head as he kissed her. She only had her
knickers on, and he was rubbing naked against them, feeling the fabric slide more easily until she
was squirming to get a hand free to pull them off. He held her wrists a little tighter.

“Something you need?”

“Draco, you bloody prat,” she gasped.

“Not your best, as pet names go.” He pushed against her again. She made a high whimper. “That,
on the other hand, is excellent. Make all the noises like that you want.”

“Make me.”

He couldn’t get her underwear off without letting go of her, so he freed her hands. She reached for
the back of his neck and his ribs, and he slid inside her. He thought she’d want him to take it slow
and easy, but she wrapped a leg over him and rolled her hips. Her teeth scraped over his lower lip,
and her nails scratched down his sides, and the softness of her went on forever.

Draco kept moving, trying to keep up with the impatient surge of her hips without losing himself
too quickly into the bright sensation flooding through his head, and he was probably making a
stupid face but it didn’t matter because she buried her face in his shoulder and her quick sighs were
turning into shaky whimpers and then the breathless nonsense she babbled when her mind was
trying to make sense of the feeling in her body.

“You--don’t--gods--now.”

Not a sentence, not an anything, but it made perfect sense anyway. Draco almost laughed at the
stupid luck of it all, and the bliss of it, and the strangeness that things like this could happen for
him in the midst of everything.

When he came, it happened so hard that he started shivering. She tried to shift position, but he
clung to her. Without her body to ground him, he thought he might fly apart.

She held him until he breathed steadily again. Her fingers curled over the nape of his neck.

“I wish I didn’t have to go.”

“Don’t, yet.”

Her eyes were dark, pupils still blown wide. “It feels good, here.”

“Sleep a little. I’ll wake you.”

She groaned. “If you’re going to twist my arm.”

He rolled behind her to spoon her. She reached back and touched a hand to his cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered, already sounding half-asleep, and Draco thought, not for the first
 time, that there was a growing risk that she would end up breaking him apart, after all.

Chapter End Notes

Tip of the hat to HP Tumblr as an institution for some ideas in this chapter. (I'm not
actually on Tumblr myself? But Pinterest is full of good posts.) I got the helpful
reminder about Fred and George's unwittingly most daring prank
(https://www.pinterest.com/pin/350928995949413157/), and there was an excellent
post about the possibility of fads/trends in magic in fantasy works in general, and how
characters who grew up with magic might see some variations as outdated or unusual,
that I had fun playing with.
 Ron
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione didn’t know Ron had been poisoned until he was already recovering in the hospital
wing.

“What the hell happened?” she demanded, following Harry back into the boys’ ward. “Why didn’t
anyone tell me?”

“We are telling you, Hermione,” Harry said.

She rolled her eyes. “Now.”

“Yes, well, we were a bit busy before. You know, finding an antidote. Saving his life. Nothing
much.”

“Do you know what poison it was?”

Harry shook his head. “It was in a bottle of wine. Or Slughorn thought it was wine. We cured it
with a bezoar.”

An all-purpose antidote, so that wouldn’t be any use. “They’ll test the rest of the wine, though,
right?”

“Slughorn dropped the bottle, in the confusion. I don’t think there’s any left.”

“How did this happen?”

“Hermione, I really don’t know,” Harry said.

Slughorn himself was standing by Ron’s bedside, along with Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore,
who held a gaudily wrapped bottle in his hand. Hermione marched up to the Potions professor,
eyes blazing.

“Will someone kindly inform me what on earth happened here?”

Slughorn twisted his hands. “Now, now, my dear, there’s no use getting upset.”

“Oh no? When, then? Would he have had to actually die before I’m permitted any demonstration
of emotion?” Hermione said.

“I’m inclined to agree with Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said, although her voice was
more measured. “This is a serious situation, and one that merits our full attention and concern. I’m
sure we can all agree Potter’s actions were heroic, but why were they necessary?”

“Ron had another potion in his system,” Harry said. “A love potion. Could it have mixed badly,
somehow? Caused the effect?”

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips. “Doubtful. People brewing love potions almost always intend
the recipient to be fairly drunk, as well.”

“Not to mention that an experienced nose detects rather more than a trace of poison, along with
more subtle notes of licorice and cherry,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Horace, I confess myself
surprised you didn’t notice it, yourself.”

Slughorn pulled at his collar. He looked sweaty and uncomfortable. “I’ve been fighting a cold.
These drafts in the castle. The adjustment to class life after retirement takes its toll on the immune
system.”

“I suppose a hot toddy, or several, benefits the cold as well as the stress,” McGonagall said, voice
clipped.

Dumbledore raised a bushy pair of eyebrows. “I often find the effect both medicinal and soothing.
It was after hours, after all. Admittedly, it is especially important in a potioneer’s quarters to
maintain separate storage spaces for elixirs that are dangerous to consume.”

“I must have misplaced it,” Slughorn stammered.

“I suspect it had no permanent home in your office at all. This appears to be a gift, Horace. Do you
remember who gave it to you?”

Slughorn nodded gratefully, then shook his head, apparently confused about what to respond to
first. “I’d been meaning to give it as a gift, myself.”

“To whom, if I might ask?”

“To you, Headmaster,” Slughorn admitted.

Hermione wanted to ask why he’d opened the bottle for a pair of students, one of them drugged, if
it was supposed to be a gift for Dumbledore, but before she could speak, a breathless, quavering,
yet irritatingly loud voice echoed through the ward.

“Where’s my Won-Won? Has he been asking for me?” Lavender Brown pushed the professors
aside and looked like she was considering attempting a swoon at Ron’s feet, but both seats by
Ron’s side were occupied, blocking her from a clear avenue for a soft landing. She dropped her
arms awkwardly by her sides instead. Then she noticed Hermione. “What’s she doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Hermione said, rising to her feet.

“I happen to be his girlfriend,” Lavender said.

“And I happen to be his--friend,” Hermione finished weakly, wishing there was a better word. Six
years. At least four brushes with death, not even counting the second Triwizard Trial, which at
least had been supervised. Countless meals and jokes and evenings playing wizard chess or arguing
in the comfortable way that meant no one was really angry. All that closeness, but because
Hermione wasn’t snogging him all over the castle, this gasping little tart thought she outranked her.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Lavender said. “You haven’t spoken in weeks.”

A flare of hurt and anger rose like bile. Hermione could barely listen to what Lavender was saying,
although she caught a tail end of something like, “now that he’s all interesting.”

“He’s been poisoned, you daft bimbo!”

Ron shifted and mumbled something.

“See?” Lavender said, still panting, although she hadn’t been running. “He senses my presence.”
She put her hands on the edge of the bed, sticking her chest out (for whose benefit Hermione didn’t
know, since Ron’s eyes were still shut). “Don’t worry, Won-Won. I’m here.”

“Her...my...knee,” he muttered. “Hermione.”

Hermione couldn’t help a hint of a smug smile as Lavender huffed and stomped out of the room.
She took Ron’s hand. “I’m right here.”

Madame Pomfrey, Dumbledore, Harry, and the rest all seemed to have better places to be, so
Hermione found herself sitting by Ron’s bedside, his blue eyes fixed on her and looking more alert
by the minute. Probably the effects of an enervating potion kicking in.

“You came,” he said.

“Of course I came, you idiot.”

“Thought maybe you’d be too busy making out with Malfoy.”

She winced. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s fair?” Ron grumbled. “You hated each other for years. Suddenly he says he’s changed,
and you’ve got more time for him than the people who have been around the whole time.”

“I’m always going to have time for you and Harry. You’re my best friends. You’re two of the most
important people in the world to me.”

“You don’t need to. You know. Do all that work, to make it easy. I know when I’ve lost.”

“Why does it have to be about winning and losing?” Hermione said.

Ron looked at her. “Come on, Hermione.”

She fidgeted. “Things with us are the same as they’ve always been.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He looked so forlorn, with the sheet pulled tight over his chest and his hands folded over the crisp,
smooth whiteness. Hermione scraped the chair forward, then shook her head.

“Scoot.”

“What?”

“Budge over.” She lay on her back next to him, her on top of the covers and him under. She could
feel him relax.

They spoke at the same time.

“It’s just that--” Hermione began, just as Ron said, “You never thought--?”

Ron leaned back into the pillow. “You go first.”

“You steady me,” she said. “And I push you. We’re good for each other in that way.”

He laced his fingers into hers. She squeezed his hand back and let him flop both their hands to rest
at the bottom of her rib cage.
“We balance each other out, yeah,” Ron said.

“Do you think that’s the right way for us to be, though? If we were a couple? What if what I
needed was for the person closest to me to tell me it was okay for me to push myself as far as I can,
instead of needing me to settle down? And you’d get sick of being pushed all the time, like you’re
never good enough.”

“You don’t know it would be like that. We haven’t tried it.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“We work as friends, don't we?”

“We do. The best.”

“And you know me a lot better than Lav.”

“Gods,” Hermione said. “Don’t tell me she’s got you calling her nicknames, too.”

Ron shifted. His head tipped closer to hers. Hermione felt his hair brush against her forehead. She
reached over with her free hand and pulled some of it through her fingers.

“You really should get this cut. You’re getting shaggy.”

“Yeah. I should--” His eyes flicked lower, and then he closed the last inch between them and kissed
her.

It wasn’t a bad kiss. It felt...nice. Ron smelled like he always did, like grass and wool and the
castile soap Molly Weasley made in colossal batches for the family. His lips were dry, but soft
enough. There was nothing to make Hermione want to flinch back from him. It didn’t feel wrong or
shocking or unnatural. She just wasn’t terribly curious about what he might do next.

He tried parting his lips more, encompassing more of her closed mouth, but when she didn’t move,
he pulled back and rolled to lie on his back again, face stiff. “You didn’t like it.”

“Ron, no. It was. It’s not that.”

“I don’t make you feel like he does.”

Hermione looked over at him. It wasn’t like Ron to be this direct about anything emotional. He
must have been mulling over this for weeks. Probably since he found out. Their fingers were still
intertwined over her stomach. “No,” she said.

She saw him swallow hard. She opened her mouth first.

“Do I make you feel the way I make him feel?”

“I don’t want to talk about how your boyfriend feels.”

“So forget him.”

“I was trying to, a minute ago.”

“I mean, tell me what you think it would be like, with us. Would you tell me your secrets first, and
not Harry? Would you feel better about yourself when you were around me? Would we make each
other feel special, or would we just slip from a comfortable friendship to something else we hoped
would be comfortable, too?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “I just thought we’d pick each other, at some point, when it came to it. It
was always there, in the back of my mind.”

“But that's just it. The back of your mind shouldn't be good enough, for either of us.”

Ron tried to glower at her, but the exhaustion was too plain on his face. There were shadows under
his eyes. “Why do you always have to make things so difficult? Why can’t you let it be easy?”

Hermione’s chest ached. “I’m not trying to be. I think, maybe, things are only easy for me when
the other person doesn't mind that I'm difficult.”

She was worried for a moment that he would cry. He was looking at the ceiling, and his fingers
clamped around hers. Finally, he sighed.

“Malfoy's really taken it on himself, hasn't he? Are you like this with him all the time, too?”

She managed a shaky laugh. “For the most part, yes. It's pretty punishing.”

“Better be,” he muttered. “That git is long overdue to get taken down several pegs.”

“I can see that,” Hermione said. “Although he’s really not as bad as he seemed.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione, enough. I’m tired of fighting.”

“Me too.”

He had his eyes closed now. “Although if the bastard ever loses sight of how good he has it, I'll
beat the daylights out of him.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “You should sleep.” She smoothed his hair back and kissed his
forehead. His lips flickered up, but otherwise he didn’t move.

Ron spent the next few evenings in the hospital wing, for rest and observation. The first morning
he was out, he shot Draco a nasty stare when Draco paused by the Gryffindor table.

“You should get more rest, Weasley, you look dreadful,” Draco said. “Granger, good morning.”

“Would be a better one if I didn’t have a Slytherin putting me off my breakfast,” Ron said.

“Have you ever woken up with a song stuck in your head, Granger? I’ve got one I can’t seem to
shake. It’s incredibly distracting.”

“Have you tried singing it through?” Hermione said. “That sometimes helps.”

“It’s a thought.”

“Sixth verse. Three times.”

He nodded, confirming he’d understood which floor and what time to meet her and go together to
the DA meeting, and headed for the Slytherin table.

Hermione turned to Ron. “What happened there?”

 “It’s Malfoy,” Ron said.

“But you said you were tired of fighting. You were going to back down, at least a bit.”

“When did I say that?”

“The night you ended up in the hospital wing,” Hermione said. “Don’t you remember?”

Ron widened his eyes. “Whatever potion Romilda put on me, must’ve been strong stuff. I don’t
remember anything.”

Hermione’s protests and prompting over the next several minutes didn’t do anything to jog his
memory, either.

“You talked,” she said helplessly. “We had an entire conversation. You’re saying you don’t
remember anything from that night? Anything at all?”

Ron shook his head.

Hermione dropped her forehead to the table with a thunk and refused to answer any protests of,
“What? What did I say? What?” that may have gone swirling over her head.

Chapter End Notes

This is one of the chapters where I've lifted some dialogue directly from canon (the
movie, in this case). It's such a delightful scene in the movie, and I'm actually really
excited about the chance to subvert a girlfriend/actual love interest rivalry in favor of
best friendship. My best guy friend in high school meant more to me than pretty much
any boyfriend (except the boyfriend I ended up marrying). I like the Golden Trio best
as a found family, where romance doesn't add anything to "strengthen" relationships,
because they're so bonded already.

It can sometimes be tough for me to get a good handle on Ron, mostly because the
movies did him dirty by giving Movie Hermione most of his strengths as well as her
own. The books show him more clearly, to me. Plus I always feel like I get to
rediscover him (or any character) by trying to figure out how to get him on the page.
He's a good guy. I hope I am doing him justice.
 Stargazing
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco didn’t get into any more arguments with Weasley, or any of Hermione’s friends, really, other
than a bit of back-and-forth at DA meetings. She thought it was thanks to her request for him to try
to play nice, and Draco was content to let her think that. It wasn’t even a false impression,
necessarily. Draco liked seeing her happy. Admittedly, he also liked making sure those louts knew
who they were dealing with and he wasn’t prepared to let any girl put him under a gag order, but
this was a finer point that wasn’t worth an argument with Granger.

The truer reason why he was holding his end of the uneasy peace was that it didn't do to cut
himself out of any potential circle before he understood his options.

If he failed his task, his life was in peril. That much was clear. There was a chance that his father
could successfully plead with the Dark Lord for him, but Draco worried the odds were too slim to
trust. It would come down to too many factors: how much the Dark Lord needed Lucius, or at least
access to the Malfoy estate and coffers, and how badly Draco made a mess of things if he did fail.
If the Dark Lord told his parents about the glimpses he'd stolen from Draco's mind, enough to
know he was sleeping with a Muggleborn, there could also be a problem of how hard his father
would fight for him at all.

On the other hand, there was a chance he might actually succeed. It was difficult to imagine, but he
knew he was smart, and he could feel how close the Cabinet was to being ready. If he did
accomplish what he was supposed to do, Dumbledore would be dead. Hogwarts as he knew it
would fall. His family might be rewarded by the Dark Lord, or not. Draco didn’t know how well
the Dark Lord held himself to favors, once promised. He did know exactly what he was currently
worth in those red, snake-like eyes.

What Draco needed to determine was, if he did manage to escape from the Dark Lord’s oversight,
whether there was anywhere for him to go.

Dumbledore’s Army, ironically enough, was shaping up to be a more believable option than he
ever would have thought. He hadn’t admitted it to Granger in so many words, but her instincts had
been good. He’d introduced four of the counterspells he knew in as many weeks of secret meetings.
The DA members were throwing themselves into the task, and he’d worked out musical
incantations for several more with Padma and Hannah. He got a few nasty looks and under-the-
breath comments, but he’d expected to get hexed the second he turned his back. This was nothing.

Even Potter was surprisingly decent. Annoyingly so, really. Draco had to admit that Potter didn’t
entirely adopt the ‘glorious leader’ role he’d assumed the Chosen One would leap for as soon as
the opportunity presented itself. Not that the professorial attitude Potter favored instead was that
much better. He was so bloody sincere about it. Draco kept eyeing him when Potter was working
with someone else, trying to catch any hint that Potter was secretly gloating over the power, but he
was always just--teaching.

Even with him. Draco would have bet a hundred Galleons that Potter couldn’t resist digging at him
if Draco admitted he didn’t have a spell down, but he didn’t. It was like Potter forgot who he was
dealing with. All he saw in DA was problems and fixes and practice.

He came around one afternoon when the group was practicing their Patronus spells. Draco was
doing everything the others were, but nothing seemed to be happening. When Potter asked if he
needed any pointers, Draco looked away before allowing a subtle nod.

“Let me see you cast one,” Potter said.

Draco felt stupid. He glared at Potter, but if Potter was making fun of him, there was no sign of it
on his face. Draco closed his eyes, concentrating on his memory.

“Expecto patronum.”

When he opened them, there was nothing. Maybe a weak, pale wisp of smoke.

Potter nodded. “It’s a start. My first ones were like that. Just that sort of glowing steam, whatever it
is. It takes practice. You need to have a really happy memory, your best, and focus on it hard. Give
it another go.”

Draco tried it again, but it was hard to focus on a happy memory while knowing that bloody Potter
was watching. He put his wand down. He’d had a nagging question for a while, and it was too
embarrassing to talk about with Granger.

“How do you know what your Patronus will be?”

“I’m not sure,” Potter said. “Mine’s a stag because my memory was about my dad, I think. But the
others? I dunno. I guess they usually tend to take after the person, a bit. Ron’s loyal and a great
friend, so a dog makes sense, and Hermione’s so quick and clever, her otter fits her.”

“Is it like the Sorting? Do you get any choice? Or is everyone inherently some kind of animal?”

“I don’t know,” Potter said again. “You’d have to ask Hermione. She’s the one who likes to dig
into all the details behind how spells work.”

“I don’t want a lecture.” He hesitated. “How do you know it won’t be something embarrassing?”

“Like what?”

“Like your mother.”

Potter’s jaw tightened. “Why don’t you keep practicing the spell, Malfoy.”

“Look, everyone says once you cast a Patronus, it doesn’t change. You’re stuck with what you
get.”

“Right.”

“So what happens if mine’s wrong?” Draco crossed his arms and looked away. “What if the magic
picks up on the wrong part of me? I’d rather skip the spell than have to cast some stupid familiar
for the rest of my life.”

“It’s really not a big deal, Malfoy. Different people get different Patronuses. I wouldn’t fancy a
hare, but Luna loves hers. It all just seems to work out.”

“I’m not as keen to trust the process. I’ve had magic assign me an animal before. I don’t care to
repeat the experience. I asked a simple question about what the chances were, but if you don’t
know, then never mind.”

Potter’s eyes went wide, and his mouth twitched. “Are you asking me--”
“Keep your bloody voice down, Potter, or I swear to you I’ll hex you here and now.”

Potter took his arm and pulled him a few paces away from the others. He lowered his voice. “Are
you asking me if your Patronus is going to be a ferret?”

Draco pulled his arm free. “Forget I said anything.”

Potter had his back turned to the others, which was good, because he was actually laughing now.
The thing was, he was clearly still trying to keep it down, and his face didn’t have the mocking
expression Draco would have expected if he was talking about this with someone like Blaise.

“Mate, no wonder you’re not casting much. I wouldn’t either, if I were worried about that. Bloody
hell.” He held a hand over his mouth, then managed to pull himself together. “I really don’t think it
will be. A Patronus is a good thing, a protector. If you hated the sight of it, it’d be hard to cast it at
all, yeah? The magic takes its strength from the happiest, best memory you have to offer, not
something you’d rather forget.”

“You’d better not be pulling this out of your ass.”

“No, the more I think about it, it couldn’t be. With the way you feel about--about that animal, it’d
restrict the spell altogether. It’ll be something else, when you get it.” Harry saw Parvati wave a
hand at him, and he patted Draco’s shoulder reflexively. “Keep at it. Let me know if you want me
to look at it again, later.”

One night, after he and Hermione finished their hall monitoring shift, they snuck up to the top of
the Astronomy Tower instead of heading back to their respective dorms. It was a clear night, with
only a sliver of a moon, and there was supposed to be a meteor shower. Hermione insisted on
hauling up some musty-smelling sleeping bags from the Lower Observatory, and she had the
decency not to say anything when he ended up unrolling his after all and braving the prospect of
mildew to keep warm.

“What’s the plan for all this defense training, anyway?” he said.

“They weren’t teaching anything useful in DADA last year,” Hermione said. “It was ridiculous.
Treating books as the last word when a war could break out any minute. Harry’s already faced
Voldemort enough times to know what it’s like.”

“I know what it’s like to face him, Granger,” Draco said quietly. “That’s why I’m asking. What’s
your goal, here? Why are you still calling yourselves Dumbledore’s Army?”

“The Ministry was afraid that Dumbledore was going to build an army of students and overthrow
the government.”

“Yes. Granger. I know.” Draco rubbed a hand over his forehead. “You don’t treat it like a joke,
though. When you’re doing jinx drills and duels, and calling yourselves an army, you’re going to
convince people that you actually mean to fight.”

“What if we do?” Hermione said.

“You shouldn’t be teaching them how to fight. All these stupid kids are going to think that because
they cast a good Stupefy when their friend stood still, they’re ready to take on a Death Eater. You
should be teaching them how to run and hide. You’re setting yourself up for a bloodbath.”
“Oh, because getting caught with no defense training whatsoever isn’t? I’m not telling them to
charge into Death Eater headquarters with their wands out. This is about having the skills you
need. If they can get away, great, they should do that, but it won’t always be possible.”

“That’s not how Potter makes it sound. Or you, either.”

“So you want us to run. How? Only sixth-years are allowed to learn Apparition, or not even then!
You’re too young to take the class. You want me to try to teach people to Apparate in a blind
panic, and probably bleed out God knows where after they splinch themselves?” Hermione’s eyes
were fierce. “Most of us are almost of age. If war’s coming, the Order’s going to need all the forces
they can get. Those of us who want to stand and fight when the time comes want to be ready. If the
professors here won’t help us, then we’ll take matters into our own hands.”

“Would you stop for a second and listen to yourself?” Draco demanded. “You should see your
face. You’re about to start spouting off about the glory of battle any minute. You keep talking
about ‘if war comes’ this, or ‘when the time comes.’ It’s already here, Granger. Do you realize
why the Dark Lord didn’t kill me? Why he gave me this, instead?”

“Your Occlumency,” Hermione said, her tone softer. “You faced him--you blocked off enough of
your mind--”

“I was still more useful to him alive than dead,” Draco said flatly. “I won’t be for much longer.
And none of you are.”

“All the more reason we should stick together, in DA, and the Order, and anywhere else we can.
None of us think we’re of any value to the Death Eaters. Voldemort wants Harry, but only to kill
him personally. If we scatter because we’re afraid, we might as well all give up now. Supporting
each other is the only way we stand any chance.”

“Here’s a question for you. What do you think would happen if you and I broke up?”

“We’re fine.”

“I said if.”

“We’d still be fine,” Hermione said. “We’d still care about each other. We could be civil to each
other, even if things didn’t work out.”

“How far do you think that civility extends?” Draco said. “I’m in a tenuous enough position in the
bloody club as it is. People would pick sides, and I can assure you they’re not flocking to mine.”

“You don’t need to be friends with everyone in DA to be in the group. It helps, of course, but what
we’re doing in DA is about a bigger picture than the state of one couple’s relationship,” she said.
She sighed. “How about this. I promise, I will vouch for you to stay, even if we break up and I
think you’re even more of an ass than I already do.”

He knew she was trying to lighten the mood, but he couldn’t let it go. “Would you protect me
because it fit your sense of justice, or because it’s me?”

“I don’t know, Draco. As a reminder, we’re discussing a situation that doesn’t actually exist. And
you’d be safe, either way. Why does it matter what I think?”

Because I’ll be left with no one. “It does.”

She looked over at him. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

Draco folded his hands over his chest. He didn’t know how to make her understand what he needed
her to. She thought an unconditional promise was supposed to make him feel better, when really it
unmoored him. How were you supposed to know whether you were worth anything, if the end
result was always the same? Love you had access to no matter what happened felt like love given
carelessly. The privileges you earned told you your value. He propped himself up, studying her
face.

“Tell me a secret.”

“Like what?”

“Anything,” Draco said. “I tell you all kinds of things. There must be something you haven’t told
other people.”

“I’m pretty open.”

“I know.” He leaned back again, resting his head on his hands to look up at the stars. “Fine, then.
You wear your heart on your sleeve and don’t have a deep, dark anything to confide in me. Even if
you did, you would have told Potter and Weasley by now, anyway.”

She shifted, next to him. Draco thought she was waiting for the awkwardness of his question to
pass, but then she spoke.

“I might have to curse my parents.”

“What? Why?”

“What I did to Katie, but--everything.” She was quiet for a long time. “They’d be okay, right? If
they didn’t know about magic? Or that they even had a daughter. Would Death--” She choked on
the word. “Would anyone come for them, even if my parents didn’t have any information to give
away?”

He thought of the table, the woman, the masks. Not my father, he thought, feeling cold. “I don’t
know.”

“What if I sent them somewhere? They’ve always wanted to go--”

“Don’t tell me,” Draco snapped. “Don’t tell me,” he repeated, more gently.

He thought he saw her eyes widen for a second.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“No, but make it impossible.” He reached for her hand and it was there, waiting for his. His lips
were dry. He looked up at the dark sky. A tiny light flashed and died. “We’re in a war, and not
everyone in this building with us knows it yet.”

“I’m trying to make them ready.”

“You can’t.”

“I know that.”

The sky lit with enormous, tiny things falling.

 When Draco took the reply letter from his owl’s talons, he waited until he could be alone to read it.
He didn’t feel especially hopeful about what it would say.

“Draco,” the letter read. “Of course you’ll come home for term break. What an odd suggestion.
I’ve been deprived of your company long enough. I’m quite anxious to see you and hear all about
what you’ve learned. Your loving, Mother.”

Chapter End Notes

I've been skeptical in the past about the likelihood of a Harry/Draco friendship
(although, oddly enough, I've really enjoyed the few Drarry fics I've read, so there's
always been a flaw in my assumptions?), but damn. They really do have some
chemistry. JK did such a majestic job in making them foils for each other. I kind of like
the idea of their simple antagonism maturing into a weird, like/hate, rivalry-respect-
quasi-friendship that neither one of them totally understands. I guess that's sort of what
happens in the epilogue? (#teamEWE) Draco would definitely need to be on halfway
decent terms with Ron, though, or Harry James Loyalty Potter will never go for it, and
that's a tougher nut to crack.
 A Bit of Rare Magic
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Late in the afternoon on the day that Harry took the Felix Felices potion, he burst into the
Gryffindor Common Room and gesticulated wildly at Hermione and Ron.

“I’ve got it,” he panted. “The memory. Emergency meeting with Dumbledore. Come quick.”

The three of them ran through the halls to the Headmaster’s office.

“Blast it, what’s he changed it to this time?” Harry said.

“Licorice lolly,” Hermione said, and the door swung open.

Dumbledore looked surprised to see all three of them there, instead of Harry alone, but he took the
vial with Slughorn’s wispy, grey memory floating inside and poured it into the Pensieve.

“A Horcrux is an object in which someone conceals part of their soul,” the younger version of
Slughorn said in the vision in the basin. “By doing so, you are protected if you are attacked and
your body should be destroyed. The part of your soul that is hidden lives on.”

“How does one split his soul, sir?” said Tom Riddle, in his strange, dispassionate, high voice.

“Killing rips the soul apart. It is a violation against nature.”

“Can one only split the soul once? Could it be done, for instance, seven times?”

Ron turned his face away, looking sick.

“Sir--” Harry began, but Dumbledore waved him into silence. Hermione had never seen the
Headmaster look so old. He looked around the room, almost as if bewildered to find himself there,
before collapsing into a chair.

“This is beyond anything I’d imagined,” he said.

“You mean to say he succeeded, then, in making a Horcrux,” Harry said.

“Oh, he succeeded all right. And not just once.”

“I still don’t understand,” Hermione said. “What are they, exactly?”

“They could be anything. A ring, for example. A book.” He took a ripped leather journal out of his
desk drawer.

“Riddle’s diary,” said Harry.

Dumbledore nodded. “It was a Horcrux. Moaning Myrtle provided the sacrifice, which bound her
life essence to the diary. The most commonplace of objects could contain a fragment of the soul of
the most powerful Dark wizard of our age.”

“That isn’t right,” Hermione said.

Dumbledore peered at her over his spectacles. “Indeed not. To create a Horcrux is to commit one
of the gravest, most evil acts of magic that exists. It goes against all that we could call right.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I meant that can’t be correct . A Horcrux can’t work that way.
None of the writing on souls I’ve found in our archives suggests that they’ve been definitively
proven; the greatest wizards and witches in all the texts are still arguing over what a soul even is .
Souls certainly aren’t understood well enough to have a defined magical application, like capturing
one or hurting it.”

“Blimey, Hermione, you want to rein it in a bit?” Ron said. “It’s Dumbledore, don’t you think he
knows what he’s talking about?”

Dumbledore folded his hands. “Miss Granger isn’t entirely incorrect,” he said. “I thought it simpler
to explain a Horcrux in this way, but I see you’ve undertaken your own studies. I will attempt to be
more clear. Perhaps you could clarify which aspect of soul magic troubles you?”

“Magic can’t change who you are,” she said. “Even Dark magic. The Imperius Curse is an
Unforgivable. Someone can make you do terrible things, but it’s just your body moving. The real
you, inside, wouldn’t. Voldemort can put his magic over someone, but that doesn’t change their
heart. No magic is strong enough to corrupt who the person truly is. ”

“My dear, it is the very nature of magic to shape and change who you are,” Dumbledore said. “The
same way any use of power will do. The dark spells Voldemort casts may not poison the hearts of
his victims, but can you deny that they affect his? Voldemort does not see people as human beings
any longer. He sees tools for his own use, either to serve him or die, and perhaps to die in a way
that prolongs his own life.”

He said killing me now would be a waste. He can do what he wants with me. Draco’s words rang in
Hermione’s ears. Her legs went boneless under her and she dropped into a chair, putting her head
between her knees.

“Draco’s home for break,” she whispered into her hands. “Oh God, he’s at home.”

“Hermione, what’s the matter?” Harry said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Dumbledore said. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“How important is it that there are seven?” she said. “Would Voldemort try to make another, to
replace one that’s lost?”

“That, I believe, is unlikely. As we’ve seen, he knew from the beginning that he wished to create a
specific set.” Dumbledore lowered his spectacles. “Pardon my saying so, but you seem especially
agitated. Might I inquire as to the object of your concern? Perhaps I can alleviate it.”

Hermione hesitated. But she couldn’t think of what to say without putting Draco at even greater
risk. What if Dumbledore didn’t let him come back to Hogwarts? She shook her head.

“Why is Moaning Myrtle still around, if the diary was destroyed?” Ron asked, eyeing the ripped
book with distaste.

“What you should understand about a Horcrux is that it creates a channel between the object and
the creator. I’ve never heard of multiple concurrent Horcruxes existing before, but it’s entirely
possible that they would all be interlinked. In that case, Myrtle may persist until the last Horcrux is
destroyed.”
“What happens to her? Her mind, or her soul?” Hermione asked. “Does she know what’s
happening to her?”

“What happens to any soul, after death?” Dumbledore said. “Magic has not reached into the
greatest unknown. Do you believe she is as she was, in life?”

“No,” said Hermione. “None of the ghosts are. Nearly-Headless Nick gets gloomy about not being
part of the Headless Hunt every year, even though it’s been centuries. They act like patterns, not
people.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Ghosts, and enchanted portrait paintings, enable aspects of a person’s mind
and personality to persist, but they cannot grow or change. They may come to learn new students’
names, but they don’t think new thoughts the way the living do. A Horcrux is something quite
different. Killing another person, binding their life energy and mind to an object, adds considerably
more power. The Horcrux’s creator puts part of himself into an object already imbued with life. He
becomes a parasite, living inside the echoes of thought and memory of the slain. It is gruesome, but
it results in a state closer to genuine life.”

“How do we know where to find them?” Harry said.

“Therein lies the difficulty,” Dumbledore said. “We must locate and destroy all the Horcruxes if
we hope to defeat Lord Voldemort.”

“Bloody fantastic,” said Ron.

“What do you need us to do?” asked Hermione.

“I’ve placed too great a burden on you already,” Dumbledore said. “Although, I admit, I may still
have more to ask of you, especially you, Harry. I don’t want to worry you prematurely, but if the
time comes that I need your assistance, I will explain further.”

Hermione curled her fingers into fists, spread them out again. “Are any of us going to make it
through this? How are we supposed to hold out against someone who’s capable of all of this?”

Dumbledore frowned. “Miss Granger, you surprise me. We have always known that we have more
powerful forces to draw on than Voldemort.”

“Love,” Harry said. “And friendship.”

Ron made a half-smile that looked like a wince. “I’m with Hermione, to be honest. We’re holding
together as well as we can, but he keeps getting stronger. And if the bastard can’t even die--I
dunno. Harry’s mum saved him, but she still died. No offense, mate.”

“‘S’all right,” Harry said.

“It’s interesting you should mention Lily,” Dumbledore said. “Slughorn told you about a gift he
received from your mother, Harry, if I’m not mistaken.”

“A bowl of water, with a flower that turned into a fish,” Harry said. “But he told me that when we
were alone, Headmaster. How did you know?”

“I asked Slughorn if I might inspect it, shortly after your mother died. The fish had disappeared,
and of course, you survived. It would have been best if I had conducted tests before, as well, but
sufficient traces remained to convince me. I believe your mother prepared a powerful spell,
intending to protect you. Something, in fact, almost like a Horcrux in some of its base mechanics, if
opposite in nature. As Hermione has pointed out, it is not possible to take the soul of another
through magic. It is, however, possible to commit the most essential parts of you into what you
create. Lily was pregnant, I imagine, and desperate to protect her unborn child in whatever way
possible. I’ve told you before that her love saved you. This was how.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to go over that again.”

Hermione’s lips were moving. Her hand darted, subconsciously mimicking the practice flicks and
twirls for a complicated spell. She looked up into Dumbledore’s face. “She made herself the
sacrifice. It’s the inverse of a Horcrux. She bound it with her love and her life, instead of killing
someone else to provide the power.”

Dumbledore turned toward Harry. “Your mother was a remarkably gifted witch, and a sensitive
woman. The flower was, naturally, a lily, and as for the fish. Well. I claim no personal experience,
but I have heard that the first movements of a child are not unlike a fish in a bowl. Lily held great
respect for love’s strength. Although,” he said, blue eyes over the crescent glasses turning stern, “It
is also worth noting that sacrificial love is not the only meaningful expression of the emotion. We
have more power, and more to hope for, than you may imagine.”

Hermione was quiet and troubled, leaving Dumbledore’s office. She took Harry’s hand.

“Can we go for a walk?”

Harry looked relieved. “Sure, yeah. You want to talk through it a little more? I’m still trying to
wrap my head around what it all means. Ron, you want to come talk?”

Ron made a face. “Rather not, mate. It’s enough talk about killing and evil magic for one
afternoon, for me. You and Hermione go on ahead. Catch me up later.”

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, mixed with some guilt. It would be harder to bring up her
concerns about Draco to both boys together. Easier if she could coax Harry around first, and have
his backup to talk with Ron. The two of them split off and made their way to the grounds.

“We’re going to have to wait until Dumbledore tells us what’s next,” Harry said. “Unless you’ve
read something useful? You’ve been tearing through a lot of books, even for you.”

“Harry,” Hermione said. “I think we should tell Draco. About the Horcruxes, and everything.”

Harry cocked his head. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Dumbledore’s been holding all of this
tight to the chest. He wasn’t even sure about me telling you and Ron about things, at first. It’s
hardly something to start spreading around.”

“Who said anything about spreading it around?” Hermione said. “I think we need to be careful,
sure. Let’s not bring it up in DA. But Draco needs to know Voldemort’s made these. I don’t care if
Dumbledore thinks it’s ‘unlikely’ that he’ll try to make another Horcrux. If there’s any chance at
all, we need to make a plan. Talk to the Order, maybe. There’s got to be a safe house that could
take him, to get him out of harm’s way.”

“What do you mean, get him out?” Harry said, voice sharper. “Hermione, what are you trying to
tell me he’s in ?”

Hermione realized, too late, that she was saying more than she meant to. “The war’s already
started. We can’t act like we’re the only ones affected by Voldemort.”
 “I thought you said he learned Dark magic from his father,” Harry said.

“I--he did,” Hermione said.

“But are you telling me he’s working for the Death Eaters, or what? How deep is Malfoy in?”

“He’s not what you think he is,” she said. “You’ve been biding your time all year trying to pin
accusations on Draco.”

“It sounds like you’re telling me I’ve been more right than you wanted to admit.”

Hermione set her teeth. “You don't have any idea what you're talking about. You don’t know what
Draco’s already put himself through to have a fighting chance at keeping away from the Death
Eaters.”

“Excellent job he’s done. You’ve seen how many Dark hexes he knows in DA, right? He isn’t
learning spells like that late nights in the library. Ginny’s been saying for weeks that we should be
asking more questions about who Malfoy’s really casting his lot in with.”

“Is that how it’s going to be?” Hermione demanded. “Judge Potter gets to pick and choose who he
likes, and anyone who hasn’t got on your good side is left out in the cold?”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “Blimey, Hermione, listen to yourself. You’re starting to sound like him.”

“I trust him,” Hermione said. “Harry, I wish at least that you’d trust me about this.”

“Trusting you isn’t the problem.” Harry rubbed a hand over his forehead and through his hair,
sending it sticking wildly in all directions. “All of this is getting so big,” he said. “It used to be
simpler.”

“I don’t think it’s going to go back to being simple,” Hermione said. “We’re in the part where
things are going to keep getting bigger and worse, and we’re not going to know how long that part
will last until it’s over. It’s up to us to save who we can.”

“Would you save him if it put our other friends at risk? Ginny, and Luna, and Hannah, and
Neville?”

“I don’t think it would. I know him. I’m not turning my back on him.”

Harry jammed his hands in his pockets. “I do trust you, Hermione. If you tell me he knows the
things he knows because of his parents, I believe you mean that. When Malfoy gets back, though,
he and I are having a heart-to-heart. If he wants to stand with us, he can stand with us. But if he’s
going to turncoat back to Malfoy Manor the second anything goes wrong, I can’t put our friends in
danger.”

Chapter End Notes

(Once again, I've lifted or very lightly remixed quotes from canon here. I might stop
providing explicit disclaimers about this, since readers of this fic have proven to be
better versed with canon then I am on various occasions! I trust you all to spot the
words that aren't my own and know I'm not trying to pull the wool over your eyes.)
I know I'm not the only person who's questioned how in the world "mother's love"
provided such a strong magical protection (Did Voldemort never murder a child
before? Did other mothers...not love their kids sufficiently?). I hope it's not too weird
to say I kind of feel Tom Riddle's point here? I've got plenty of questions about how
magic and souls work. It's all hypothetical, of course, all purely academic ;-).
 Blood
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The first day Draco came home after break, he didn’t notice much of anything different. He was
still too jumpy, flinching when Granger came up behind him and put her hand on his back.
Keeping his friable nerves in check took too much effort to register cues from other people.

Over the next few days, he caught Potter’s suspicious glances when the other boy thought Draco
wasn’t looking. He noticed Potter and Granger with their heads together and a dark expression on
Potter’s face. Granger made a sympathetic face when he asked about DA meetings and told him
those were on hold for the moment.

“Why?” he said. “There are more counters to teach. I thought you wanted everyone to practice as
many as I knew.”

“I do,” she said. “I’m just sorting a few things out, first. We’ll get back to it soon.”

“Sorting things out with Potter?”

“Harry’s under a bit of stress right now.”

“And?”

“And I thought it would be best if I wasn’t trying to push you two together on top of it. Just. Draco.
Leave it alone until I get a chance to smooth a couple things over, okay?”

He tried pressing her, but she was too deep in that prim, let-me-deal-with-Potter place to make
more conversation worthwhile. Draco didn’t have any more choice in the matter but to wait.

Unless he talked to Potter himself, which was what he was considering when he walked into the
Great Hall that afternoon. Granger had said something she shouldn’t, that much was clear. The
question was how much, and how much trouble he was in because of it.

He recognized Katie Bell from across the hall, and realized a split second later that the dark-haired
boy she was talking to was Potter. Katie was standing close to him, leaning in slightly as if she was
murmuring whatever it was she was telling him. Something secret. And then her gaze shifted,
looking over Potter’s shoulder, directly at Draco.

Draco faltered. It couldn’t be. Katie couldn’t possibly--Granger had promised.

Then Potter turned, too, eyes scanning until they stopped on him, and Draco panicked.

He turned on the spot and made his way out of the Great Hall. It felt like there was an iron band
wrapped around his lungs. He couldn’t get air. He dug his thumb into the knot of his tie, loosening
it to relieve the choking pressure.

Too many people in the halls. The bathroom would be empty. He quickened his pace.

By the time he reached the bathroom, Draco was fighting a wave of nausea. His skin felt prickly
and hot. Clammy droplets of sweat made his forehead itch.

He shouldn’t have done it. He should never have done it.

He tugged at his tie again, pulled it off, yanked his sweater over his head. He ran the tap cold and
splashed water on his face. The shock of the cold made him gasp, and then the one gasp turned into
shuddering, panicky sobs. He gripped the sides of the sink, struggling to regain control. There
wasn’t enough air.

“I know what you did, Malfoy.” Potter’s voice, rough with anger and scorn. “You hexed her, didn’t
you?”

Draco spun away from the mirror. Potter’s eyes took in the paleness of Draco’s face, his mussed
hair, the wetness on his cheeks. There should have been hatred on his face, but there was a
contemptuous sort of pity instead, which was unbearably worse.

Draco knew too well what happened to the weak. It wouldn’t be him, not again.

He lifted his arm and fired the first hex he could think of, a blinding flash of power that Potter
dodged easily, although not without a cry of surprise.

“ Snake .” Potter fired a wordless spell back, something powerful enough to singe Draco’s cheek
as he leaped out of the way, and break the mirror behind him.

Potter stormed toward him. Draco darted behind a stone column and fired again.

“Get out!”

“How many others?” Potter shouted. “Who’ve you hurt, Malfoy?”

Draco slunk around the perimeter, shielding himself behind stone, masking the sound of his steps
with the patter of water. Draco’s father’s voice was echoing in his ears, withering and malicious
and desperate. He screwed his eyes shut.

Do it. It's a spell, you stupid boy.

“Was Ron your doing, too?” Potter shouted. “Answer me!”

What's unforgivable is putting your mother's life in danger. All of our lives.

“Does Hermione know what you are?”

Don’t force my hand.

“What will you do to her to save your skin, Death Eater?” Nothing but hatred in Potter’s voice
now, and it was too close.

Draco opened his eyes. The rage and terror and hate was pounding in his head, too, and it was
Potter, who’d always despised him (except when it had seemed like somehow he might help him,
might be someone Draco could almost trust, but that was already a lifetime ago). If he could do this
now, then Lucius’ voice would stop. He lifted his wand.

“Cru--” he said, just as Potter yelled, “Sectumsempra!” and a jolt of magic blasted Draco off his
feet.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he landed. His chest. Something was the matter with his
chest. Dragging lines of pressure pulled from--he wasn’t sure. He felt weak. And--warm? No, cold.
No. His back was cold but his chest was hot, and he wanted to cry or call for help, but his breath
hitched when his chest moved and no sound would come.
More pressure, throbbing dark-bright. His stomach. Arms. A female voice was screeching,
“Murder!” He was shaking uncontrollably. His chest hurt now, and the pain was so loud . The
warm wetness was spreading. If he didn’t open his eyes, it wouldn’t be blood. If he held still, this
would go away.

The pressure was driving deeper. His stomach. Draco felt ragged parts of him rub against the fabric
of his shirt with each shallow breath. Something slippery. Draco had a wild, delirious thought that
he would find out if his intestines had nerve endings, if he could tell if his shirt touched them. It
struck him as funny. He wanted to tell someone, but no one could hear inside his head.

A sonorous voice, intoning something not quite melodic, not quite tuneless. Gradually, Draco was
aware of the pressure lessening, although somehow it made the actual pain sharpen its clarity.
There was something small and hard tracing over his chest now. The tip of a wand. He opened his
eyes and saw the color swirling back toward his body. And then Draco could take a real breath.

“We need to get you to the hospital wing,” Snape said. “You need dittany. Immediately. There will
be some scarring, although if we act quickly, we may avoid even that.” He pulled Draco up and
slung one of Draco’s arms over his shoulders.

Draco looked at his feet, which seemed to move so slowly as Snape half-carried, half-dragged him
along. He put his fingertips to his chest and cried out. His shirt was still soaked with blood. He
thought he’d seen blood going back into the wounds, but what about the rest of it? The warmth had
slid down his sides. The puddle he had been lying in was viscous.

His head felt fuzzy.

He wasn’t going to make it on his own feet to the hospital wing. He opened his mouth to tell
Snape, but he needed all his attention to breathe again. Draco toppled, and Snape’s hand caught
him under his shoulder, and Draco had just enough time to feel a flicker of gratitude before he lost
consciousness.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Hermione shouted. Harry was sitting in an armchair in the
Common Room, already looking cowed, but she didn’t care. News traveled fast. By the time Harry
got back to Gryffindor Tower and told Hermione, Ron, and Ginny what had happened, Hermione
had heard plenty.

“Leave it, Hermione,” Ron warned. “He’s already gotten told off by Snape and McGonagall, he
doesn’t need you yelling, too.”

“You’re bloody well right I’m going to yell, Ronald Weasley. He could have killed him!”
Hermione shouted. “And he was more concerned about getting cut from the Quidditch team!
Harry, how could you? You told them first, before you even thought to come and tell me?”

“He’s all right, isn’t he?” said Ron.

“They won’t let me in to see him yet,” Hermione said. “So I don’t know. But no, I don’t imagine
he’s in great shape, because for one, he wouldn’t be in the hospital wing, and two, they would let
people in if it was minor. Millicent said--”

“You said no visitors,” Ginny cut in. She hovered over Harry, one arm wrapped over his shoulders.
“Get your story straight.”

“She saw him going in ,” Hermione said crisply. “Unconscious, soaked in blood. Snape had to
carry him.”

“Who’s Millicent?” said Harry.

“Millicent Bulstrode. She’s our year. And yes, Ginny, she’s a Slytherin, but she’s also one of
Draco’s friends. She wouldn’t lie to me about what she saw.”

“Even so, she only saw that one piece,” Ron said. “That’s just one side of the story.”

“I should think if one boy’s hurt badly enough he can’t walk and the other doesn’t have a scratch
on him, that’s fairly conclusive!”

“Will you stop harping on like I ambushed him for no reason?” Harry said. “Malfoy’s not some
innocent dove, Hermione. You should’ve seen the way he was looking at Katie. He cursed her. It’s
obvious. And in the bathroom, he all but admitted it, too--”

“What did he say?”

“And he fired at me first. He started the fight.”

“I don’t believe this,” Hermione said. “You’re actually defending--”

“I’m not defending what I did!” Harry said. “I wish I hadn’t done it, and not because of Quidditch,
or the detentions. I wouldn’t have used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, if I’d known.”

Hermione snatched up the book and prodded the note in the margin. “Because ‘for enemies’
couldn’t possibly mean anything harmful. Don’t we all just wish our enemies sunshine and
marshmallows? Or maybe you thought it would be something dastardly, like always having one
fewer pancake than you wanted.”

“Give it a rest, Hermione!” said Ginny, grabbing Harry’s hand. Harry looked up at her, eyes wide
with hope and surprise. “By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to cast an Unforgivable Curse. Or
did you lose sight of that, in the shuffle? Would you rather have it be Harry in the hospital, if your
precious ferret was safe?”

“Of course not,” Hermione said, stung. “Ginny, I haven’t said anything like that. And even you
can’t call that Sectumsempra spell good. Look where it’s landed him! Even if you’re only bothered
with the way it’s inconvenienced Harry,” she added snidely, “You’d have to admit at least that this
doesn’t do you any favors in the match.”

“Oh, don’t start acting as though you understand Quidditch,” Ginny said, matching Hermione’s
tone. “You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Harry and Ron had retreated into stunned silence. They swiveled their heads from one witch to the
other. Now they turned back to Hermione, who found herself too furious to collect her words.

Ginny folded her arms. “You may as well run along and check on your boyfriend, then,” she said.
“I’ll be the one who stays back and takes care of Harry.”

“I care about Harry,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare accuse me otherwise.
But it looks like Harry’s got plenty of people in his corner, so yes, I think I will try and see the
person who actually got hurt.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Madame Pomfrey said, at the entrance to the boy’s ward.

Hermione made to push past her, but Pomfrey grabbed her arm.

“Don’t grill him. I’ve turned several professors away already. The boy’s recovering from a serious
hex. Don’t think I won’t take you right back through these doors if I catch you riling my patients.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Hermione said.

Draco’s chest was wrapped in bandages. His eyes were open, but he didn’t look over at Hermione
when she approached the bed.

“Hey,” she said. “I’ve been trying and trying. Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t let me in to see you until
now.”

“You needn’t have bothered.”

“Obviously I should.” Hermione sat in the chair. She took his hand, and jumped when the action
rotated his arm to show the clear skin on the underside. “What happened to it?”

Draco looked down. “Snape. A concealment charm. The Healers should be focused on the more
pressing concern, shouldn’t they?”

“Everyone’s talking about you,” Hermione said. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll pull through, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking how you are.”

“What do you think?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

Hermione waited. Draco’s hand was still loose in hers. His fingers didn’t curl around her hand.

“Then are you going to talk to me?”

He flicked his gaze her direction and back. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I talked to Harry.”

“There it is.”

“What does that mean?”

“What did Potter have to say, then?” Draco said. “Or maybe start with what it was you told him so
he’d hunt me down in a bathroom.”

“Draco, whatever Harry did isn’t my fault. I didn’t send him after you. He’s been suspicious about
you for most of the year. He and Ron and I went to see Dumbledore--”

“About what?”

“We were discussing Slughorn,” Hermione said. “I talked to Harry after, about finding a safe house
for you, and he jumped to all kinds of conclusions. I thought things were getting better in DA, but
apparently not enough.”

“So now you’re here to try and patch things up.”

“I’m here for you.”

“Maybe you should stop.” Draco’s face was collected, but Hermione knew to look for the tension
in his posture. “I’m not going back to DA, or any of it. I’m not going to fit into your circle, and
even you’re clearly still prepared to listen to everything Potter has to say before I get a word.”

“I already told you I came here first. Madame Pomfrey wasn’t letting anyone in. So I went and
found Harry so I could hear what the hell happened. I didn’t go to stroke his forehead and tell him
how sorry I am he can’t play bloody Quidditch, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I don’t
understand why you’re upset at me for hearing him out.”

“Because you can’t have a foot on either side!”

Hermione drew back, spine suddenly ramrod straight and pressing hard into the back of the
wooden chair. She knew she must look stunned, but she couldn’t read anything behind the grey
eyes and careful set of his mouth. That was more worrying to her than what he'd said.

“You told me we were on the same side.” She kept her voice low, looking down the row of beds to
make sure none of the nurses were nearby. “Draco. What’s changed? Tell me.”

“Nothing’s changed. It’s all the way it’s always been,” Draco muttered. “You and I can’t be a side
all by ourselves.”

“You need more people in your corner. I get that. We can figure something out. Maybe it’s time to
talk to Dumbledore directly.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Draco pulled himself into a straighter sitting position, too. “Granger, don’t
you dare. Stop trying to solve things for me, you’re only making it worse. Stay out.”

“All right, I can admit DA didn’t turn out to be as strong of a solution as I thought it would be. That
doesn’t mean you give up, it means you look for the next step. We don’t have a more powerful
person to turn to than Dumbledore.”

“You can’t rely on Dumbledore for everything,” Draco said. “You can’t put your faith in one
person. If he lets you down, you’ll all get yourselves killed.”

“Draco, you can’t go through your whole life writing your options off before you even know what
someone might be willing to do for you. That’s the way to end up alone, and clearly you can’t
handle everything by yourself.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of. You don’t know what I’ve done. No matter how much
you’re reading and planning, and how brilliant you are, you can’t plan for everything that could
happen, either. Everything that’s coming is bigger than you, Granger, and you’re going to have to
face up to that sooner or later. The more you tangle yourself up in trying to control everything, the
more likely you’re going to end up hurt, or worse. You need to learn the difference between when
to fight and when to do what you need to do to protect yourself.”

“Maybe you ought to learn there isn’t some special point where everyone splits off and only takes
care of themself. We all have to take care of each other, if any of us hope to survive. I’m sorry you
couldn’t count on Harry this time, although again, it’s not my job to be apologizing. You can’t just
shut people out and then complain that there’s no one here for you.”
 “Promise me. If something happens, get your people together and get them out. Don’t go running
toward commotion for once in your life.”

“Draco, nothing’s going to happen here.”

“You have to promise.”

“Ssh.” Hermione looked down the corridor again. “You’re going to get me kicked out if Pomfrey
hears you.”

Too late. Madame Pomfrey poked her head in the doorway. “Visiting hours are up,” she
announced.

“We’re not done talking,” Hermione said.

“Oh yes, you are.” She strode up, sensible shoes making a hushed, scuffing sound on the polished
floor. “Get your things and say goodnight. Visiting hours are ten to twelve tomorrow, and then
again at four. And you, my lad, are having another potion and then lights out in fifteen minutes.
There’ll be plenty of time to chat later on.”

But of course, as it soon became apparent, there wasn’t.

Chapter End Notes

RIP my search history writing this chapter.

"blood loss chart"

"how much blood is in the human body"
"how much blood can you lose"
"blood loss symptom by volume"
"symptoms of shock"
"what does it feel like to get stabbed"
"what stab wound feels like"
"real stabbing story"

It's basically a writing rite of passage to worry that the spies tracking your computer
think you might be a serial killer.

Also: Reading the book version of this scene is fun because 1. JKR describes some of
the Sectumsempra wounds appearing on Draco's *face*, like holy shit lady, you are
serious about hurting this boy! and 2. the Golden Trio scene is amazing because it's
the closest thing to reading as though Hermione really has been very quietly dating
Draco all this time. Like, he's a racist who's tormented her for years etc.etc.etc., but
when Sectumsempra goes down, Ron and Ginny are there like, "Harry, this was
maybe not the best choice you've made," and Hermione is the one just RAGING OUT.

Sure, the official explanation is probably that Hermione is a Rule Follower (despite
her tendency not to give a single f about rules when push comes to shove) and an
overall decent person, but it's more fun to imagine that Hermione ran the math and
decided her romantic life was 0% the boys' business.
 The Astronomy Tower
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The Cabinet worked. Draco could barely trust what was happening in front of him, but it worked.
The gears turned with silken ease. Even the feel of the magic reverberating from his wand had
found a new frequency. It worked. It terrified him.

He came back to it several times, feeling like he was walking through a dream. He sent an apple, it
came back. A bird came back. A mouse, back. Alive, unharmed. There had to be some mistake.

Draco tested again and again, getting more reckless, tossing in combinations of whatever animals
he could catch. Birds, mice, snakes, toads. Someone’s cat. Alive, alive, alive. It didn’t even seem
to matter if he kept track of how many creatures he tossed into the Cabinet at once. Some
irreproducible combination of spells must have solidified the protections on the transfer magic. He
could test over and over as many times as he wanted, and nothing died.

He didn’t care. Nothing was enough to convince him. Who gave a bloody shit if he could send a
mouse, if the real test was whether the Cabinet could hold his parents? He needed something
bigger. Something human.

He tore out of the Room of Requirement, brain seething, body trembling with the need to prove.
Draco didn’t even think about what he was doing until he’d slammed the door shut on the Merpup
and spoken the incantation. Then the knowledge of what he’d face if he was wrong hit. He sagged
against the Cabinet, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead into the door.

“No, no, no,” he whispered into the wood. “Please.”

He couldn’t cast the return spell for several minutes. His hands were shaking too hard to control his
wand. Every time he opened his mouth for the spell, the thought of a motionless infant came into
his head, and he had to swallow hard against the urge to vomit.

Finally, he cast the spell. The gears turned, tiny metal teeth interlocking.

Silence.

Then, a squalling cry of confusion and fury on the other side of the door.

Draco burst into tears. He flung open the door and scooped the howling Merpup into his arms,
huddling with it in the Cabinet, clutching it to his chest until it squirmed and bit at his hands.

“I’m sorry.” He put his face in its downy pelt, letting the warmth and movement calm his heart rate
back down. “I'm so sorry.”

The parents were in a state of frantic rage when he carried the pup back to the moat. Draco caught
a glancing slice on his hand from one of their spears when he dropped the pup in the water. He
didn't care.

The letter, in the end, was easier to write than he'd imagined for months it would be.

“Mum, I got hurt. My friends--” He crossed the last words out. Best to keep things simple. If he
was going to send this letter at all, and take on everything that meant, it would be despicable to lie
now. Choosing his words here was the last thing he had true control of. “I’m ready to come home.
I miss you.”

Draco still thought, up until the Vanishing Cabinet door creaked open without his touch on the
latch, that his parents would be the ones inside. He had braced himself to see Lucius Malfoy at his
coldest and most terrifying, the Death Eater instead of his father.

What he saw was Bellatrix. His aunt tipped her head to one side, wild hair hanging in her face, and
revealed broken front teeth when she grinned. She held out a hand.

“Well?” she said. “Manners, Draco. Aren’t you going to help a lady down?”

Draco took a tentative step forward. Bellatrix didn’t like waiting, or anything she perceived as a
slight. Her petulance was dangerous, even for him. At the same time, it was also dangerous to be
within reach of her. He offered her his hand.

She yanked him close. Rotten meat stench. Yellow teeth--not Bellatrix’s--snapping inches from his
face.

Draco yelled and leapt back, fingers pulling free from his aunt’s grip.

Bellatrix laughed, mouth open wide, and hopped down. Behind her, the werewolf, Fenrir
Greyback, leered in the doorway. His guttural laugh made Draco take another step back.

Fenrir stepped down, snuffling at the air. His yellow eyes trained on Draco’s.

“Lots of kids coming through here,” he said. “Smells good.”

Two others stepped through. Draco didn’t recognize them behind their masks. They didn’t speak.

Bellatrix gripped him where his shoulder met his neck. She smiled again, her face too close. “Time
to go. Be a dear and show your Auntie the way.”

Later, Draco would relive some of the events that happened that evening over and over, every
detail impressed in devastating clarity into his mind. Other parts slipped away, and he would hate
himself for losing them.

He remembered the werewolf’s breath behind him as Bellatrix marched him out of the Room of
Requirement.

He remembered the voices in the halls, which were the sign that the second thing was going
wrong, that night.

Longbottom saw them first. His body tensed, and then his wand was in his hand.

Bellatrix swatted his Stupefy spell away with a bored flick of her wand and fired a Cruciatus curse
back that Longbottom barely managed to dodge. Draco suspected Bellatrix had missed on purpose,
to prolong the game.
Other people came running when Longbottom shouted. Lovegood. One of the Gryffindor Chasers-
-Spinnet. Ginny Weasley, and a young man Draco didn’t know, but whose hair almost certainly
confirmed him as one of the oldest Weasley brothers.

Draco couldn’t tell them to run.

Longbottom shoved Spinnet. “Get the others, I’ll cover you!” He fired a Shield spell after her as
she ran, and Luna’s dreamy voice reeled off a stream of confounding charms, spells that made
Draco’s balance lurch with vertigo and clouded his vision. More people were running in. Bellatrix
and the other Death Eaters were firing curses indiscriminately, but the DA members seemed to
miss each one, however narrowly.

Until Ginny’s Stinging Hex caught Bellatrix in her wand arm.

“Filthy little bitch,” Bellatrix snarled. She shot a spell at Ginny that flung the girl into the wall
behind her. Ginny was on the floor, but her wand was still in her hand and she flinched away from
Bellatrix’s next hex. Ginny climbed to one knee and steadied her arm to fire again.

Draco could see the flatness in his aunt’s eyes. She’d never see real people in front of her, not since
Azkaban, and probably even before then, too. There were toys and there were pests. The next spell
she cast would kill.

The red-haired man shoved in between them and turned to face Bellatrix, but Bellatrix smiled,
tapping the tip of her wand against her teeth. Greyback leaped from the side.

There was a wet sound when the werewolf’s teeth sank into flesh. A girl screamed. Bellatrix
cackled. An image flashed through Draco's mind--the golden tines of his fork piercing a lump of
meat on his plate, knife sawing, every nerve in his body whining don’t look up .

He had Peruvian Instant Darkness powder in his pocket. He threw it.

Voices, scuffle, growls. Wet, bubbling breath. More screams. Bellatrix found his elbow and steered
him forward, and Draco's foot skidded in something. The darkness and the effects of the other
spells prevented him from making out much, but he saw enough.

There was blood on the floor.

There was a body on the floor, unmoving.

“Go,” Bellatrix hissed.

He stepped over the body.

Draco counted steps on the climb up to the top of the Astronomy Tower to steady himself. When
he passed the Lower Observatory, he reached for the door handle automatically. He didn't notice
he'd done it until Bellatrix said, “Not here, idiot.”

Another crash of spells, below. Bellatrix shoved him forward and descended back into darkness.

Stepped over it. The toe of his shoe brushed against it.
He reached (stepped) the top of the tower and crossed (right over it) the threshold, and there was (a
body) Dumbledore, alone, wand all but dangling from his hand.

“Expelliarmus,” Draco said, and the wand flew into his hand, and Dumbledore was (dead he was
dead) looking right at him.

“Good evening, Draco.”

Draco glanced around. He saw two things: a pair of broomsticks leaning against the stone wall
behind Dumbledore, and glittering light overhead from the skull in the sky, a thick snake winding
from its mouth.

“Who else is here?” Draco thought he’d seen all the Death Eaters who had come through the
Cabinet. Who had slipped away to cast the Morsmordre? If Dumbledore rode into Hogwarts
tonight, who was with him?

“A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?”

Draco shook his head, mouth dry. “There are Death Eaters in your school tonight.”

“You found a way to let them in?”

“Right under your nose,” Draco said. “You never realized.”

“Ingenious,” Dumbledore said in that calm, infuriating voice. As though Draco was a child
prattling on about a finger painting. “But where are they now? You seem unsupported.”

“I came on ahead. I--I’ve got a job to do.”

Dumbledore settled himself on the stone bench. “Forgive an old man. I’d be more comfortable
seated, if you don’t mind.” He folded his hands in front of him, leaned forward to peer at Draco
over the half-moon spectacles, and smiled. “Draco, you are not a killer.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve been trying, with increased desperation, to kill me all year. You almost killed Katie Bell
and Ronald Weasley.” He shook his head. “Feeble attempts, if I may speak frankly with you. So
feeble, I wonder whether your heart has really been in it.”

“I’m not feeble,” Draco said. “I’ve been working on it all year. You’re the one who should be
afraid.”

“Why? I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe.”
Dumbledore tapped a finger against his cheek. “How did you smuggle them in here? It seems to
have taken you quite a long time to work out a way to do it.”

Draco swallowed. He hadn’t really expected Dumbledore to be afraid. He’d thought it was a
possibility, but mostly he’d assumed the headmaster would fight or try to escape. Like anyone
would. Being goaded like this--he wasn’t sure if Dumbledore was stalling for time so backup could
arrive (the second broomstick’s owner?), or trying to make it easier for Draco to stomach casting
the Avada.

But Dumbledore knew, he’d known all this time. He knew about Bell, and Weasley, he knew
things Draco hadn’t even told Granger, and Draco had to know how much more the old man knew.

“I had to mend the broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one’s used for years. The spellwork was
almost completely worn off. The interior was shredded.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said. “There is a twin, I take it?”

“In Borgin and Burkes. They make a passage. Even with the anti-App spells and wardings. I was
the one who realized there could be a way into Hogwarts if I fixed the broken one.”

Dumbledore sat back. “Well, very good. A clever plan indeed, a very clever plan. And, as you
mentioned, right under my nose.”

“Yeah, it was!” Draco was wasting time, and it was embarrassing to feel relief at hearing an adult’s
praise, but he couldn’t help the words from tumbling out.

“And yet, there was still all that trouble of necklaces and poison wine. These roundabout, crude
attempts that seemed more calculated to avoid me at every turn than hit their mark. All that
messiness, when it would seem you were dedicated to your work on the Cabinet. Were you trying
to fail?”

Draco glanced behind him. Death, if Bellatrix or Greyback came up behind him and believed
Dumbledore’s assessment. “Shut up, old man. Couldn’t have been that sloppy. You still didn't
realize who was behind it.”

“Naturally, I did. I was sure it was you.”

“Why didn’t you stop me, then?” Draco’s voice came out weaker than he thought. “Why didn’t
you help?”

“I tried,” Dumbledore said, voice mild and weary.

“Someone’s dead,” Draco blurted out. “One of your people. It was dark, I couldn’t see who it was.
I stepped over the body.”

There was a bang from below. Shouting, drawing closer.

“We have little time,” Dumbledore said. “Let us discuss your options, Draco.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open as though Dumbledore had hit him. “My options? I’m standing here
with a wand--I’m about to kill you.”

“My dear boy, let us have no more pretense about that. You’ve had time to kill me. You won’t.”

The headmaster thought Draco thought there was still a way out. He was taunting him, after all. He
was going to sit there and promise Draco everything he’d wanted all year, not as a plea for his own
life, but to make sure Draco knew that Dumbledore could have helped, all along, and chose not to
tell him so. And if some terrible, helpless, weak part of Draco got sucked in and believed him now,
it would destroy everything.

“I don’t have any options!” Draco said. “I’ve got to do it. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill my whole
family.”

Dumbledore was nattering something about safe houses, faked death, amnesty for Draco, for his
mother. Not for Lucius. Did Dumbledore think Draco felt nothing for his father? Did Dumbledore
honestly believe Draco was such a cowering worm that he’d turn his back on his family because
this man who left him to suffer all year suddenly changed his mind?

“I don’t have any choice,” Draco said. He lifted his arm, but his hand around the wand was numb
and useless.

And then the door opened.

Black robes. A glint of masks. So the Death Eaters had won the skirmish, downstairs.

A smell of sweat and iron and rank animal hair. The werewolf leered.

“Fenrir, is that you?” Dumbledore said.

“Pleased to see me?” Greyback growled.

“I cannot say that I am.” Dumbledore looked at Draco, and for the first time, the mild-humored,
nearly mocking expression was replaced by grim seriousness. “I am a little shocked that Draco
would invite you, of all people, into the school where his friends live.”

“I didn’t,” Draco whispered. “I didn’t know he was going to come.”

“Much as I’d enjoy a chat,” Bellatrix said, “I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.” She
pouted her lips and leaned in so close she could have put her tongue in Draco’s ear.

“Do it, Draco, now."

“He doesn’t have the stomach.” That was Greyback.

Draco’s throat convulsed. He couldn’t stop swallowing against the lurching in his innards. His
whole body was shaking. He faltered, wand hand slipping down--

“Avada Kedavra.”

For a dizzying instant, Draco thought he’d said the words himself after all, that even his own magic
was betraying him. He was looking right at Dumbledore’s face. He saw Dumbledore’s eyes go out,
and the headmaster was falling, falling.

Bellatrix whooped in the Great Hall, kicking crystal goblets off the table, laughing at the clang of
plates on the floor. Draco turned around when the tinkling of glass turned into an ocean roar.

She pulled her hands toward her, curling her fingers slowly, and the Great Hall disintegrated in
front of Draco’s eyes. The windows exploded. Floating candles snuffed out. The enchanted sky
tore. Days later, Draco’s hair and clothes would still be full of dust-fine particles of glass, too small
to see, but scratching and burning.

Running, outside. The hiss and impact around them of spells firing. A smell of smoke. And then a
rough voice, agonized with grief and rage, calling for Snape, and again Draco had a bewildering
moment where he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t him, screaming.
Potter. Chasing them.

Snape shouted, “Run, Draco!” and turned, raising his wand. Draco bolted without pausing to see
what it was Snape planned to do.

He was trembling uncontrollably from exertion and fear when he made it past the gates. He
huddled beside the road, behind a hedge. He gripped his wand. Every few seconds, he jumped and
looked behind him. He kept expecting Bellatrix, or the werewolf. Someone must have seen him,
followed him. The Mark on his arm wrenched over and over again.

Red and green lights winked in the grounds. Maybe more people were dying. The Morsmordre
gaped over the castle.

Then, faintly at first but glowing brighter, another light. It shone with the same pearly sheen as
moonlight, although the sky overhead was clouded. The light seemed to concentrate on the skull in
the sky, softening it until the features blurred.

Draco was puzzling over what could be the source and nearly didn’t notice Snape’s approach. He
jumped to his feet, ready to run whatever direction Snape told him as though his life hung in the
balance.

“Draco. Stop.”

Draco turned. The silhouette of Hogwarts was like a dark dragon behind the professor. Snape’s
face looked haunted.

“I never had a child,” Snape said. “There was a time I might have seen myself with a family. Might
have wanted one. It...did not come to pass. And now here you are.”

Draco blinked. It was impossible to keep all traces of astonishment out of his voice. “Are you--are
you trying to say I’m like the son you never had?”

“No, you insipid fool. You would have been a disappointment to me as a son, even as you are a
disappointment to your own parents.”

Draco’s eyes hardened.

“In that case, Professor, I suggest we Apparate before we’re found, unless there was anything else
you wanted to tell me.”

“You have told yourself you made mistakes. That is how you think of the things you have done. I
know. I’ve seen it in your mind. I lived it once. They were choices, Draco, all of them, regardless
of how they felt at the time. You will learn that even if you are prepared to make the deepest
sacrifices for the sake of the things you hold most dear, they will still be taken from you. You are
now in the part of your life where all that is left for you are reminders, over and over again, of the
consequences, the things you lost due to your choices.”

“You can’t know that.” Draco meant for it to come out forcefully, but his voice shook. His mind
was blank and grey. “Professor, I’m seventeen. You can’t talk to me like that and just--leave me.”

“I have had years to decide that I would have wanted it this way,” Snape said. “It would have been
kinder, had I known from the beginning to give up hope.”
Draco was sick after they Apparated. When he’d heaved himself empty, he sat at the base of a tree
to recover and blinked at his surroundings. They were in the center of a thicket. The sky overhead
was so dark and clear, they couldn’t be anywhere near houses.

“I thought you had a place to take me.”

“This is it.” Snape kicked a duffel bag Draco had mistaken for a stump. “There is currently no safe
house that will have you. This is the Forest of Dean. There are supplies in the pack. I will return
when possible, but I can make no promises.”

Draco scrambled to his feet. “What are you talking about? You said you promised to protect me.
You took the Unbreakable Vow.”

“And I have delivered you here. To safety, as far as is possible. My Vow held during your attempt
to fulfill the Dark Lord’s task. I have completed what I swore to Narcissa to do.”

“No. Wait--” Draco said, but there was a rush of air, and Snape was gone.

“Come back!” Draco shouted at the dark masses of trees and the steady drone of insects. “Coward!
Bloody, wretched coward!”

It was two days after Dumbledore’s funeral, and Hermione still hadn’t cried. She thought she
would. She came close, when the fire blazing over the body cooled into the smooth white tomb,
and when the Merfolk sang their tribute, but there was a block that choked any tears from coming.

Harry had told her that first night, of course. He told everyone. Snape did it, Snape killed
Dumbledore. The words thudded in her chest, but it was a hollow sort of feeling.

The results of the searching of Draco’s room was the final, awful piece for her. Most of his things
were gone. Clothes, toiletries, several books. Hermione had clung, briefly, to the idea that
somehow Draco had been tricked, hadn’t known what the task of mending the Vanishing Cabinet
was for (because of course that’s what that bloody task had been, she’d been so stupid not to figure
it out).

But he’d planned. He’d packed. He’d prepared to leave Hogwarts in a hurry. Harry had seen Draco
running with Snape toward the front gates. He must have left a satchel with his things hidden in the
bushes, hours beforehand. Every step of the whole thing was premeditated.

The rage roared over the grief, so all-consuming that the eulogies sounded like riddles. When
McGonagall reached out to lay Dumbledore’s wand on his chest reverently before the tomb could
be sealed, Hermione looked away. She was afraid that if she let herself cry at all, she’d start
screaming and wouldn’t be able to stop.

She and Ron were staying back at Hogwarts, although most people were gone. Professor--
Headmistress McGonagall wanted to respect parents’ worries and student safety, so the Hogwarts
Express was ready as soon as the funeral ceremony was over. Harry had to stay behind because
McGonagall refused to send him back to the Dursleys, but there needed to be time to make other
arrangements. Hermione’s case, as far as official protocol was concerned, was also delicate. The
faculty were still arguing over the best way to brief Muggleborn students’ families on recent events
and find alternative arrangements for families who chose to send their children to a magically
warded house.
Not that she’d be going, of course. She and Ron had decided that together, the night after
Dumbledore was killed. Harry would want to continue on the course Dumbledore had set for him,
and he was single-minded enough and noble enough to attempt to do it alone. Hermione wanted to
tell him otherwise right away, but Ron stopped her.

“He’ll still be talking himself into going,” he’d said. “Just because he knows he’s got to do it
doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid to go.”

“All the more reason to tell him we’ll be with him, then.”

Ron shook his head. “He needs Hogwarts right now. He needs to, y’know, soak it all in. Get ready
to keep as much of it with him as he can, for when things get bad later on. If we start talking to him
about plans, he’ll decide he might as well go now. Better not to rush him. Harry won’t disappear on
us without an explanation. You’ll see. He’ll find a quiet moment to tell us, and then we’ll be ready,
too.”

So she’d been quiet. Not that difficult, really. There wasn’t much she wanted to say to most of the
people in the castle. Hermione busied herself recasting the Extendability charm on her bag until it
met her satisfaction and nicking or brewing as many medical potions as she could. Food, shelter,
light, medicine. Basic needs. That, she could think about.

Finally, Harry had asked Hermione and Ron to come with him to the top of the Astronomy Tower,
to talk.

“Are you sure you want to go there?” Hermione said, voice weak.

Harry nodded. “I don’t want my last memory of any part of this place to be about killing. I want to
remember the two of you there.”

“Of course, mate,” Ron said, before Hermione could say anything. “Wherever you need us.”

Easier to go along with it. Harry didn’t know. This was certainly no time to tell him. Hermione’s
fingertips trailed against the Lower Observatory door when she passed it, and she hated herself for
it. Reaching the top was hard, too. If her eye should land there, or there, or there--but she didn’t
want to remember. She clenched her toes, stood next to Harry, and looked out at the winding river.

He showed them the Horcrux. “It’s fake,” he said. “Whoever has it--this R.A.B., who knows if
they even managed to destroy it. Dumbledore died for nothing. I’ve got to try to finish what he
started. I’ll try to let you know I’m okay, when I can, but I can’t come back to Hogwarts.”

“We’ll be there, Harry,” said Ron. “We’re with you whatever happens.”

“What?” Harry said. “No--”

“We’ve been packed for days,” Hermione said, trying to put a smile in her voice. “We’re not
turning back on you. Not today, and not ever.”

Harry looked like he might try to say something, but then the tension went out of his body and he
put an arm around either one of them, laying his head on Hermione’s shoulder.

They all took a moment to themselves, circling the Tower slowly, peering across at other turrets
and bridges, preserving the image of the school in this golden sunlight. Saying goodbye.

When she completed her circle, Harry came up next to her.

 “Thanks for coming up here with me, Hermione,” he said. “I know it can’t be easy, knowing that-
-” He coughed, embarrassed. “I know you tried everything you could for him, and things still
ended up--this way. If it helps at all, I honestly do believe he wouldn’t have done it, even if Snape
hadn’t been there. Malfoy was lowering his wand.”

Hermione shook her head to cut him off. She couldn’t bear to hear any more.

“Don't say that name to me again.”

Chapter End Notes

It was always going to have to be this way.

The question is where to go from here.

 The Forest of Dean
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione, Harry, and Ron had a few, frenzied weeks at the Burrow before they launched out on
their own. Everything and nothing seemed to be happening at once. Lupin dropped in to talk about
next steps. Scrimgeour wanted to offer accommodation in a Ministry safe house in exchange for
“brief, morale-boosting messages” from Harry, to be dispensed to the public. His face soured when
the three of them refused, but he grudgingly left them with Dumbledore’s baffling tokens anyway:
the book, the snitch, the strange Deluminator. Hermione thought the ridiculous Babbity Rabbity
book might be a cleverly Charmed edition of another book, perhaps something on Horcruxes. No
amount of spellcasting she’d tried thus far had any effect on the childish rhymes and pictures.
Hermione had no idea where they were meant to start looking for ways to weaken Voldemort.

Bill and Fleur had pushed up their wedding as much as possible. Fleur tossed her impeccable hair
when Molly Weasley pointed out that there might not be much time for her family and friends to
arrive.

“Zey vill not come anyway,” she said airily, although Hermione saw a shadow pass over her face,
and Bill reached for her hand. “Eet ees too dangerous here. Ve vill celebrate again in France ven all
zis passes over your ‘eads.”

Molly had smiled, withheld from correcting the idiom, and roped Ginny and Hermione into
hanging decorations.

The actual wedding started with a whirl of activity in the morning. Hermione busied herself with
putting the final touches on flower arrangements, shooing Molly away to attend to her own hair
and dress and spend time with Bill on his wedding day, and distracting herself as much as possible
from the thought that her parents wouldn’t get a chance to do this for her. It was almost a relief
when Fleur came out to check the ceremony spot and almost fainted in horror.

“You expect me to get married like zees?” she gasped. “‘Ermione, please, you are so kind, but do
not touch ze flowers and eet will be much kinder, I theenk. Keep Bill away so he does not see me
and let me fix it.”

Later, Ron stood up with Fred and George next to Bill. Harry sat on a wooden bench and put an
arm around Hermione’s waist.

“I’m only crying because it’s beautiful,” Hermione sniffed.

“Of course you are,” Harry murmured back. “Same for me, really.”

Lupin staggered in after dinner was served, barely in time to see the cake cutting.

“I’ve determined who R.A.B. is, or was,” he said when Harry, Ron, and Hermione snuck out of the
party to whisper with him in the mudroom. “Regulus Black. He’s been dead for years now.”

“So no way to ask him what he did with the Horcrux,” Harry said.

Lupin shook his head and rubbed a knuckle into the grey shadows under his eyes. “If it still exists,
it would probably be deep in the Black family vaults. Or if he did manage to destroy it, the item he
used would likely be there, too. Only a few things can destroy a Horcrux, and they’re all valuable.”
“You married Tonks,” Ron said. “Couldn’t she get into the vaults? She’s in the Black line.”

“Through Andromeda,” Lupin said. “Who was disowned when she married Ted, including being
written out of the Gringotts succession plan.”

“What if we break in?” Harry asked. “Hermione, don’t you usually keep a batch of Polyjuice on
hand?”

“Absolutely not. Even if I had hair from the family for a transformation, it’s a completely mad
plan. You’re not talking about our old scrapes in Hogwarts. It’s past being dangerous, it’s just
asking to get ourselves caught and killed,” Hermione said.

“I have to agree,” Lupin said. “The Ministry is crumbling by the minute. The Death Eaters will
take it over openly any day now.”

“We have to do something,” Harry said.

“Harry, the Death Eaters have been coordinating their attacks for years,” Hermione said. “Planning
is still doing something.”

“Dumbledore’s dead.”

“I know that,” Hermione said. “And that alone was the result of almost a year’s work. You think
that’s the only attack they’ve been working on? You-Know-Who didn’t even care about--he didn’t
put his best people on that attack, except Bellatrix, at the end. Who knows what he’s having the
proper Death Eaters do?”

“We’ve worked out some of it, none good,” Lupin said. “Hermione’s right, Harry. The Death
Eaters may well expect you to do something rash, and it would be entirely too easy for them to set
up a trap. Especially if Draco Malfoy’s gone back to the Manor.”

Hermione swallowed a knot. “Do you think he has?”

“I rather hope he hasn’t,” Lupin said, looking even more haggard than usual. “A few of the
students in DA mentioned he was in the group last term, which is a surprise, and a foolish thing for
him to have done. You-Know-Who will sniff that out in his mind immediately and get whatever
information he can about Harry that way, by whatever means he has to. For his own sake if nothing
else, I’d hope Malfoy’s found somewhere else to stay.”

There was a tinkle of glass coming from the direction of the party. Bill and Fleur must be kissing.

Lupin shifted. “I’d better get a move on. Lots to do. Harry, for now, try to be patient. As soon as
the Order has any reasonable plan worked out, you’ll be the first to hear.”

As Lupin predicted, the coup happened two days later. Mr. Weasley, thankfully, was still home
helping the newlyweds plan an extended honeymoon in France, and so escaped the first wave of
arrests. It was time to leave the Burrow.

The safest place Hermione could think of to take them, when the Ministry fell, was the Forest of
Dean. Neither Harry nor Ron had ever been. No one in the Wizarding world knew any of them had
the slightest connection to the place, and the only Muggles who could have offered a clue were
Hermione’s parents.

She didn’t know when, exactly, David and Jean Granger, now Wendell and Monica Wilkins,
would fly to Australia. Soon, hopefully. She’d made the mental suggestion fairly insistent. No way
to check now.

Hermione Apparated the three of them to a large field, about a 10-minute walk from a narrow,
shallow bend in the Wye. When the wave of nausea cleared and she could get her bearings, she felt
a rare smile spread over her face. This place didn’t seem to change. That was the tree with a broken
branch, just the right height to hang a bag of food out of reach of foraging animals. There’d be a
little thicket on the way down to the creek, with brambly raspberry and blackberry bushes. The
edges of the field were dotted here and there with fairy rings. Her mother liked to cook the
mushrooms up, while her father wouldn’t touch them, claiming Jean and Hermione were flirting
with doom for disturbing the ring.

Hermione’s throat caught.

“This looks good,” said Ron. He started rummaging through Hermione's pack. “Where's that
blasted tent? We should put that up right off.”

Hermione blew out a short breath and tightened her boot laces. “Warding first.”

“Right,” Ron said. “You'd better take Harry with you, then, you’re quicker at Apparating if you
run into trouble.”

By day five of camping, Hermione wished she’d taken them anywhere else. Harry was in a foul
mood much of the time. He had two weeks left until his birthday, and he couldn’t cast so much as a
Lumos until then without alerting the Ministry of the whereabouts of an underage wizard.
Hermione was trying to make the best of it, widening her smile, telling stories about camping,
trying to hint to Ron to put his blasted wand away and agree with her that it could be such fun to
light the night’s fire with matches and a little nest of dry leaves.

She’d packed in a practical way. For food, that meant she had a small pantry’s worth of dry goods:
rice, dried beans for protein, pasta. There were some cans of tomatoes and vegetables, but not
many. The Extendability charm reduced the weight of each item to a fraction, but cans were still
heavy in comparison to other goods. There were other things, shelf-stable veggie “hot dogs” and
patties among them, but not much in the way of treats. She hadn’t thought as much at the time
about the way hours could stretch out, or the psychological pick-me-up of a pack of cookies or a
bag of popcorn.

Or about teenage boys’ appetite. Hermione kept catching Harry and Ron rifling through the pack
for the few bags of dried fruit or trail mix she’d brought. She was trying to ration it out, but they
were going to run out soon at this rate, and she didn’t know how long they’d have to wait out here.

Hermione went down to the stream and waited for the small, unhelpful voice to needle its way
through her mind. It cropped up at the worst times, and trying to push it away didn’t work.

It said things like, You know, Draco might actually understand the things you can't tell the others.
Or, He would’ve been the one to say ‘Granger, what are you plotting?’ at dinner so you knew he’d
noticed you were too quiet . Or even, Wouldn’t it be nice to lean against him, just for a minute?

“Hermione, are you decent?” Ron’s voice came through the thicket. “I’ll come back later if you’re
about to have a wash.”

“I’m dressed,” Hermione called back.

The bushes rustled and Ron pushed his way through. He swiped at a fresh scratch on his arm from
a berry bush.
“Finally saw a chance to talk to you and thought I'd better grab it.”

“What's going on? Is it Harry?”

“No, it's you. Why are you avoiding me?”

“I'm not avoiding you.”

“You haven't done a wards check with me once. You jump up to go with Harry, or send me with
him.”

“It's not safe for Harry to be on his own and wandless.”

“We've only had one night shift together, too,” Ron said. “You spent half of it mucking around
arranging the woodpile, and the other half reading. I didn’t notice it at the time, but thinking back,
we didn’t talk all that much at the Burrow, even. We’ve always found time there, before.”

“There was a lot going on. It’s been a bad few weeks.”

Ron let out a short bark of a laugh. “You’re not joking. But we’re supposed to be best friends,
Hermione. The three of us ought to stick together when we have bad weeks.” He leaned his elbows
heavily on his knees, shoulders hunched. “I’ve seen you talking with Harry, so you’re not hiding
from everyone. I’ve been thinking it over, and the main thing I can think of to explain it is you
think now that Malfoy’s out of the way, I’d think I’ve got an opening. Is that it?”

Hermione felt a hot flush over her ears and cheeks. “I didn’t want to make things more complicated
than they already are. I want to feel like I can count on you and Harry to be steady.”

“Didn’t you think I’d want that, too?” Ron said. He pushed his hair back, met her eyes for a
moment and then pointed his attention toward a flat rock in the creek. “I, er. May not have been
completely open about a couple things, with you.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “Ron, you wouldn’t remember this, but we sort of--talked about this
already. When you were in the Hospital Wing.”

“Yeah. I sort of, you know, got pieces of that back,” he said. “Not everything, but in the week or
two after, I’d just kind of, remember a bit. Like a dream.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, it’s bloody embarrassing, isn’t it? It’s not even like I remember all of it, it’s still fuzzy, but I
know enough.” He sighed. “I can’t come second to Malfoy. Not when it comes to this. Not when it
comes to you.”

“It was never meant to be a competition,” Hermione said. “I just--at the time, that is--I just liked
him. I didn’t go out with him to dig at you.”

“Which is one thing you’ve got on me, I guess.”

“Not that serious about Lavender?”

He shrugged. “She’s all right. She’s not you. Although you’re not what I thought you might be,
either.” He put a hand on her knee when he saw the stung expression on her face. “Not like I’m
angry with you or anything. Just, you were right. We’re not each other’s first pick, when it comes
to being with someone, and that isn’t fair for either of us. We pick each other first, and Harry, as
 friends. That’s the way we should be, the way we’re strongest. You’re here with me and Harry
now, and we should all take care of each other the way we always have.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. She put her head on his shoulder, and he hugged her, and for a little
while that was enough.

That night, Hermione ignored the odd little twinges she felt at dinner. She’d gotten used to a certain
kind of teasing and a certain feeling of looking up and seeing that the other person was already
looking at you, that was all. Part of her hadn’t caught up to the way things were now. She just
needed to give herself time.

And then, in her sleeping bag, she thought of the way he’d held her after the thing with Katie,
when all she’d wanted was to talk with her mom, and she was crying as quietly as she could about
all of it.

Chapter End Notes

As you may have noticed, we are well and properly off the canon rails now. For the
HBP retelling, I wanted to hug fairly tight to canon because I felt that Draco and
Hermione could make a natural pairing, so it mattered to fit their relationship into the
HP-verse as-is.
Now, though...well, so much has changed by now, hasn't it? All these little ripples
from having them actually be together. I still want to play with canon to some extent,
but ideally in a much more metamorphosed way, with more riffs and subversions. So
as we delve into this new arc, you'll get to see various large or small changes. I hope
you will find some good surprises along the way.
 The Woods
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione was tracking inventory, and when it clicked that the food was diminishing faster because
the boys didn’t have much else to do, she realized she’d have to put them to work.

Harry needed time to himself to think. Ron had told Hermione in private that he suspected Harry
wouldn’t always show them how he was really feeling, wanting instead to put on an encouraging
face for his friends. Hermione and Ron recast the protective warding daily, then asked Harry to
forage for berries, mushrooms, fiddlehead ferns, or small, underripe chestnuts to coax into
readiness by magic.

Ron tended to pull in on himself when he was overwhelmed, so Hermione tasked him with creating
things for them to do together in the evenings. He was using magic to whittle and charm chess
pieces. The basic cutting spell was the same one they’d need if one of them got a puncture wound
that needed medical attention, so it would also keep his hand in practice. Hermione wanted him to
try a rough broomstick next, in case Harry needed to get out in a hurry and wasn’t near either one
of them to Apparate.

As for herself, she had a few books on soul magic. If they were going to seek out and destroy
Horcruxes, she needed to know as much about them as possible. Hogwarts, understandably, did not
make it easy to find grimoires on the blackest forms of magic, so she’d done her best with a small
collection of books covering various attempts to use soul magic to prolong life, or cast spells using
emotional bonds to strengthen or seal the magic. The Secret Keeping variation of the Fidelius
charm, the one that had protected the Potters (until it hadn’t) was in Hermione’s books, along with
familiars, speculation into the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone, and other matters.

It was quite fascinating, really.

That is, for the handful of hours she could spend studying at a time. When she took a break, all the
thoughts and worries and emotions rushed back in. There was no time to let herself just go numb.

So it was a relief when Harry asked her to come walk with him one afternoon. Hermione could use
some time to scan for blackberries and late raspberries, instead of beating her head against the same
chapter she’d read four times over.

Harry led the way, having had the chance to explore the surrounding area more. The ripe berries
had been well picked over by birds and by them, over the last few days. Closer to the creek, there
was a large fallen tree covered with a thick layer of mushrooms. Hermione had learned most
common varieties in the area, and was delighted to recognize them as penny buns. She and Harry
set about gathering clusters to take back with them.

After a bit, Harry made a funny sort of cough. “So. I’ve heard you crying, at night, sometimes. A
few times, actually.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“You doing okay?”

“I mean. Are any of us, really? I’m making do. We all have ways to get things out of our system.”
Harry slapped at a mosquito. “I don’t mean to be, you know, rude or whatever. I know you said
you didn’t want to talk about it. But, er, is it about Malfoy? I thought you might not want to bring it
up around Ron, but maybe with just you and me it might be easier.”

Hermione leaned back on her haunches and put her hands on her legs. “Oh, Harry,” she said.
“That’s--thanks for looking out for me. That means a lot, especially now.” She wasn’t sure what to
say next. Everything inside felt too muddy and jumbled to find a place to start.

“Was that a yes or a no?” Harry said.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “I think he’s a little shit who betrayed us.”

“Right, sure.”

“Which would mean we shouldn't bother talking about him. He’s not worth one more second of our
time.”

“Okay.”

Hermione dropped a few mushrooms into her sack. “Have you been thinking about him?”

“Sort of?” Harry said. “I keep thinking about all of it, that night. And he’s part of it, so I can’t help
it from coming to mind, sometimes.”

“It’s not like you go around feeling sorry for him, though.”

“Well, no, I’m not saying I’m up at nights thinking how rough he’s got it.”

“I’m not, either.”

“Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“If I’ve been thinking about him sometimes, it’s not just about him. He’s just a piece of it, all of it,
you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that.” And he nodded like he did, like he really had been thinking about Draco
sometimes, and maybe Hermione wasn’t doing something wrong if it was hard for her to shake
loose of it all, too.

“What do you think he’s doing?” Hermione said. “If that’s part of what you think about.”

“I dunno,” said Harry. “He was running toward the edge of the grounds, with Snape, after. They
Apparated somewhere. Back to Malfoy Manor, I’d guess.”

“At home, with his family.”

“And whatever Death Eaters are crawling around the place.”

A pang of concern in Hermione’s chest. She was irritated with herself for feeling it. “Good. Serves
him right.”

“I guess,” Harry said.

“What do you mean?”

“You worked hard at keeping him away from the Death Eaters, all that time. I'm surprised to hear
you say he deserves to be with that lot, now.”

Hermione clenched her hands into fists. “After what he did--what he did to all of us. Even if it
wasn't his wand, in the end, so what? It was still our hope and our safety, and our trust." Her voice
wobbled on the last word. “I wish I could hurt him back, just like that.”

Harry sat on a clear patch on the fallen tree and clasped his hands loosely in front of him. “Go on,
then.”

“What?”

“Tear him apart. You know him well enough.”

“I don't know him at all.”

“You do,” Harry said. “You were together long enough, and I saw how he acted around you. He
told you some secrets at least, I'm sure of it. I expect you know plenty about where Malfoy's
sensitive spots are. What would you say, if he were here? Go after his father, maybe? Seems a safe
bet. Would he care if you called him a coward, or would it be something else? I bet you know
exactly what to say, to get him where it would really hurt.”

Hermione did. She could cut him, if she wanted to, if he were here. Part of her did want to, very
much. And yet. “That's low,” she said.

“I didn't think you would,” Harry said, looking straight ahead. “You know, at DA meetings, you
always looked at him, whenever anyone said something that would bother him? I learned a fair bit
of what gets under his skin from watching you.”

“You never used any of it against him.”

“You loved him,” Harry said simply. “You wanted to protect him. I wonder if part of you still
does.”

Hermione crossed her arms and shook her head, swallowing down the rock in her throat.

“I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“It wouldn’t be fair. Right? I mean, I don’t want to, obviously, but it also wouldn’t be right, to look
out for him at all at this point. There’s such a thing as going too far. He told me himself, you can’t
be on both sides. It’s not fair.”

“Not much is, lately,” Harry said. “We should get back soon and see if Ron needs help with
anything, but I wanted to tell you it was okay. You know. I don’t need you to justify anything to
me about how you feel, about anyone.”

They had a radio to stay at least somewhat connected to the rest of the Wizarding world. Ron in
particular made sure he was at the campsite in time for Potterwatch, the secret radio program. The
worst part came at the end, when the announcers would read off the list of names. The murdered,
the missing, those rumored to be captured or tortured by Death Eaters. Hermione and Harry learned
quickly not to speak or try to touch Ron during those moments. His whole body was tensed, and he
couldn’t tolerate the slightest distraction. Only when the closing music of the news program ended,
with no mention of any Weasley’s name, would he let out a shaky breath of relief and come back to
them again.

Then, one night, it happened.

“These are difficult times,” Lee Jordan’s voice announced, sounding almost unrecognizable from
the cheeky tone of his Quidditch commentary at Hogwarts. “At Potterwatch, we know many of
you have been separated from loved ones. The latest updates come courtesy of our guest tonight,
Rabbit.”

“Thank you, River,” came a delicate, feminine voice. “Harold Turpin, taken into Ministry custody
for questioning three weeks ago, was released to his home, where he died two days ago, as
confirmed by Mirabelle and Lisa Turpin. Professor Charity Burbage is missing, presumed captured
by Death Eaters. Ginny Weasley’s whereabouts are not accounted for.”

The sound that tore unbidden out of Ron made Hermione jump in her seat. Ron almost knocked the
radio over as he left the campsite. Harry hurried after him. Hermione stayed where she was just
long enough to catch the password for the next broadcast, then followed the boys down toward the
creek.

“--should’ve been there for her!” Ron choked out.

Harry had an arm across Ron’s shoulders. “Steady, steady. We don’t know that she’s hurt. You
know Gin, she’s so clever, and so brave. We’ve got to trust her.”

Ron threw Harry’s arm off him. “Easy for you to say,” he growled.

Harry flushed. “It’s really not.”

Hermione reached out toward both of them. “Ron, there’s nothing you could have done. There’s
every reason to think she’s still all right. She even took Muggle studies last year, she might be
undercover in a Muggle town, investigating. She’s been interested in being a spy for the Order.”

“She’s just trying to get herself in trouble,” Ron said. “Look where it’s got her.”

“If she is a spy, this would actually be a good sign, wouldn’t it? If no one can find her? She just
hasn’t been seen for a bit. Let’s not rush to conclusions. She’ll turn up.”

“We don’t know where my sister is,” Ron said, and his face started to screw up. “Oh God, my
mum must be frantic.”

Harry looked away, face pained. Hermione put an arm around Ron’s waist to steer him back
toward camp.

“It’s going to be okay,” she soothed.

“You can’t know that.”

“No, but we have to believe it. Keep holding on. They’ll have an update next broadcast, you’ll see.
Come on. Let’s get back and get some rest. In the morning, when we’re fresh, we’ll look at our
best options for what to do next.”

“That was Luna,” Hermione murmured to Harry later that night by the fire, after Ron had finally
fallen asleep. “Rabbit. I’m almost sure of it.”

“It sounded like her,” Harry said.

“So she’s okay, then.”

“Yeah, but Ginny.”

“She’ll be all right,” Hermione said quickly. “Like we told Ron, Luna didn’t say Ginny was hurt or
captured. They just don’t know where she is. The whole family might be spreading out.”

“Maybe.”

“She could be with Charlie, even. Bill and Fleur might have smuggled her out of the country.”

“But then she wouldn’t be listed as missing.”

“He might want to Apparate out, tomorrow morning, if he’s still feeling like this,” Hermione said.

“He should do it,” Harry said. “If he sees his mum and dad, he might feel better.”

“He won’t be able to find his way back here on his own. He doesn't have a strong enough
connection to this place,” Hermione said. “It would have to be him and me both, which means it
would have to be all three of us. Which is a huge risk to take.”

“But for Ginny--”

“Wherever Ginny is, us Apparating to the Burrow isn’t going to do her any good. It’ll just increase
our chances of getting caught, or drawing attention to people at the wrong time. What would Mrs.
Weasley say, if we ran out to help and something happened to Ron, or to you?”

Harry threw a twig onto the embers of the fire, sending up sparks. “I hate this.”

“I know. Tomorrow morning, though, I think you ought to talk to Ron and convince him we need
to stick together. The worst thing we can do right now is let fear or despair take us and drive us out
alone.”

In the first week Draco spent in the woods, Snape came back twice. The first time was after three
days, and Draco nearly hexed Snape on the spot. Snape ignored Draco’s fuming, dropped a sack of
extra food at Draco’s feet, and thrust a book into his hand.

“Read,” he said. “It will give you something to occupy your mind until I can return. If I do not
return, I trust it will prove useful.” As on the night of the Astronomy Tower, he disappeared
without waiting to hear what Draco had to say.

Draco kicked at the dirt where his former professor had stood and raged to himself for a while. He
almost flung the sack into the bracken, but thought better. Most of the food Snape had packed in
the rucksack he’d left in the clearing initially was disgusting. Chewy, salty dried meat, leathery
dried fruit, bars with the consistency of clay and a chalky sweetness that coated his tongue. Maybe
there’d be a chance of finding something decent in this pack.

When he found the book he’d thrown into the bushes, Draco quieted into seriousness. He
recognized it. It was an Herbology textbook, or rather a field guide, from fourth year. It catalogued
local vegetation, organized by season, and it concentrated on what was good to eat. Surely Snape
didn’t mean Draco could expect to find himself out here long enough to have to forage.

Two days later, Snape reappeared. After five days without more than ten minutes spent in the
company of another person, without a night in a bed or a satisfying meal, Draco wasn’t as quick to
raise his voice or pull out his wand.

Snape frowned at a damp heap of wood on the ground. “You’ve been making fires.”

“Yes?”

“You shouldn’t need heat. It’s summer and you have a sleeping roll. You don’t need it for light,
either.”

“Lumos isn’t as good.”

“You’re making it too obvious that you’re here.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Professor, I’m in the middle of nowhere. I appreciate your
thoroughness, but I’m fairly well hidden at this point.”

“The Dark Lord and those who serve him have used these woods before,” Snape said. “For
questioning of the Undesirable. Occasionally to perform certain types of magic well-suited to this
place. Those who can scent a human might pass by, but it will look suspicious if there are signs
you have made yourself...comfortable.”

“Hardly comfortable. I thought you were going to talk to my parents. Have they asked for me? Is it
safe for me to go back yet?”

“Of course you can’t go back. The Dark Lord will make an example of you if you do. He’s irritated
with your family as it is. I’ve instructed your mother to burn your things, as a sign of her loyalty to
the Dark Lord against a traitor.”

Draco shook his head and curled his lip. “She doesn’t think that of me. You’re lying. She
wouldn’t.”

“Obviously I’m lying to her. What would you have me do, explain to her in detail that, should the
Dark Lord’s anger carry him far enough to track you, there should be as little as possible in the
house for a werewolf to take your scent from? What do you think would happen to your mother
then, if he tests her mind for her devotion?” Snape looked down his nose at Draco. “I am doing
everything in my power to keep your entire family safe, at no small risk to myself. Perhaps you
ought to show me more respect, and keep from questioning everything I say when we have limited
time to speak.”

Draco had plenty he wanted to say, but he didn’t want Snape to Disapparate again. He gritted his
teeth. “Sorry.”

“You need to leave this place,” Snape said. “You’ve left far too many signs.”

“Where do we go?”

“You go,” Snape said. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? I have nowhere to take you.
I’ve brought a map, and instructions for a few spells you’ll need to use while you’re out here.
There is a lake, further west from here. If possible, I can meet you there, but it will likely take
several weeks.”
“No.” Draco grabbed Snape by the sleeve. “I can’t be out here by myself for weeks. Did you ask
everyone you could? Some parts of my family were disowned, did you talk to them? Don’t leave--”

“Stop it.” Snape freed himself. “I offered you my assistance at a time when I could have done
much more for you, and you refused. This is what is within my power now.”

“What happens if I can’t find the lake?”

“If you are not there when I can come next, I will take it that you have died, and at a later date than
you would have without me.” That was the last thing Snape said to him.

That was the beginning of the Angry Time. For maybe a week, maybe a little longer (the days
started to run together), Draco woke up cursing the damp, the mildew smell of the sleeping roll, his
aching back and cold toes, the whirring sound of insects. He wasted energy during the day carrying
a branch, smacking trees and bushes like a child for the instant of satisfaction when the impact
hummed up into his arm. He cursed the wretched food, but reached for more of it when the days
got hot and sticky and he was lonely. He cursed everyone who had left him here--Snape,
Dumbledore, the Dark Lord, his father. At night, when darkness made the woods seem so much
bigger and every sound could be someone beating an Undesirable to death, Draco made himself
small with his back against the biggest tree he could find and waited until the exhaustion was
louder than the fear and anger.

He cursed Granger more than once, too. If she hadn’t complicated things. If she hadn’t tried to hard
to save him when she knew she couldn’t. If he didn’t have so many incriminating memories of her,
and her friends.

Then what?

He’d be at Malfoy Manor again, with the parents who were so different every time he’d seen them
over the last year that it was hard to imagine how they would be now. There would be more
tortures, more killing. He would have to do things.

Draco nursed his anger at Granger for as long as he could, because at a certain point in the day his
mental reserves ran out. Then he missed her, he missed her enough that he had to close his eyes
because he couldn’t handle the proof that he was alone.

What he couldn’t afford to do was indulge himself in fantasy. The Hermione Granger he’d known
was gone, in every meaningful sense as far as his connection to her was concerned. It was already a
miracle she’d stayed by him after Katie Bell. She’d loathe him now. Missing her was only
prolonging the inevitable, loving a ghost. The person he’d known may as well have died on the
Astronomy Tower night, too.

He woke himself up one night murmuring, “She’s gone” in his sleep, and that was his best guess at
when the worst of the Angry Time passed and new problems arose.

Sanity, for one. Two weeks, most of them alone. Draco found a quill in his pack and started
circling plants he spotted in the field guide Snape gave him, jotting notes in the margins, adding
his own sketches in the blank pages in the back. A few more days, and he started collecting a few
specimens, for experiments, he told himself at first. Acorns would need to be soaked in clean water
for at least a full day, for example, more likely two or three before enough of the tannins would be
leached away to make them edible. Draco did it as a way to pass some time and give himself
something new to do.

Until, at the end of the third week, he looked over the food stores in his pack and realized he might
 have a problem.

Acorns, once the bitterness was soaked out, tasted like nothing much. Bland and damp. He made
himself eat a handful while he was walking, saving the clay bars for meals. Ever since Snape’s
warning, Draco was afraid to build a fire and try cooking anything, so catching fish or birds was
out.

There was a marsh roughly along the way he needed to follow, maybe half a day’s journey out
from the quickest route he’d marked for himself. Marshes, the field guide told him, meant food.
Nothing he’d normally recognize as edible, but cattails, marsh mallow, chervil, water mint, and
sorrel might be there for the taking.

Draco debated it for a few days before changing his course toward the marsh. Time was a problem,
too. As best as he could guess from tracking spells and his map, he was a few days behind where
he should be to feel sure he’d arrive at the lake Snape had indicated on time. But if he chose the
shorter route and ran out of food, maybe he wouldn’t make it there at all.

There was nowhere else to go. He kept walking.

Chapter End Notes

Earlier on in writing this fic, I was reading etiquette columns, reading up on proper
society cocktail wear. At this point, I looked up what I could on the Forest of Dean:
the weather, the foliage, what would be ripe this time of year, how many calories there
are in acorns, or cattail root, or various other things. I want to be fairly realistic about
how Draco might fare out here.
Draco is young, and healthy, and he has access through magic to an unlimited supply
of clean drinking water, which is important for healthy organ function and avoiding
pathogens. He's never had a ton of extra fat to burn, but he's also been fairly athletic.
He's out here in a good time of year for foraging.
But scraping together about 1200-1400 calories or so from things in his pack and what
he can graze on along the way isn't a great situation for a 17-year-old boy who needs
to cover some substantial mileage every day.
 The Marsh
Chapter Notes

Minor canon change: I can't remember how much, if anything, Hermione knew about
the Mirror of Erised? It's possible I've revised history slightly on this point.

Major canon change: Um. Everything else in this chapter?

He wasn’t going to make it. Draco chewed his lip, read over the map again, cast the spell to check
his coordinates. A tiny black dot appeared on the map. There was always the possibility that he
was miscasting a spell he’d had to teach himself over the last few weeks, but he was worried that
he was too good to fumble a simple incantation. More likely, the dot showed him where he actually
was. Which was not as close to the lake as he ought to be. Draco had forgotten, in his calculations,
that hiking through wetlands would be slower going than the woods route he’d originally mapped,
in addition to covering more distance.

He squished through the mud to a deeper section of marsh, with little ripples of fresh water moving
lazily downstream. Mealtimes didn’t exist anymore, in the traditional sense. When Draco found
food, he ate it. What little packaged food remained in his pack was sacred, not to be touched,
scarcely to be thought about. He was hungry all the time, and he didn’t have enough left to change
that. Saving the last two energy bars for a day when he didn’t come across anything he could eat
could be critical.

Cattails were edible, if you ripped open the stalks and chewed on the tender bit inside. So was the
slippery, stringy inner bark of pine trees he passed. Acorns gave you a stomachache if you ate
more than a handful or two a day, no matter how much water you soaked them in.

Being out here by himself necessitated finding a way to give the days some semblance of order.
Draco needed things to look forward to. With steady meals out, he had to get creative.

As something of a bitter joke with himself, he’d pulled out some of his usual soaps and hair
products when he first got to the marsh. To his surprise, having a proper wash made him feel more
human that he’d expected. He’d repeated the practice daily since then. He got to cool off and relax
in the hottest part of the day, feel clean, smell the way he liked, have a think that wasn’t, “Can I eat
that plant?”

Draco was thinking about his options now. He thought he’d feel more panicked about not making
it to the meeting with Snape. He felt...strange. Sort of floaty. Hopefully not just the hunger talking,
there, but he didn’t think it was.

For the first time all year--scratch that. For the first time quite possibly in living memory, no one
expected anything from Draco. His friends thought he was dead. His parents, too, probably.
Anyone on either side of the war who suspected otherwise wanted to kill him, which was
admittedly a serious problem, but it also meant neither side was trying to get him to do anything.
There were no missions, no secrets anymore.

The question was what to do now.

“Ugh, I think it’s in my boot.”

Draco crouched neck-deep in the water. He hadn’t heard another person’s voice in weeks. Part of
him wanted to burst out of the marsh, stark naked like a bloody lunatic, and run toward any human
connection. Fortunately, the saner part of him had a fair grasp of the situation.

“You’re such a complainer.” A second voice, affecting annoyance, but clearly friendly. “Have a
seat somewhere and shake it out, if you’re so worried about a bit of muck.”

“Eh, it’s fine. It’s not much mud. Although if there’s a leech in here, I’m putting it in your coffee
tomorrow.”

Draco paddled a little closer to the voices and peeked. Just over the rise, two young men in weird
clothes and bulky backpacks with lots of harnesses and straps were hiking at the edge of the marsh.
Muggles.

He started paddling for the edge of the marsh, silent, trying to think what kind of story they might
believe. Maybe he’d been on some barbaric hiking expedition, too, and got separated from his
friends? If they would just listen. If they would just help get him somewhere, anywhere, as long as
it was away from here. If he could get ahold of an owl, or make his way to some city that held a
passage back. If they would only turn their heads and see that someone else was--

Someone else was here. Draco’s body registered the danger before his mind consciously caught
up, and he swallowed a mouthful of algae with his gulp of air before disappearing underwater.
Spasming below the surface, he realized he’d responded to a sound. The crisp snap in the air that
he’d learned, from Snape’s visits, meant Apparation.

“Let’s try this again, Diggle,” came a silky voice on the other side of the marsh when Draco
surfaced. “Now you’ve got a quiet place to think. Potter. Where is he?”

“I don’t know, you brainless coot,” Diggle replied, irritated, then grunted in pain.

“Mm, you’ve mixed us up again,” the silky voice said. “Gaige, I’ll admit, doesn’t have much of a
spark upstairs. He’s the one who doesn’t need it. I’ve always fancied I could have made quite a
name for myself at Hogwarts, if I’d gotten to stay.”

Another groan.

“You’ll tell us apart soon. Gaige,” the voice continued, “is the one with those nice shiny things
wrapped ‘round his fists. I’m the one who tells him to stop, so you and I can go over a few
questions.”

“You’re both cretins,” Diggle countered, “that was the worst Apparating job I’ve ever seen and it’s
a wonder no one got splinched, and I have no idea where Harry Potter is.”

“Bad at your job, then,” came a low voice Draco assumed was Gaige, finally contributing
something other than pounding noises to the conversation. “Not like us, right, Anders?”

“Stop. Let him talk. He’s no good to us unconscious.”

By the time Draco reached a place in the water where he could see the three wizards, Diggle was
slumped to his knees between the Snatchers. He was harder to understand now. His voice sounded
wet. “Watched--Potter--as a kid. Not since--Hogwarts. Telling you. I don’t know. Let me go. Just
let me go.”
“Everything all right over there?” One of the Muggles called out. Draco watched him walk toward
the other three, hands out. “Listen, mate, take it easy, all right? Whatever argument you’ve got, no
need to get rough with each other. You’ll just make it harder to finish your trail.”

“Who the devil are you?” said Anders.

“What’s he got on?” said Gaige.

“Move along!” yelled Diggle, before Gaige smacked him in the ribs with a tight hand.

“You’re a Muggle, aren’t you?” said Anders.

“What are you talking about? What’s going on here?” said the Muggle.

There was a flash of green light.

The other Muggle rushed forward, as if that was going to do any good, or make anything different
for him, and then they were both lying still on the bank.

Anders and Gaige turned back to Diggle, frustrated. Anders didn’t look like he was trying for oily
coolness anymore. They both reached for either side of the man between them.

Diggle cast a bleary, hopeless look over the water, not wanting to look the Snatchers in the face at
the end, and unmistakably caught Draco’s eye. He opened his mouth.

Draco urinated.

Then he gulped air and dove back under. There was nothing else to do. There was nowhere else to
go. He stayed under until the breath came out, bubble by bubble. When the air was gone, fear kept
him under, his body bucking of its own accord, seeking the surface he couldn’t let himself reach.
Sparks blinked at the edges of his vision. He gasped at the surface and dove again, shuddering with
the certainty that a metal-wrapped fist would grab him, but when he had to come up again, all he
saw were three limp figures on the ground. Draco turned, searching every gap between the trees.

The Snatchers were gone.

Draco still waited, chin deep in brackish water, too terrified to move. Even with the heat of the day,
his fingers and toes eventually got cold, then numb. Every time he thought about climbing out of
the marsh, his eyes flicked back to where the Snatchers had appeared, and he shrank back down.

At a certain point, he became aware that his clothes and pack were still deposited near the bank.
Everything he had was there. His wand. If the Snatchers were to come back, and if they noticed his
things, it wouldn’t take long to find him, and he would be completely defenseless.

He got out, shivering, scrambled to his belongings, grabbed for his wand before reaching for
clothing. He crouched, looked around, listening for any disturbance or human sound. A few spells
to dry and warm himself, and a change of clothing, and he didn’t feel like he was about to pass out,
although he was still tired. And hungry.

And the inescapable truth was that there were others, so nearby, who would have expected to eat
another meal today.

He crept closer. The two Muggles were lying on their backs, blank eyes staring at the sky. He
didn’t know which one had been bothered by mud in his shoe.
A mosquito landed on one of the men’s open eye. Draco waved the insect away. He crouched by
the body. He didn’t want to touch it, but more mosquitoes would come. He closed the man’s eyes,
then his friend’s. Then, sick as it made him feel, he rolled the Muggles’ bodies so he could spill
out the contents of their packs.

Draco could have cried at the stuff that was in there. Granola, dried fruit, more of the claylike bars,
nuts. He crouched a short distance away, cracked a can of tuna with his wand with so much force
he nearly blasted the tin into pieces, and shook flakes of sharp, metallic-tasting fish from the
ragged edges of the can into his mouth. He ate five bars, a bag of dried apricots, enough peanuts to
crimp the corners of his mouth with salt. At a certain point, he was full enough to look up, and
Merlin.

He was a ghoul. Looting fresh bodies, gorging himself a few feet away from the dead. What kind
of bloody fever dream had convinced him he could crawl out of the muck and ask the Muggles to
help him? What had he expected they would see?

Hands laced with scars. Ropey white ridges tunneling across his chest and abdomen. A black
deathshead on his arm. If he were lying in the marsh with the others, what could he hope for
anyone to think of him, if they found him? His body would speak for him for the rest of his life, if
he let it.

But what other choice did he have?

Not this. He’d earned most of his scars one by one, each misstep etching itself in. If there were two
roads open to him now, one way would be quick, a matter of getting caught at the wrong time by
the wrong person, just once. The other was long and painful, and in all honesty there was no
promise of reaching the end and finding that the things he did right could mark him bit by bit the
same way his mistakes did. But he could choose it.

A feeling plucked in his chest. Not hope. Not something quite so powerful as that. Draco had never
been good at optimism to begin with, and he’d had plenty of time to think over every damning
thing he had done.

He couldn’t stand to see himself be this ghoul until he died. He couldn’t hope for safety or
acceptance or more chances, but he could try to get closer to the people who made him feel like
himself, not a pawn or a monster. He had to believe that version of himself really did exist, even if
the mark he’d made in the world so far said differently.

Granger may or may not help him directly, but no one else made him feel clearer. The way she
burned with her own faith in what she believed was right. Draco needed her. Whatever else
happened to him, if it happened when he was near her, at least he would know that at the end, he
was reaching as best as he could toward that faith, even if he never felt it.

He would get out of the woods. And, somehow, if he survived, he would find a way back to
Hermione Granger.

Hermione was patrolling the perimeter with Harry again a few days after their last conversation.
When they were at the furthest point from the campsite, she finished up her spellwork and tucked
her wand away.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About--Malfoy. Draco. Him. You know.”
“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You, er. Want to talk about it?”

“Yeah. Maybe. If you do.”

“I would, actually. I’ve sort of been thinking about it too,” Harry said. “My mind keeps coming
back to that night, obviously, for lots of reasons. I keep thinking about what he said, at the end.
Riddle was going to kill his whole family if Malfoy couldn’t do it.”

Hermione nodded. “He was so scared all year. You-Know-Who threatened him more than once.
Threatened doesn’t even feel like the right word. He just told Draco what he’d do,” she said. “But
that doesn’t change what Draco did, either.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry agreed. “But. Have I told you about the Mirror of Erised?”

“No.”

“It was a long time ago, first year, before you were hanging out with me and Ron much yet. If you
look into it, you see your deepest desire. I saw my parents with me.” There was something yearning
in his face, even now. “I spent days in front of it. Dumbledore eventually found me and got me
away from it. He said it’s not healthy to waste your life wishing for things that can’t happen.”

“God, that must have been so hard. You’d barely even seen photos of them at that age.”

“It was tough, yeah. Seeing Malfoy up there that night, though, it sort of brought it all back. I had a
thought, later, that if you’d shown us both the mirror, just then, we’d have seen the same thing.
Ourselves, safe, with our parents.”

Hermione held her breath. Harry looked miserable and ashamed. When he didn't speak, she nudged
her shoulder against him. “Tell me. It's okay. No judgement, I promise.”

Harry’s voice came out almost at a whisper. He didn’t look at her when he said it. “If it had been
me. If my parents were alive, and hurting someone could save them. If I’d lose them if I didn’t.
Hermione, I don’t know what I would have done, if I’d been the one standing there.”

“You’re not a killer.”

Harry’s mouth did a bitter twitch. “Doesn’t do Sirius any good. Cedric, either. The three of us are
only out here because being seen with me puts a target on people’s back.”

“That’s not your fault. You can’t help it if a madman is fixated on you, threatening people you
love.”

“Yeah.” Harry scuffed his feet through a scrubby patch of grass, sending puffs of dry earth up to
coat his shoes. “Just--explain it again, would you? Why you’re okay with me. You don’t have to
forgive Malfoy--if there’s a Wizarding world left at the end of all this, I guess most people won’t. I
just need to hear why I’m still a good person, then, after the things that happened because of me.”

“Harry, you were just trying to protect--” Hermione’s chest felt tight. “It’s just different. You aren’t
him. You can see that, can’t you?”

Harry sounded tired. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I can.”

Hermione eyed him. “Why did you hurt him, that time in the bathroom? You cornered him.”

“Hell, Hermione, don’t you think I feel guilty enough?”

“You never gave me an honest answer.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was so angry, and he and I never got on, and it--it was stupid. It was a
mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a better answer for you.”

They walked for a few minutes together. When they rounded a bend and saw the tent, Hermione
said, “I think I need to go.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“Not forever. Just maybe a few days? I don’t have a good answer yet, either. I need to think, and
listen, and feel however I need to without worrying about what anyone will see. I wouldn’t go far. I
just can’t be the person I need to be, when it’s me with you and Ron. It’s nothing either of you have
done, but I need to sort it out on my own.”

“When would you want to go?”

“Tonight, if I can. I can try and explain it to Ron at dinner tonight.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ll do it. You go where you need to. I’ll make him understand.”

Draco dragged his feet over the sodden ground. He’d left the main water behind, but underground
marshwater made the terrain soggy for miles. Every step felt heavy. He was headed for a section of
the map further west even than Snape’s lake. There were clearings there, which likely meant
Muggle campgrounds, or even Wizarding ones. He’d disguise himself, find people, and beg for
help getting to a city.

He kept Granger in his head. It was so easy to lose focus, get bleary. If he’d learned anything at all
out here, it was that food was only one part of it. The destination gave everything else meaning. It
made it worth it to keep checking the map, marking progress, rationing out food, counting distance
walked against set times to rest. Reminding himself that all this ended with him seeing her kept
Draco putting one foot in front of the other. He was trying to sort through the jumble in his head
and figure out what in the world he would say.

Then a sound caught his attention. Animals moved in quick flurries or cautious steps. Rhythmic,
purposeful footsteps were a telltale sign of humanity.

Impossible. It was delirium finally setting in.

It was Hermione Granger. Tan pants, purple shirt, hair cascading over her shoulders. Draco could
smell her, apricot conditioner and a hint of sweat. She looked at him, eyes round, eyebrows high in
shock. She had her wand out.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I--” Draco dropped the walking stick he’d been using to keep rhythm. “How are you here?” he
croaked.

“I came out in the woods, by myself. I wanted to find you.” She sounded almost dreamy, like she
couldn’t believe what she was seeing, either, and had to tell herself the story to make it real. Her
feet snapped twigs as she walked closer. No mirage, then. “I should have let you rot.”

Draco’s breath was shallow. “I wanted to see you, I wanted you so much. Everything went wrong,
all of it. It’s my fault. I know that. I don’t know how to fix it, but I wanted to find you.”

“Stop it.” She shook her head. “I thought I could handle this. I thought maybe if I could just see
you--” Her lip curled up for just a second, showing her teeth. “I should have known better. You
told me so many times what you really are, and I never listened.”

“What am I?” he whispered.

“I never once called you a Death Eater. You know that? I stood by you, and you broke my heart."
Granger’s thumb slid back and forth in a groove in the wand’s handle. “I never meant anything to
you. I was a way to blow off steam, when you needed a break from working to be an assassin. Did
you want to laugh in my face every time you fucked me?”

“No--no! How could you think that?” Draco’s heartbeat was in his ears, just under the skin.
“Granger, you were the only good part of my life last year. The rest was hell. It still is. I’ve been
out here alone, and--please, you have to believe me, I didn’t want this.”

Her mouth twisted. “You deserve it. You deserve all of it. You pathetic, snivelling coward, do you
realize the pain you’ve caused?” Her wand hand twitched. “Maybe you deserve to feel what you
made the rest of us feel.”

“No. Granger, don’t.” Draco put a hand out. “Wait. Granger. Hermione, let me talk to you for one--
put it down, put your wand down!”

“Crucio,” she whispered.

And the pain hit him.

 Soul Magic
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco knew something about pain.

When he was three, he burned his hand on a stove. A House Elf named Pisky, who was cooking,
healed the burn before Lucius or Narcissa could see. It left no scar.

When he was ten, he broke his leg when he fell off a broomstick. His father bought him a better
broom and spent Draco's eleventh birthday with him, teaching him to fly steady and sure.

When he was thirteen, a Hippogriff clawed his arm.

When he was sixteen, the Vanishing Cabinet ripped the flesh from his hand.

When he was sixteen, the Dark Mark’s spasms woke him up at night.

When Draco Malfoy was sixteen, over spring break, Lucius Malfoy, in a moment of desperation
and terror and fury at a son who was putting Narcissa’s life in danger by his failure to fulfill his
tasks, cast the Cruciatus Curse on the boy in an attempt to shock him into obedience.

What was happening to Draco now, as he lay on the ground with Granger standing over him,
wasn't Cruciatus. The pain was wrong. The Cruciatus Curse had ripped through him like something
alive, cracking his bones from the inside by turning his marrow into acid, jerking his muscles as
his body fought to get away from itself. This pain, while fierce, was simpler and shallower, more
like fiery stinging over his skin.

This wasn’t the curse. Which meant it couldn’t be Hermione, either.

He grasped for his wand, dropped in the shock of encountering her, and his fingers squelched in
muck when they closed around the hawthorn. The slimy feel of the mud was what made him
realize it. He was walking the edge where the marsh met the forests--where Boggarts lived. This
creature wearing Granger’s shape and voice was preying on his fear, feeding on it.

“Riddikulus.” Draco cast in his mind for an image to accompany the spell. Nothing struck him as
funny right now. And he wanted so badly to see her. Part of him didn’t want to ruin the illusion.
Changing the appearance of the Granger in front of him would only be proof that he was still far
away, and maybe he’d never make it back to her at all.

Granger’s lips lifted as she sensed the new surge of fear rushing through him. She slunk closer.
She didn’t move like Granger did, Draco thought.The real Granger was strident and bossy and
walked in a bouncy march. She knocked into things sometimes when she was excited or distracted.
She didn’t stalk like this.

Still, Draco faltered. The steady, unrelenting grip Granger had on her wand, and the coldness in her
face, flattened him.

And that’s where the Boggart made its mistake.

“It’s because you know I’m right,” Granger’s voice whispered. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Not
after what you’ve done. It would be the same, it would happen like this, whichever one of us was
here. You’d get what you deserve, you stupid, hateful boy.”

Draco coughed against a fresh lancing of pain across his chest. “She’s really not good at hating
people,” he murmured.

It was true, wasn’t it? Even if she did hate him, or said she did, she’d never do this. He was sure of
it. Draco’s head felt oddly clear, even though he was gasping for breath, and it was strange to think
that a moment ago he’d thought this thing was her. He couldn’t see Granger this way at all.

Because she would never see him this way. Whatever had happened, whatever he’d failed to tell
her and failed to do and failed to be, Granger was going to see what he was, and she would never
hurt him like this. He was always, always, always going to be worth more than that to her. And
Draco knew what he had to do.

He pointed his wand at the Granger-thing. “Expecto Patronum.”

He felt the rush of the magic before he saw it, and for the span of an instant it was as though he
was inside the Patronus, and where the pain had been his whole body was singing yes, yes, yes with
recognition and relief.

Sleek, fast, intelligent. Social, needing a community, a family, to survive. Arrogant, sure. A show-
off, without question. But playful, graceful. A creature that understood something about joy.

The dolphin arced out of his wand, shining silver. It charged at the Boggart, powerful tail beating
the air. It swirled around the figure as the last traces of pain evaporated from Draco’s body. For a
second, when the dolphin wasn’t blocking his view with its silver light, he saw the Granger-thing’s
face. It didn’t look anything like her.

And then it was gone, and Draco was lying on his back in a stinking puddle of muck and rotten
leaves, watching this elegant, shining thing he’d made sweep overhead, and his laughter was
quivery and disbelieving, but he heard it.

Hermione set her pack down by a small lake, barely more than a pond, half a day’s walk from the
campsite. At Harry and Ron’s encouragement, she’d stayed at their camp an extra night and left at
daybreak. This should do well enough--close enough that Harry's or Ron's Patronus could reach her
if important news broke, but far enough away that she could take a walk alone, if she wanted.

On the first day, or afternoon, really, she set up her small tent, cast a few basic warding spells, and
sat by the lake with her head in her hands. She’d been working and working and working to meet
needs and be capable and test the waters before showing any kind of emotion herself, so for a little
while she just cried so hard she almost scared herself.

She gave herself the hiccups, which was the stupidest, least glamorous way to grieve possible, and
she was blowing out enough snot to make her face slimy.

“Ew,” she said, and hiccupped again. She almost wanted to laugh at herself, but not really, so she
wiped her face and looked at the sun reflecting off the water.

This wasn’t how Hermione had imagined becoming an adult. She could admit, out here, the
resentment she felt toward Harry and Ron. Ron was sick with worry over Ginny, but he still had a
family. Devastating as it would be to lose any one of the Weasleys, he wasn’t alone. Harry didn’t
have parents, but the only real family he had was the one he’d found through Hogwarts. Neither of
them understood what it meant to lose a family and world you loved, in one stroke. By your own
hand. And scarcely anyone even knew, never mind understood. The Order rushed to guide and
soothe Harry, but Hermione had to push her pain aside because Harry was the one who was
Chosen, and she was his friend.

That was part of it, really. Why the needling voice in her head and her heart couldn’t let go of
Draco. In a world that had so much to say about the Chosen One, he’d chosen her. And because he
was a stupid, broken, terrified, guarded imbecile, he’d left, and everything was that much harder
because he was gone.

So for the evening, Hermione caught herself a fish from the lake and cleaned it, built herself a fire,
and let herself be sad without worrying who might see.

On the second day, as she walked around the lake, she was perturbed to find an abandoned pack on
the far side. Hermione tested the pack from a distance with a few spells to make sure it wasn’t
booby-trapped or cursed, then approached and opened it. It was full of food, which she knew better
than to touch. There was also a note.

You weren't here. Had to leave. If you’re alive, send Branwen to alert me and I will come. There is
a possibility of a place.

~S

“Branwen?” Hermione said. A hooting response came, and an eagle owl fluttered down to a branch
near Hermione’s eye level. It cocked its head to look at her.

“Interesting,” Hermione said. Keeping one eye on the bird, she rummaged around in the pack until
she found a package of beef jerky. She twisted a small piece off and tossed it underhand at the owl.
Branwen caught it in her beak, chewed thoughtfully, and spat it out.

Hermione left the pack behind, noting that the owl didn’t follow her, and resolved to strengthen the
warding when she got back to her site. There hadn’t been any signs that the note-writer had stayed
any significant length of time, and after all the note said whoever it was had left, so she felt fairly
safe still. It just did to be careful.

Finding her walking rhythm again helped her let her mind drift. It settled, again, on the question of
just what she was doing out here.

Hermione had always believed that certain things were incontrovertibly right. Justice was as clear
as a compass direction, and part of being a good person was orienting yourself in that direction, no
matter how many people made fun of you for it. What she hadn’t considered before now was that
she’d also spent a lot of time believing that some things, then, must also be incontrovertibly,
equally wrong. If justice was fixed and unwavering, it would cast a shadow, and it had been easy
for a long time to believe that anyone who fell in that shadow wouldn’t be worth saving.

But she’d crept into her own living room like a thief and sucked the memories out of her parents
without even looking in their faces.

And Draco...what hadn’t he done? He’d lied. He’d cast an Unforgivable curse, and probably
attempted another. He’d brought about the assassination of Dumbledore, and destroyed the place
where Hermione should have felt safe.

Well, but look at the rest of the facts or it wouldn’t be fair. His life was in danger. And his parents’.
Not to mention that when it really came down to the fateful moment, he couldn’t even do what he’d
been commanded to, even knowing that failure could destroy his family. It wasn’t fair to call that
cowardice, not when the options were being a coward or a murderer. Gryffindor as she may be,
Hermione couldn’t find a way to twist his faltering hand into yet another fault.

But whatever came over him in that moment--compassion, or pity, or remorse, or fear--could a last-
minute change of heart be enough to justify looking at him with anything but revulsion? No. But
Hermione knew far too well that it wasn’t a last-minute change. He’d wanted desperately to have a
way out, had done everything she’d asked him to try, and in the end he was still climbing the
Tower. And now Hermione had to untangle everything she felt about all of it before she could
move forward. The thing was, it was sounding less and less to her like she needed to try to
understand Draco.

You could believe in unwavering, universal justice. You could believe in unconditional, life-giving
love. But Hermione was beginning to suspect you couldn’t commit yourself to both at the same
time. You could have both in your life to some extent, but one fully and one only in part. Justice
and love weren’t opposites. They needed each other, or justice would turn cruel and love would
protect evil. At certain points, though, complicated things would happen, and it wouldn’t be
possible to live both sides out perfectly. It was a matter of deciding which she wanted to strive
toward as best as she could, and which she couldn’t live without, and would make the guiding
force of her life.

So who would she be, if she chose the clean light of justice and reserved love for when it was
possible?

She’d be simpler, for one. Her world would have clearer answers and sharper lines. People would
fit or they wouldn’t.

She’d be harder. Strong, yes, but a rigid strength. There wouldn’t be room to bend. If she’d held to
justice when it meant condemning someone she loved, she wouldn’t muster much sympathy for
other people who cared about those who fell on the wrong side.

And after all this was over, if there was a magical world left, would it be full of monsters? Who
could she trust, after knowing what people did in a war? How could she trust herself, even if she
could reverse the spell and pretend that was enough to undo what she had done?

Well then, what was the alternative? If she forgave people. If she forgave him, of all people. What
if choosing love meant compromising over and over again, until she lost herself? What he deserved
was never going to resolve itself into a clear answer. It was more a question of who she was,
looking at him.

If Hermione forgave Draco for this, in the face of both the grand and excruciatingly personal levels
of his betrayal, she could forgive anything.

If she didn’t, after how deeply she’d loved him and how well she understood the anguish behind
why he had done what he’d done, she couldn’t forgive anyone.

On the third day, from the outside, it didn’t look like Hermione did all that much. She caught and
roasted another fish. She spent a lot of time reading.

On the fourth day, Hermione got up early. She drank cold tea leftover from last night. Building a
fire for a hot breakfast, and putting the fire out properly, would take too much time. She had work
to do. She packed up the tent neatly and organized the other odds and ends back into her pack,
except for the spell book.

It fell open to the page she wanted. Small wonder, that. In all the hours of studying since she’d
come out to the forest, she kept coming back to the Fidelius charm. Hermione still wasn’t certain
she bought into everything Dumbledore had told her about magic and souls. It still felt like there
should be more certainty, when talking about something so important. The way your friends
changed you made sense to her, though. She was a different person than she had been, or would
have been, if Harry and Ron hadn’t rescued her from a troll first year. She could believe that
people could change your soul, and that knowing things (secrets, hopes, fears, longings) that
belonged to the people who had changed you had power.

The Fidelius charm could hide people and locations. That much, everyone knew. The tragedy of
Harry’s parents’ betrayal by their Secret-Keeper was the kind of history that turned into legend.
What fewer people knew was that hiding was only one variation of the Fidelius charm. Promising
to hide the people you loved was one way to protect them. Promising to find them again was
another.

Any variation of Fidelius was complex and multi-faceted. An ancient charm, most likely invented
during times at least as tumultuous as these, it would need conditions to prevent the magic from
endangering the caster. Hermione poised her wand hand and frowned in concentration at the text.
A last practice swish, and she was ready to begin.

So. Begin with the identification of who the spell was meant to connect. That was straightforward
enough, although even so, it was strange to speak yourself into a work of magic. Hermione was
used to practicing spells on things outside of herself. She hadn’t expected to feel the spell as it
settled on her. It made all of her skin prickle into goosebumps, and then she felt light and awake,
like she’d jumped into cold water. Surprising, but nice, clarifying.

The next stage of the charm was more complicated. There needed to be a mirroring. This protected
both people, but especially the caster. If the lost person deserted, or replaced the caster with
someone else, or if the caster’s hope soured and they started to think of revenge instead of reunion,
the charm would dissolve. The spell had to recognize the intent on both sides, to maintain the
connection. Hermione slowed down her wandwork to keep the movements precise.

“Claritas conducit,” she said. “Bona ostende. Volunta vitae. Volunta aequo. Volunta pretium.” To
see the whole of the person, and use it to make them trust in the good parts you could see. To want
things for someone--life, peace, worthiness--and do what you could to protect those things. To try
as hard as you could to keep faith.

Kissing wasn’t love. Nor were butterflies, or gifts, or even secrets shared. Hermione didn’t know
how much she wanted, or how much she could promise, if this worked and they did find each other
someday. Chances were she’d ream him out hard enough to scare passers-by. Love as a kind of
choice that sprang from the deepest, steadiest level of herself she could find felt right, though, so
she reached as deep as she could and tried to send that through her wand arm.

When she was done, Hermione put her pack on and bit her lip. She was a little tired already. There
was a four-hour hike to do to get back, and then she’d have to seal the spell. That was the bit she
wasn’t particularly looking forward to.

She got back a little before four. Harry and Ron’s faces lit up when they saw her. They wanted to
sit her down and fill her in on all the news she’d missed from Potterwatch, but she shook her head.
 “I need to talk with you first. Both of you, might as well. You both ought to be part of it.”

“Everything all right?” Ron said.

“Yeah. I think so. It will be. I got to do some thinking, and I started working on a spell, while I was
on my own.”

“What kind of a spell?” Harry said.

“Fidelius.”

Ron cocked his head. “We’ve got plenty of warding on the camp as it is, don’t you think? That’s
meant for something more long-term.”

Hermione opened the spellbook. “This Fidelius.”

The boys craned their necks toward the page.

Harry looked up, eyebrows knitting. “Hermione, is this a good idea?” he started.

“I’ve already done most of it, and I don’t know how the magic’s going to affect me if you don't
help me finish it, so please,” Hermione said. “Sit down, right there, both of you. And don’t
interrupt. I need to be as precise as I can, and it’s hard enough to say it to you as it is.”

They sat across the firepit together, Harry and Ron on one side facing her. There was only a simple
charm to do, naming them as Keepers of the spell. All they had to do was be willing to listen. The
strength of the magic would come from her part. Knowing what you wanted was one thing, but
being brave enough to say it aloud to someone else amplified the power of the magic.

“I love him. Draco. I love Draco, even though that sounds incredibly bloody stupid right now,” she
said. Ron made a surprised sound, but she ignored it. “I want him to be okay. I want--ugh.” She put
her hands over her eyes so she didn’t have to look the boys in the face and plunged ahead. “I want
us to be on the same side. I want him back. I don’t even know if I mean back like, you know, but.
Maybe? I want there to be a pathway, I suppose. I want to believe that if the world ever makes
sense again, there’d be a way for us to be good to each other.”

“But he's a Death Eater,” Ron said, although there wasn’t much heat behind the words.

Hermione sighed. “Then Harry's a murderer, and I'm a torturer, and you'll have a word for yourself,
too. I don’t want this war to seal any of us as the worst aspects of ourselves, and for me that means
Draco’s part of that, too. If he’s chosen the Death Eaters, there’s nothing I can do about that. If he
hasn’t, though, if he’s trying. Then I don’t want either of us to be ready to give up.” There was one
more ripple of magic, and then she felt empty and shivery all over. There was a sense that an
uncomfortable internal pressure had gone away, even if it left her feeling untethered.

“Can I have a hug?” she said.

They sat on either side of her and rubbed her back until most of the shakiness went away.

“So. That’s it?” said Ron.

“That’s it,” she said. “I’ve done my part now.”

Chapter End Notes

I spent the better part of a year turning over various parts of this chapter before I
reached the point of being ready to write it. It's possibly my favorite chapter in the
entire fic, and the one I feel most vulnerable about posting. Writing will come for
pieces of yourself, too.
 Fidelius
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It was impossible to say for certain whether the same Boggart was tracking Draco, or whether there
were others in the region to catch the scent of an exhausted, weakened human boy struggling his
way forward, a quarter mile at a time (but healing, too, a little, bolstered by the better food from the
Muggles’ packs). Either way, it wasn’t the last time Draco came across Granger unexpectedly in
the wood.

He truly believed it was her, every time. Something about the enchantment the Boggart created. It
was like being in a dream. Draco never thought to question, at first, why Granger would be
wandering on her own out here. There certainly wasn’t anything to question in the way she reacted,
until the creature got cocky and the vision of Granger turned crueler than Draco could quite
believe, even in his worst fears.

Sometimes he saw two in a day. Sometimes he made it through a day without encountering her.
Whenever it happened, even after he realized through a haze of dread that something wasn’t right
and managed to send the dolphin to prove it, he had to rest longer and comfort himself before he
could keep going. The moment he saw her again, and believed it was her this time, was what stuck
with him the longest, since it seemed most likely to be true.

Her eyes were cold and hard with disdain. She pointed her wand at him.

“I should have known I'd find you cowering out here.”

She fired a blast of raw energy at him as soon as their eyes met.

“Stop looking for me.”

Her hair was matted, face a mess of cuts and dirt. She cringed when she saw him, body poised to
flee. “What are you doing here?” She pulled her wand out. “Harry! Ron! Help!”

Her wand hand shook. “I thought I was never going to see you again.” Voice low, guttural with
held-back tears. “I never want to.”

Her top was sweat-stained, hair pulled into two thick braids. She had her wand out.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Hermione,” he said, and the rest of the words he wanted to say caught in his throat. She was still
clenching her fingers around her wand.
“I thought I was never going to see you again,” she said.

“Hermione, please,” he said, his voice cracking. “I tried to find you.”

She started crying, and she launched herself into him hard enough to knock the wind out of him,
arms wrapping tight around him, nails digging into his back. “I’m so angry with you.”

He put his hands on her back. She felt warm. The shape of her felt right. His body was still flooding
him with alarm signals, heart beating faster, part of him wanting to pull away.

“Don’t make me go,” he said.

Her cheek was squished against his neck. “You idiot, you’re not going anywhere,” she said, and
then finally Draco knew it was actually her this time, and he was crying, too, making her shirt wet
where he pressed his face into her shoulder. Her name was the only thing that seemed worth
saying, or possible to say at all. He whispered it into her hair, not knowing whether she heard it.
The shampoo smell was long gone, replaced with the scents of leaf mold and smoke. It didn’t
matter. It was her hair, her skin. She smelled like home.

She held him tighter, bunching the fabric of his shirt in her hands, clinging to him. He could feel
her breath on his skin. Her hand rubbed down his back in the familiar gesture she’d done hundreds
of times until she did it without thinking, and she pulled back to look at his face, although she kept
hold of his arms. “I can feel your spine. Where have you been? Do you need to eat?”

He said nothing.

“Come on,” she said. “Harry and Ron are going to--well, there'll be time for that later. You look
like shit, so whatever we have to talk about can wait until you’ve got something in you.”

Potter was standing outside the tent as they headed up the hill toward camp. Draco saw his whole
body stiffen into attention.

“I thought the wards were holding.”

“They are,” Hermione said. “He didn’t get through. I stepped out. He came looking for me.”

Potter’s eyes fixed on Draco. “You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

“Is there anything left from lunch?” Hermione said.

Potter looked between the two of them and didn’t answer.

“Come on,” Hermione said darkly to Draco. “If the pot’s empty, I can make more. It’s plain rice
and lentils, so I hope you like a bunch of tasteless mush. We’re getting low on variety. The only
upside is there’s plenty.”

“So what now? He’s just--here? Ron’s going to go mental if he comes back and sees Malfoy here,”
Potter said.

“I don’t want to leave him like this. Will you find Ron and give him a heads up? It’ll be better
coming from you.”

Potter didn’t move.

“Sit,” Hermione said to Draco, pointing at a log. She stepped closer to Potter. “Harry, please.”
Potter wavered. “Are you certain?”

A slight nod.

His face set. “We’re all going to need to discuss this.”

“We will. But look at him.”

“Fine.” Potter sighed. “Ron went to get firewood. I’d better find him before he gets back.”

Hermione grabbed a bowl off another log and peered into the pot over the embers. She nodded to
herself. “Looks okay. No sense wasting.” She stirred with a wooden spoon and heaped the bowl.

Draco took it from her, hands numb. His heart was still beating too fast. There were too many
emotions all firing at once, and it was all he could do to stay put and resist the urge to bolt.

She frowned. “What?”

He shook his head. He could feel the heat coming through the side of the bowl. When was the last
time he'd had something hot?

“We're not going to throw you to the Snatchers. It’s all right.” She sat down next to him, close
enough for her knee to touch his. He could relax a little, then. He lifted a spoonful of rice and
lentils to his mouth.

It didn’t taste like anything. It didn’t have to. His body instinctively leapt for starch-salt-
carbohydrates-calories, and it was all he could do to make himself chew before going for more.

Hermione’s hand flitted over his shoulder and back. Her fingers brushed the front of his shirt,
tracing his collarbone. “What happened to you?”

Draco put the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to swallow. “I had to come out here.”

“We thought you’d gone back to the Manor.”

He shook his head. “Not safe.”

“But what do you mean you had to come out here? Did you Apparate? How did you even learn
that? Where have you been? Were you captured? It’s obvious someone hasn’t been feeding you.
Give me that.” Hermione took the bowl from him, refilled it briskly, scraping the bottom of the pot
rather harder than she needed to, and thrust it back in his hands, heaped almost to spilling. “That’s
about all that was in there for the moment. I really can make more. Sorry. You can eat. But I want
to know where you’ve been.”

His mind felt too slow to keep up with her questions. He didn’t understand what wasn’t clear to her.
“I’ve been here,” he said, gesturing to the forest. “Snape took me. After it all happened.”

“What, that night?”

He nodded.

Her mouth opened. “That’s not possible.”

A rush of anxiety. “It is. You have to believe me. I’ll show you.” He grabbed for his pack, dumped
items out, scattering wrappers and the remnants of his food, the battered plastic bottle of drowned
acorns, until he found the map. He pointed his wand at it and cast the spell. A thin black line
appeared, outlining his progress. “This is where Snape brought me.”

Her finger traced the map. “Draco, it’s almost the end of July.”

This time, it was his turn to be stunned. It had certainly felt like forever. He’d tried not to think too
hard about exactly how long. The days turned into one long march. He hadn’t realized it was six
weeks.

“You should be dead,” she said. Her hand was on him again, cupping the sharp angle of his
shoulder blade. Her fingers curled against him. It was difficult for Draco to get a read on whether
the touch was meant as affection or if it was just habit, mixed with her disbelief at his presence.
Hermione kept leaping to new questions, and Draco was having trouble responding as fast as she
wanted.

“Where were you trying to go? Why not stay there, where Snape brought you? Are there others out
there? Did someone chase you?”

“No one knows I’m here,” he said. “I had to keep moving. And then I came to find you--”

“When?” she demanded.

He looked at her, not understanding. He thought she’d ask why. This question didn’t make sense.

“How did you get here? To our camp,” she said. “It’s important.”

“I’ve been walking for weeks,” he said, still confused.

Her face fell. “We just happened to be here. It was just coincidence.”

“I almost walked right past you. I hadn’t planned to come this way,” he said. “There are
campgrounds further north. I was going to go there, but I changed my mind.”

She stilled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I felt different. I had my route planned. Look.” He showed her the map again,
casting a different charm. A green line appeared, carving its way deeper in the forest, over on the
far side of the creek. “I woke up, and that way didn’t seem so good anymore. I didn’t even bother
to redo the route. I just changed course a little bit. Going this way seemed--shorter, maybe, or
easier. It felt better. It was an easier walking day than I’ve had in a long time, and then I saw you.”

“What did you think finding me would do?” She hugged herself. “You have to understand, you’ve
shown up here out of nowhere, and I wasn’t prepared to see you, and now I’m going to have to deal
with Harry and Ron--”

“You want me gone,” Draco said, feeling sick.

“No. No, I don’t. This is all more complicated than I’d expected it was going to be,” she said.
“Listen. Let’s try to take things one step at a time. Do you need more to eat, right now? Or do you
want to go in the tent and get some sleep? It might be easiest if I can talk to Harry and Ron
privately.”

As soon as Hermione mentioned sleep, Draco realized how worn out he felt. The bowls of food
were heavy and reassuring in his belly, but his head hurt, and the prospect of closing his eyes
somewhere dark and quiet sounded incredible.
“It’s okay if I go lie down?”

“Yeah,” she said, sounding relieved. “I think that’s best.”

She took him into the tent and pointed toward a zippered side compartment. “I sleep in there, for
privacy. You can use my cot for the moment. It’ll keep you out of the way in case any of us needs
to come in and get something.”

Before she could rezip the flap and shut him out of sight, Draco thought of something and flung out
a hand to stop her.

“Don’t let Weasley know I’m here. You’ll stall him? Keep him away from here for a little while,
until I can hide out somewhere else?”

She frowned. “It’s fine. Go rest.”

“Please, Granger, he can’t know. He’ll kill me.”

“No one’s going to hurt you. Let me go and talk to them.”

When she exited the tent, Hermione realized her hands were shaking. She picked up the pack
Draco had discarded by the fire, noting the ground-in dirt on the straps. She replaced some clothes
he’d tossed out. She opened and sniffed at the bitter mess of waterlogged acorns, then turned her
face away in distaste. Then she noticed a familiar object, an old schoolbook, opened it, and paged
through it gently, inclining her head one way and the other.

She pricked up when the boys approached.

“Where is he?” Ron growled.

“Inside. Resting,” she said. She shook her head when Ron reached for the tent flap. “Don’t. He
needs to sleep. It’s better for us to talk first, anyway.”

“You said your spell was for someday,” Ron said. “Not two bloody days later.”

“You didn’t tell us it would lead him straight here,” Harry said.

“It didn’t,” Hermione said. “Well, it sort of did, but only because he was already nearly at our
camp.”

Ron folded his arms. “Is that what he told you? He just happened to be wandering past? Because I
guarantee that git will lie to his own mum to save himself. It’s not even a good lie. He Apparated
himself in, or got some henchman to take him. There could be people lying in wait just outside the
wards, waiting for his signal.”

Hermione shook her head. “He didn’t just get here. Harry, didn’t you tell Ron how he looks?”

“We came straight back here as soon as I could tell him what happened. Ron didn’t want to leave
you alone with Malfoy. We didn’t take much time to talk.” Harry and Ron exchanged looks. “He is
in rough shape, mate. Hermione's right about that. He looks hollowed out. He really does look like
he’s been out on his own.”

“And look.” Hermione held out the book. “Look at the notes.”
Ron gave her a skeptical look and opened the book. Harry came nearer to see. Then Ron’s
eyebrows went up, and both boys turned serious.

At another time, some of the notes Draco had scrawled in the margins would have been funny.
There were moments even so that made Hermione’s lip twitch, just for a moment, before the
awfulness of it sunk in again.

“For Merlin’s sake, wrap a shirt around your hands first,” read the note by stinging nettles. “Soak
nettles in hot water, or crush well between smooth rocks if there isn’t a bottle free.”

“Fucking disgusting, but you’ll feel full. Drink LOTS of water,” by cattail root.

“This stuff is bloody evil,” next to the entry on pine bark.

“Not terrible,” next to acorns, followed by, “Sure, for a day or two. Try a week of this shit.” Then,
an arrow pointing to the comment and, “Truth. If I get out of here, won’t touch these for 1,000
Galleons.”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron.

“He’s written through the whole book,” Harry said, flipping the pages.

“I’d guess it made him feel like he was talking to someone,” Hermione said quietly. “You could go
mad, out there so long alone.”

“What’s to say he hasn’t?” Harry said.

“What if he was captured, first?” Ron said. “If someone’s out looking for him, and they find us.”
He trailed off. “Isn’t it dangerous, having him here?”

“He can’t go any further on his own,” Hermione said. “Who else is going to help him? If we send
him away, you might as well admit it’s a death sentence.”

Ron hesitated. “I mean. Maybe, if one of us kept hold of his wand so he couldn’t try anything?”

“What about the Horcruxes?” Harry said. “Are you saying we should let him know about that,
too? It seems like a huge risk. He’s worked against us all this time, and if he hears about something
that the other side could use to their advantage--I’m just trying to think like him.”

Her voice came out flat and hard. “That’s not how he thinks. He wasn't in DA as a spy. He isn’t
here as one, either.”

“But we don’t know why he is here,” Ron said.

“Don’t we? He didn’t find me by accident. I checked. He was near us, but he was planning to go
another way. He only changed course after I finished the spell. If he didn’t want to find me, and
with good intent, the magic wouldn’t have worked. He would have passed right by us, and none of
us would have known.”

“We can’t stop searching for ways to fight Riddle because Malfoy showed up,” Harry said.

“What if he wants to be part of it?” Hermione lifted her chin. “He’s got as much reason as anyone
to hate and fear You-Know-Who, right? At this point? It makes more sense that him being here is
proof he deserted than that he’s looking for a way to the Death Eaters.”

“That’s a big leap to take,” said Ron.

“We don’t need to decide it right now,” Harry said. “Why don’t we agree he can stay the night, at
least? I have to agree with Hermione that he doesn’t look like he can afford to skip any more meals.
We’ll keep a close eye on him, see how things stand, and make a decision from there.”

When she heard stirring inside the tent, Hermione went in to check on Draco. Strange, to see him in
her bed. Strange for him, too, clearly, by the mix of want and apprehension in his face.

“Better? Did you sleep some?” she asked.

“Yes. I needed that,” he said.

“You up to come out for a bit? The others are here, and they’ll have questions, too.”

Draco sat up. “Is there another way out?”

“You’re going to have to talk to them sooner or later.”

“You don’t understand. I mean it, Weasley will kill me, after what I did.”

Hermione crossed an arm over her middle. “I thought you were back. You’re going to run, now?”
She shook her head. “You’re not in danger here. None of us will hurt you. I told you that. If you
want to leave, that’s your own choice. I can’t be the one to throw myself in your way anymore, so
do what you want to do.”

Draco slowed down. One hand gripped the metal bar of the bedframe tight. “What did you tell
them?”

Hermione exhaled in a short laugh. “I don’t know much to tell myself. I showed them your map.”
She waited a moment. He was still sitting on the cot. “I do want you here. I haven’t wrapped my
head around how you’ve lasted so long out here, but I’m glad you did. But I’m not the only person
here who has a say.”

“Yes. I know that.” He took a breath, settling his shoulders and relaxing his hands. When he looked
at her again, he’d smoothed the anxiety out of his face. “Okay. They’re just outside, you said?”

The boys drew closer together when Hermione and Draco emerged from the tent. Hermione snuck
a glance at Draco. Unlike the other two boys, his face didn’t show anything but cool, distanced
self-assurance. She wanted to stick an elbow in his side. He wasn’t dealing with Lucius, or a
professor, and if Harry and Ron thought Draco looked too poised to trust it would fall back on her
to defend him.

To all of their surprise, though, Draco strode right up to Ron.

“You hate me worse than anyone, I’d expect,” Draco said. “There's nothing I can say, but I am
sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want him to die.”

Ron looked startled, but not enough to lose his voice. “Seems like you tried hard enough,” he said.
“You don't get off because Snape did your dirty work.”

Draco frowned, confused. “It wasn't Snape. It was the werewolf.”

Ron frowned back. “Who are you talking about?”

“Your brother,” Draco said, bewildered. “I thought he was your brother. The man protecting
Ginny.”
“He's not dead,” Ron said.

“He is. I saw him. The werewolf attacked him--he was on the floor. There was blood. He wasn't
moving.”

“Oh, he got bit, all right. Lupin says it's a unique case. We're all still waiting to see exactly how
he'll be, but he made it through the first full moon and didn't turn.”

“He's married. We were all at the wedding,” Hermione said.

Draco sat down heavily on one of the logs around the firepit. “He's alive? This isn't--you’re not--”

“Joking?” Ron said. “I don't think it's funny to imagine my brother dead.”

Draco put his face in his hands for a long moment. “Good. That's good.”

Ron squinted. “I didn't realize it'd matter to you.” He looked at Harry. Then he opened his mouth
and paused, considering. “Ginny said you saved her.”

“I did what?”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Harry said to Ron.

“The darkness powder. Was that you?” said Ron.

“Yes.”

“Bellatrix would have got her, but she couldn't see. Ginny got out of range. Not that she's sorry to
see the back of you. She was more wondering why you bothered, if you were planning on murder,
anyway. It's just something you did by accident.”

“Was it by accident?” Hermione said. “Why choose that moment to throw it?”

Draco looked between them. “I didn’t know DA knew. I didn’t know you’d all be there to fight. I
should have, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I thought my parents would come and get me to the
Tower to--do what I was supposed to, and get me out. They don’t hurt kids. I didn’t know it would
be Bellatrix and Greyback.”

“You said that,” Harry murmured. “I remember that.”

“I wanted them to go away. Get away.” Draco turned to Hermione, not Ron, grey eyes pleading
with her to understand. “I didn’t want to see him die.”

“It’s still not doing much,” Ron grumbled. He looked at Hermione, too, then back at Draco. “If I
see Bill again, I’ll tell him you asked after him. We’ll see what he has to say about it.”

“You should stay with us tonight,” Harry said. “Hermione and Ron and I need to talk more, but
there’s no sense in sending you anywhere this late.”

Dinner was quiet and strained. Harry and Ron made more of the rice and lentils. Hermione tore
open a bag of dried peaches for dessert and passed around a bottle of vitamins. They all sat separate
from each other, staring into the fire while they ate. After, Ron switched on the radio for the
Potterwatch broadcast.

Hermione was worried, briefly, that Draco wouldn’t realize how important it was to them to keep
silent during Potterwatch, so as not to miss a word. She thought he might say something and anger
Harry and Ron, but he leaned forward as intently as the three of them, steepling his fingers in front
of his mouth.

“With increasing numbers of former Ministry officials not accounted for, reports tell us You-
Know-Who has been frustrated in numerous capture or assassination attempts. Those who are
reported to have evaded capture or torture through these means include Amos and Eileen Diggory,
Oliver Lufkin, Isobel and Morag MacDougal, and Septima Vector, whom I still say was altogether
stricter at Arithmancy than was required to provide a thorough education.” The voice paused, and
there was the faintest mumble of another voice nearby. “Just a fun fact. Adds a bit of color. The
listeners appreciate a touch of human interest.”

“Is that Lee Jordan?” Draco asked.

“The Potterwatch broadcaster is called River,” Harry said.

“Ah.” Draco folded his hands in front of his face again.

In the Potterwatch studio, it seemed that whatever scolding the non-amplified voice was delivering
had reached its conclusion.

“Right, yes, back to it then,” River’s voice returned. “For those interested, we’re also able to
announce a new correspondent at Potterwatch, Rider. This point of contact has been able to engage
so-far undetected means of obscuring the whereabouts of certain Undesirables. While Rider is not
able to speak directly to our listeners, for the sake of maintaining secrecy, this person has advised
us that they may be available for advice or assistance on strategies for secrecy. Contact an Order
member or Potterwatch correspondent, and expect further instructions by steed.”

Ron looked up sharply.

The voice on the radio continued, “One troubling aspect of the Order’s efforts to date is the
absence of Harry Potter. Last reported seen at the Burrow, Potter has been missing for a few weeks
now. Here to brief us on the situation is our associate, Romulus.”

“Thank you, River,” came Lupin’s tired voice. “To be clear, missing isn’t exactly the right word to
use in this case. We’d known that Harry Potter would need to take cover to minimize threat to
himself and others. What the Order failed to account for was the quickness of thought and
unquestionable talent of his associates, which led to a decision to depart without notifying an Order
member of their intended location, and to cast powerful enough warding charms to escape
detection from ally as well as enemy forces.”

“Romulus, to be clear, it still sounds like you’re saying no one knows where he is.”

“That is, somewhat embarrassingly, the case,” Lupin admitted. “We are investigating possible
methods to re-establish contact. If Potter were merely not accounted for, for example, there might
be avenues for potential correspondence. He is either traveling by unknown means or hiding in an
unknown location out of reach of traditional means of magical communication.”

“Any chance he’s listening to Potterwatch?”

Lupin let out a light laugh, although Hermione heard a forced edge to it. “Flattering idea, isn’t it?
By all means, Harry, if you’re tuning in, we’d love to hear word, or better yet, meet in person. It’s
not the house you’d likely expect, and not the person you’d trust, but the only theory we have for a
suitable place.”

Hermione didn’t recognize anyone on the (thankfully) short list of people newly reported missing.
They listened to the next broadcast’s password, and the radio crackled into silence.

“The hell was that?” said Harry.

“They don’t usually do that?” said Draco.

“No, that’s never happened before,” Hermione said. “He tried to send you a message. Did any of
that mean anything to you?”

Harry ran a hand through his already wild hair, sticking it in even more directions. “He didn’t say
anything to me at the Burrow about anything like this.”

“Well, we clearly need to try and figure it out. They need you. That’s obvious. Hopefully they can
give us more this way. It sounded like they know you’re listening. I think Romulus was irritated
with Lee for being too obvious.”

“At least someone’s bothering to be obvious,” Harry muttered.

“That was Lupin, right?” Draco said. “He sounded weird.”

Hermione nodded. “So insistent. Not the house you’d expect, not the person. Too crisp.”

"Theory sounded weird, too,” Draco said.

“Maybe it means something,” Hermione said.

“What about Rider?” asked Ron.

Hermione frowned, trying to follow. “You want to try to contact Rider to get in touch with the
Order? Why not just reach out to Lupin, then?”

“They said Rider sends instructions by steed,” Ron’s throat sounded raw. “When we heard Rabbit,
the first time. Her name--it’s the Patronus. D’you think, maybe? Horses have riders. Do you think
it could be her?”

Ginny. Hermione’s heart bobbed. Best to be cautious. “They said she was missing.”

“They didn’t, though,” Harry said. “Remember? Not accounted for.”

“What’s the difference?” Draco asked.

“We’re not exactly sure, but they mean different things,” Hermione said. “Maybe Ginny is
accounted for now. Maybe it means people who might work for the Order, but don’t have an
assignment? If that’s true, then her becoming Rider the correspondent would change her status. We
need to figure out what it means, that much is clear.”

“We need to figure out a lot of things,” Harry said. He looked at his watch. “Do you want to get
some sleep? Ron and I wanted to stay up a bit and talk over some things.”

“Not a bad idea,” Hermione said.

Harry’s voice was testing. “We’ve only got the three cots, so Malfoy will have to take the floor.”

Draco was already getting to his feet. “That’s fine. Granger, you’ll show me where?”

He followed her into the tent, leaving Harry and Ron to talk alone.
 Hermione set him up on the other side of her compartment, as far away from Harry and Ron’s cots
as he could get. They’d all probably sleep better if the boys could pretend they had space from
each other.

“Well. Good night,” she said awkwardly, and zipped herself into her side. The moonlight and
firelight were strong enough for her to see the shadow of Draco in his sleeping bag through the
zipper panel. He curled on his side, and so did Hermione, but before she could fall asleep she was
jerked awake by his gasp. There was a rustling on Draco’s side of the tent, then quiet. For a little
while.

The third time Hermione snapped awake from Draco’s sudden movement or startled noise, she
unzipped the tent flap and held it open a few inches.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I’m getting settled,” he said.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, considering. “Do you want me to come be next to you for a
minute?”

Draco lifted his head. “God, yes.”

She wriggled out of the sleeping bag, dragged it into the main compartment of the tent, dropped it
next to his, and zipped herself back inside. She faced him, resting her cheek on one curled hand.

He reached for the other, in the darkness. She let him take it. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know.”

“I should have told you. Maybe it all would have gone differently.”

She sighed. “You should try to get some sleep. There’ll be lots of time to talk tomorrow.”

Draco put his head down, but his hand squeezed against hers fast, like a little pulse. Hermione
didn’t think he was aware he was doing it. “Will you at least promise you’ll listen to my side
first?” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t send me away without letting me explain. Or not explain, I don’t mean explain like a
justification, but I need to try to make you understand--” He was starting to babble, voice pitching
higher in his rush to get the words out.

Hermione propped herself up. “Hey. Hey, settle down. Draco, Harry was there, hiding, at the
Astronomy Tower. He heard the things you said. He saw that you couldn’t do it. When I say we’ll
talk tomorrow, I mean it. There are things we all need to figure out, but we’ll get something sorted.
I promise. Now honestly, Harry and Ron really will wake me for a shift, so you need to get some
sleep, and let me rest.”

Chapter End Notes

The Golden Trio spent so much time isolated in canon. I'm thinking it could be really
fun to see how the dynamic changes with Draco in the mix to complicate things.
 The Silver Dolphin
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

There was scrambled egg and mushroom, the next morning.

“Powdered egg,” Weasley explained, catching the look of surprise on Draco’s face. “I don’t know
where Hermione learned about all this stuff, but it’s not bad.”

Draco didn’t even have to ask for a second helping. He and Weasley both cleaned their plates first,
and Hermione pushed the pan halfway between them before either one of them could ask. Weasley
took the spatula first, but there was a generous quantity in the pan.

Potter waved the pan away when Weasley offered, so after what Draco gauged to be a reasonable
length of time, he took a third scoop, and ate until he was full.

Afterward, the other guys announced that it was time to recast the wards.

“We were thinking we’d go,” Potter said. “Ron, er, didn’t want to leave me back here, if you know
what I mean, so it’d be either you or him, so.”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said. “That’s the most sensible way to do it. Draco and I have catching
up to do, too. Just think over what we talked about, right?”

“You sure you’re all right back here?” said Weasley.

“Talk it over with Harry,” Hermione said. “Harry, tell him what you told me?”

Potter shifted from foot to foot, then rolled his eyes with a groan. “Come on, Ron,” he said. “It
might be a long walk.”

Draco watched them go.

“Up late, last night?”

“Busy day, yesterday,” she said with a wry smile. “They've got a lot to think about. Some space
should do them good, I'd expect.”

He tipped his head. “Not you, though.”

“It hardly makes sense for us to split off, does it? We’ve missed out on plenty as it is.”

“Why are the three of you out in the middle of nowhere, anyway?”

“It’s not the middle of nowhere,” she huffed. “Perfectly popular Muggle camping ground. I used to
come here every summer. When the attacks at the Ministry started, we didn’t want to put anyone at
risk by staying at their house. I thought this would be our best option to get away from Wizarding
eyes.”

Draco rolled his own. “Bit of bad news on that point.”

“Right, we heard that through Potterwatch by day two. The Snatchers don’t come out this way
much. Draws too much attention from Muggles. There was a bit of a close call, once, but no one’s
found us. We were taking turns keeping watch at nights until we felt certain the warding would
hold. We only just stopped staying up all night a few days ago. And now you’re here, so I’m
guessing Harry and Ron will want to pick it back up again.”

“You don’t seem as surprised to see me as they are.”

Another one-sided smile. “I’m hoping I still know you better than they do.” She slung a sack over
one shoulder. “We might as well walk and talk, if you’re up for it. Those were the last of the
mushrooms, so if you want something other than rice and beans for the rest of the day, we’d better
go find it. I wish we were near a deeper stretch of the river. There’s not much in the way of fish
here.”

Draco grimaced at the prospect of foraging again, but Granger was already making her way toward
a path at the edge of the woods.

“Aren’t you worried about Snatchers?” he said.

“Yes, but considering our mission is to find bits of You-Know-Who’s soul hidden in potentially
any object at all, and proceed to destroy something virtually indestructible using tools that are both
rare and often dangerous in their own right, the slim odds that I’ll come across a few thugs on this
exact walk are looking pretty good to me. I’ll take my chances for a decent dinner.”

“Are you deliberately being as much of a Gryffindor as you can right now, or do you honestly not
care if people try to kill you?”

“I want to make sure you know what you're getting into, if you stay with us. And I want to be sure
you don't have the wrong idea about me.”

“In what way?”

“It occurred to me,” she said, tramping down the path, “that there's a few reasons why you might
want to find me. Maybe you want to let yourself off the hook, and you think I'll bail you out, or tell
you it's not your fault. I've done things like that before.”

“I know what I’ve done,” Draco said. “And what I haven’t. I know how most people must see me
by now. I’ve had more than enough time to think about that, but Granger, I’m not a monster, either.
I don’t want to be.”

“I can't save you this time.”

“You never could,” he said. “I'm not asking you to.”

“Then why did you want to come back?”

There was the question. The answer was there was nowhere else he could imagine going, but he
didn't want her to misunderstand and think she was his last resort. True as that also was.

“I'm not good at hope,” he said. “I don't see the things you see. I want to live in the kind of world
you do, but I can't find it by myself. I thought if I could be close to you, even if you didn't forgive
me, I could see it better.”

“I'm not a beacon. I'm a person.”

“I know. You're a good person.”

“I want to be,” said Hermione. “If you think I’m going to have answers about how to know what
you’re doing is right, I’ll disappoint you. We’re all doing bad things, these days. Everyone’s
hurting people. I’m just trying to figure out how to be someone I can live with when all of this is
over.”

“Yeah, that's about the shape of it.” Draco pointed at a cluster of broad leaves, interspersed with
tiny, star-shaped flowers. “Did you want any of that?”

Hermione frowned. “What is it?”

“Wild garlic. Can’t say I’m a fan, although given you’re planning on cooking it, that changes
matters.”

Hermione crouched, poking a few fingers into the soil at the base of one of the plants. “I forgot
about spices when I was packing. I have salt, but that’s it. Even if we do just eat rice and beans,
this would help the flavor a lot.”

“You can eat the leaves as well. They’re better if you find a plant that isn’t flowering yet.”

She nodded and grasped a plant at the base, turning her hand gently as she tugged to loosen the
bulb from the soil. “You're lying about the hope, you know.”

“I do?”

“You said 'even if’ I don't forgive you. You want me to. You didn't come find me just so you could
throw yourself at my feet and try to live a better life. You don't really have the humility for that,
Draco.”

He shifted. There was something probing in the way she was talking to him, but it was hard to
follow what it was that she could want.

She looked over at him. “Are you planning to try to win me over, bit by bit?”

Draco scowled. “I think I know better than that.”

“Good. If I can't save you, you can't earn me, either.”

“Understood.”

She dropped the garlic plant in her satchel. “Do you have feelings for me?” she said abruptly.

“Would it matter?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I don't know how to be sure of you anymore. I don't know how to trust
you.”

“I’d say you can, but I haven’t given you much reason to believe me,” he said. “I want you to. I’m
here, whatever that counts for.”

“It’s something,” she said thoughtfully.

They walked on a little way. Hermione added handfuls of fiddlehead ferns and chestnuts to her
sack. She kept drumming her fingers on the strap. Draco wondered, but didn’t want to press her.
Not when things were still cagey like this.

“Can I tell you something?” she said as they walked through a patch of new-growth trees, on their
way back from the stream.

“Really?” Draco said. “Please. Yes.”

“I had to do it,” she said. “My parents. It wasn't safe, any other way. I told you about this, before.”

Draco lowered his head. “I'm sorry.”

“You should be!” Her hands squeezed in fists. “If Dumbledore was alive, maybe things would
have gone differently. Maybe I wouldn't have had to do it.” She looked in the opposite direction,
her shoulders rigid and still. Draco could tell she was trying not to cry, probably was crying and
didn't want him to see.

He swallowed. “Have Pot--Harry, and, ah, Ron, been helpful?”

“They don't know.”

“What, neither of them?”

She looked over. She was crying, or at least the tears were leaking out. She still looked angry with
him, too. “Of course neither of them, you bloody idiot. Harry can't know, and Ron might blurt it
out at the wrong moment.”

“When did you do it?”

“Right after Dumbledore.” Her voice wavered. “We had to move quickly, the three of us. I had to
be ready, and there was no telling what would happen to me, or when I’d see them again. I had to
do it right away.”

“Merlin.” Weeks, then. Months at this point. As much time as he’d carried the knowledge that his
parents’ lives, not only his own, hung in the balance of what he did. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“I wanted to tell you."

Draco grabbed her and pulled her into his chest. It was probably the wrong thing to do, but there
wasn’t anything else he could do.

And, just maybe, it wasn’t the wrong thing. She was crying more, and saying things into his shirt
that sounded a lot like “stupid bastard” and “sodding asshole,” but the way she leaned into him like
that. The way her hands grabbed the front of his shirt, and pressed his ribs, and reached around him
so her fingers fit into the spaces in his spine. She shifted the way she was standing, creeping so
close that her feet were between his, and relaxed against his chest, and when Draco bent his head
he knew from muscle memory that if she would only lift her chin toward him, her lips would be
right--

There. Except that they weren’t, of course. For one wild moment, he’d thought she was shifting her
weight to rise to him, but she pulled back, out of his arms.

Draco touched the tip of his tongue to his lips. “So this is probably, or rather, undeniably, the worst
timing imaginable,” he said. “But I need to know where things stand. With us.”

Hermione blanched. “We haven't even told you you can stay.”

“I can. I'll have to. I realized that this morning. You can't risk letting me leave, now that I know
where you are. That's how the others will see it, I expect.” He met her eyes, steady. “It's a matter of
whether, to you, I'm a guest or a prisoner, or--wanted. That's what I'd like to know.”

“You're certainly dramatic enough.”

“This matters.”

“What if I'm not sure yet? You only just got here. I might not have an answer for you after so little
time.”

“I know you, Granger. Whether you still care about me at all or not, you can't tell me you haven't
thought over the problem before now.”

“Problem?”

He made a self-deprecating grimace. “The problem of Draco Malfoy. What you’d do if you ever
had to face me again.”

She didn’t pull further away. Draco thought, maybe, she even leaned in, just a little bit. “Who's to
say I'd have any qualms about jinxing you to hell and back?”

Draco gave her a careful look. “Can I show you something?”

“Okay?”

He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed his back. Maybe just habit kicking in, but he’d felt sure she
would, and the joy of being right about that made it easier to find the right feel of the memory and
let the magic come coursing through his wand. The silver dolphin wreathed around them. Draco
heard her intake of breath.

“You can cast one.”

He nodded. “There was a Boggart. I fought it off with this.”

“Why not use Riddikulus?”

“I couldn’t think of anything to make it funny.” He looked over at her, checking her expression. “It
was of you.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No. I thought for a moment that I’d found you. You were--it was so angry.” His breath caught a
little, remembering. “It had your face, and your voice, and you were telling me how much you
hated me. I still thought she was you, somehow, until she hurt me. That’s when I knew.” He had to
stop.

“Knew what?”

“Hermione, you're the only person I know who, somehow, hasn’t asked me to change.” He waved
his hand. “I’m not talking about changing my mind about stupid things I thought. You made space
for me. You let me be the way I needed to be, and you didn’t make me feel like you loved one
version of me less. I was lying on the ground in the forest, with that--thing--telling me I deserved
what I got, and something in my head just opened. I could see myself, suddenly, the way you did.
And everything fit. You wouldn't torture me, no matter how much you hated me. I knew I was
worth more than that, to you. I cast the spell, and this is what came out.”

He looked up at the dolphin. “This is who I am, I think. The version of myself you saw. I don't
know if it's who I've been all along or how much you helped bring that part out, but it's mine, with
or without you. I’ve made my choice about where I stand, whatever you end up deciding to think
about me. I’m not stupid. I know better than to think I could show up after everything that’s
happened and expect you to love me, too. But I wanted to show it to you. So you knew.”

Hermione looked at the dolphin gliding through the sky overhead, and back at Draco's face.
“Too?”

“Yes?”

“You spend weeks trying to find your way back to me, and you show me this ,” she said. “And
you’re seriously going to bury telling me you love me in on the word, ‘too’?”

She put a hand on the back of his neck and surged up on her toes to press her lips against his. She’d
never been one for soft, shy kissing, and this was no exception. Firm and warm and sweet, she
pressed into him, filled his perception, left him breathless. He kissed her back, barely knowing
where he wanted to touch her next--her neck, her waist, the wisps of hair at her temples, her arms
circling him. He could taste her, which was the most thrilling, dizzying part of any of it.

“You beautiful,” she said into his mouth between kisses. "Stupid boy. How could you. Think you
could be. Fucking. This . And I wouldn’t love you?”

“I'm trying to be practical,” he protested once he had his mouth to himself for a second.

“You're not practical,” she said, equally indignant. "I'm practical. Did you honestly expect to fool
me about that?”

He attempted a grin. It was a little shaky, but it was there. “You love me?”

She kissed him again, hard, hands pressing so firmly against his cheeks that it almost hurt. “Too,”
she said, eyes fierce.

He nodded. “Definitely too. Too being the operative word.” He wrapped his arms around her
again. “I love you so much,” he said, because she deserved to hear it, and because it felt good to be
able to say it and know she wanted to hear it from him. He buried his nose in her hair and stifled a
cough. “We really should do something about that hair.”

“Really?” she said. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to go there, right now?”

He tried to run his fingers through the underside, pulled his hand back, and rubbed his fingers
together, feeling the collected grime. “Honestly, this needs attention. I recognize you’re camping
out in the middle of the woods, but what have the three of you been doing for hygiene?”

She pulled away from him, anger and hurt in her face. “I don’t know why you think this is funny
right now, Draco, but you are on really, really thin ice.”

Draco brushed his hands down the front of his legs in exasperation. “I’m trying to be sincere! You
have thick hair, Granger. A lot of it. Has either one of those two dolts been helping you?”

“Oh,” she said. She raised a tentative hand to touch her hair and swallowed. “No. I’ve been going
down to the stream by myself, but the water’s so shallow, and we only brought bar soap, and
there’s all these rocks that are covered with slime--”

“Do you have a bucket?” Draco said.

By the time Harry and Ron returned to camp, Draco was sitting on one of the logs by the fire, a
large bucket between his knees. Hermione sat on the other side of it, facing away from Draco, her
head tipped back into the water. Draco’s hands were sudsy up past his wrists, and he frowned in
concentration as he raked his fingers through the knots.

“Ow,” Hermione said, half-lifting her head.

“Sorry, love, I know,” he murmured. “I need to get these out.” He looked up, catching a glimpse of
Harry and Ron. “You both should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“You want to try that again, Malfoy?” Harry said.

Draco picked up a bottle of conditioner, squirted a dollop into his hand, and smoothed it over the
ends of her hair, working his fingers into the snarls. “It’s going to take forever to get all of this
untangled. Have you seen her scalp? I’m amazed she hasn’t been complaining. How did neither of
you bother to bring shampoo?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “We’re in the woods, Malfoy. Although clearly that didn’t stop you from
bringing enough beauty supplies to open a salon.”

Draco’s hands stilled on Hermione’s head. She tilted back to look at him.

He fixed his eyes on her hair. “Snape promised to protect me. I didn’t realize he meant he’d leave
me out here. Had I known, I would have prepared differently.”

“Snape,” Harry said. “Bloody snake.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Draco said shortly. “Close your eyes, Granger, I want to do another rinse.”

When Draco lifted a cup of water to pour over Hermione’s hair, Ron paled.

“Bloody hell, he really has it.”

Draco froze. He’d rolled his sleeves up without thinking. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the
other boys hadn’t seen his Mark before.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

Ron whistled.

Hermione leaned back in the water, shook her head to clear out the rest of the suds, and sat up,
dripping. She wrung her hair out and twisted it into a messy knot. “So let’s talk about it.”

“Do we have to?” Draco said.

She sat on the log next to him. “What do you expect anyone to think if you won’t speak up for
yourself?”

Draco took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m not proud of it,” he said. “I didn’t want it. I wish I
didn’t have it.”

“Kind of easy to say now, you’ve got to admit,” Ron said. “Now that it didn’t work out too well for
you. Why get it at all, then?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You told Dumbledore you didn’t have a choice, but you were still the one who opened the
Cabinet,” Harry said.

“It wasn’t like that.” Draco twisted his hands together. He was hungry again, or at least his insides
were gnawing at him. “There were things I did, last year, that I did because I felt like I had to. All
year, I knew if I messed up badly enough, I’d get hurt, or killed, or my parents would. It didn’t feel
like I had a real choice, so I did what I had to. The Mark wasn’t like that. They made me. I couldn’t
have fought them off. It was one of the worst nights of my life.”

“There are two ways of getting the Mark,” Hermione said quietly when Draco didn't continue. “For
some Death Eaters, it’s a status symbol, a sign they’ve made it into the inner circle. For others, it’s
more like a punishment. It’s a brand, you see. If You-Know-Who is angry, but can’t afford to lose
the person, he makes it so they’ll be hated and rejected anywhere else. He can make it more
painful, too.”

Draco didn’t want to look the other boys in the eye. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to continue, and
Granger was right that they’d never trust him unless they knew. She had his hand in hers again,
and she squeezed it to reassure him. (“You’re going to have to tell this story a lot,” she’d said,
before the others came back. “Start with them. They’ll listen, for my sake if nothing else.”)

“Afterward, it was bad. I hated it. I hated myself. If Granger hadn’t taken care of me, I don’t know
how things would have gone.”

“You knew the whole time?” Harry said.

Hermione rubbed her collarbone. “There wasn’t a way to tell you. It was hard enough trying to
convince you to give him a chance as it was.”

“Considering what happened, can you blame us?” Ron said.

“I’m not blaming anyone,” Hermione snapped. “I’m saying don’t you two jump to blame me for
not running to tell you Draco had the Dark Mark, and don’t blame him for having a scar a monster
gave him.”

“Okay, okay, let’s all settle down,” Harry said. “So. Erm. We've agreed that you can stay.”

Draco and Hermione looked at each other. He couldn’t help a small, “this is what I was saying”
nudge of his shoulder, and she bit her lip to hide a smile.

“That's...good,” Draco said. “You have my gratitude.”

“There'll be rules, of course,” Ron said. “You can't go sneaking off by yourself. One of us has to
see you at all times. I still vote one of us should keep hold of his wand.”

“We all need to be able to defend ourselves,” Harry said. “It’s more dangerous if someone needs to
look out for him all the time.”

“Who said anything about looking out for him?” Ron grumbled.

“He's kidding,” Harry said, glaring at Ron.

“Seems likely,” Draco said.

Ron squared his shoulders. “I think you're a right prick and a bastard,” he said. “No one's going to
convince me to like you. Not even Hermione. Sorry, Hermione. But yeah, okay. We don't leave
 ours behind. If you're really in with us now, and you don't slither off to save your skin, Harry and I
will have your back, too.”

Draco nodded slowly. “I can live with that,” he said. “I doubt I'll hear better. I'd offer you a hand,
but now may not be the best time.” He lifted his soapy hands as indication.

“Better not,” Ron said. “That's what started the whole bloody mess six years ago, isn't it? Maybe
steer clear of handshakes and see if things go any better.”

Draco stared for a minute, then sat back, swiping absently at his forehead in astonishment. “Sweet
Morgana, Weasley, is that meant to be a joke?” Draco said. “That’s awful.”

Ron’s lips quirked. “Got what, three square meals in you and you’re already lording about? The
world’s gone to shit, Malfoy. My humor’s the last thing you need to worry about. Also, you can’t
expect me to take your opinion seriously with a big glob of lather on your face.” He swiped a line
on his own forehead, down to the eyebrow.

Draco wiped his forehead with his forearm.

Hermione slid down from the log and resumed her spot in front of the bucket. She tipped her head
back and closed her eyes. “I am going to have something nice,” she announced. “You all can feud
as much as you like once I’m done.” She reached overhead without opening her eyes, finding
Draco’s wrist and guiding his hand back to her scalp.

He dug his fingers into her wet curls, feeling the change in weight as she relaxed into his hands.
“No argument from me.”

Chapter End Notes

Hey! It's been a weird week, so it's definitely a relief to post a chapter with this much
love in it after everything else that went down in the woods. Even if I believe it's also
fair for Hermione to be angry, and need to work through some of that first. I want there
to be room for all the emotions.

Also: Definitely got Google ads for powdered egg for two weeks after writing this (I
also researched foraging tours of the Forest of Dean, read various outdoor survival
sites, and now the search engines think I am VASTLY more outdoorsy than has ever
been true). Did you know about this stuff? You've probably eaten it without realizing,
if you've had scrambled egg from a big buffet container at a hotel breakfast, or in
college.
 Campfire Night
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione assumed, later, that what began to happen between the four of them over the next week
or so was because of her and Draco's efforts. This wasn't entirely true.

Harry, of course, had had his own reasons to mull Draco's case over in his mind, prior to the day
the Slytherin arrived at the campsite. He’d been so used to the Malfoy he knew--the bully, always
poised with a sneer and an insult on his lips. It hadn’t occurred to him to imagine that Malfoy ever
felt helpless or in over his head. Everything that had happened on the night of the Astronomy
Tower had shaken Harry, and Draco’s trembling hand and stricken face was no small part of it.

When Malfoy returned, Harry resolved to watch him. He trusted Hermione, and it was a shock to
see Malfoy thin and bedraggled, but he also wanted to be sure Malfoy wasn't hiding tricks
Hermione might not see. Stealth came easily to Harry. He’d always needed it. At Privet Drive, both
in the house and at school, it did best when he could keep out of the way. Hogwarts taught him to
value his ability to slip away for other reasons. It was good, being the Chosen One, recognized and
praised, but it was often overwhelming, as well. All in all, with or without the Invisibility Cloak,
Harry found it easy to go unnoticed, when he wished to.

So in the days following the decision to accept Malfoy into the camp, Harry made himself scarce
sometimes, to observe what he could unnoticed and think things over for himself.

Once, as he soft-footed his way back from the stream, he saw Hermione come up behind Draco
and lay a casual hand on his back, saw the way Draco jumped. Harry was too far to hear what
Hermione said, but he saw the way one hand flew to her chest, the other reaching for Draco's
shoulder, fingers gentle, and he could imagine her voice ( Oh God, I'm sorry, I didn't think ). Draco
shook his head, affecting ease ( It's nothing ), and curled his fingers against her waist to pull her
closer to him.

Another afternoon, Harry had taken a rest in the tent, and when he woke up, there was a narrow
gap in the tent panels that let him see them. They were sitting on a log together, talking in low
voices, heads nearly touching. Malfoy inclined his head to Hermione--a question--and she nodded
and put a hand on his knee, and then they were kissing. Harry had never pictured Malfoy kissing
someone. If they were at Hogwarts, Harry would have turned away immediately, embarrassed, but
circumstances being what they were, he didn’t, and it was strange to imagine Malfoy as the kind of
person who'd want to tuck someone up in his arms like that. And Hermione as--well, a girl, he
supposed, with her chin tilted up for kisses and a smile shining over her face when they pulled
apart.

Harry was curious about what the two of them would discuss in the evenings, when they stayed up
by the fire and Harry and Ron caught some sleep before a late watch. He didn’t have much luck
listening in. Hermione and Draco kept their voices down, and the crackling of the fire covered their
conversation. Harry only caught an exchange once, when he was half-awake, and it didn’t make
much sense.

“That’s it then. You want to pick next category?” Hermione said.

“I beg your pardon. This is perfectly valid.”

“Magical creatures, we said.”

“Granger, if you’re unable to recognize a magical toad when you encounter one, I hardly see how
that’s my problem.”

“Then I may as well just do a housecat!”

“And who’s to say I wouldn’t have accepted it?”

“Fine.” A small pop of magic. “There.”

“Well, I’m not going to accept it now, not after that egregious hesitation.”

“Nice try. That was a clarification, not a hesitation. Come on, what else have you got?” A pause.
“See, this is a hesitation.”

“It’s a Thestral, and you just can’t see it,” Malfoy said loftily, and then let out a yelp of surprise
that turned into full-on laughter, words coming in bursts between breaths. “I object!
Unsportsmanlike conduct--the audacity--visibility isn’t in the rules--”

“You cheat, you lose the round and you know it,” Hermione said, laughing too. “Don’t you try to
pull that ‘cunning’ nonsense on me.”

“Let go of me, you intractable minx.” Another, more thoughtful pause. “Perhaps not that far,
though.”

Harry rolled over and shut his eyes tight.

Ron managed to steer clear of Draco and Hermione when they were doing things like kissing, but
he couldn't always escape Malfoy altogether. Hermione still took her turns to cast warding or walk
in the woods with Harry, which meant sometimes Ron and Malfoy stayed behind together.

Ron didn't trust the silence, the first time.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” he grumbled.

Malfoy flicked his eyes up without turning Ron’s direction, in that stuck-up way of his. “No.” He
flipped a page of his book.

“Why not? Cat got your tongue?”

Malfoy rested a hand on the page. “Did you have something in mind?”

“I don't have anything to say to you.”

“Suits me.”

Ron glared. Malfoy resumed reading, even stretching out his legs to make it clear he was making
himself comfortable.

“I was going to hang out, out here, until the others get back,” Ron said pointedly.

Malfoy didn't look up. “No one's stopping you, Weasley.”

So Ron got the chess pieces out to work on. He cast the spells a bit louder than he needed to,
seeing if Malfoy would make a fuss about noise. Malfoy ignored him.

It...wasn't bad, oddly enough. Harry and Hermione got a soft look in their eyes when they talked to
him. He knew they were thinking about Ginny, and he really didn't want to ruminate aloud about
what could have happened to her. He was hoping she really was working for the Order (ideally on
something quiet and out of trouble, although he had a grim sense that this was far too much to hope
for from his sister). If he let on at all that he was thinking about her, or even got quiet enough to
make them suspect it, Harry and Hermione would feel a need to try to pull him into a conversation
or cheer him up. Ron hadn’t known how to ask for them to simply sit with him and let him worry
without forcing him to be able to put things into words. It was beyond weird for the person to
unwittingly supply this to be that tosser Malfoy, but apparently the entire world was backwards
now.

Ron even took a shift of the night watch, of sorts, with Malfoy. There’d been a report on
Potterwatch of attempted arson on Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Thankfully, no one had been hurt.
Yet. Ron was getting more and more anxious to be in contact with anyone in his family, though. It
was difficult not to snap at Harry and Hermione when they circled through the same pros and cons
for an Apparation attempt, ultimately deciding again to stay at the campsite for now. If Ron heard
Hermione say, “just another few days, then,” one more time, he was going to break something.
Malfoy, Ron suspected, wouldn’t give a rat’s arse if he spent an evening glowering into the fire.
And Malfoy didn’t. He had his own thoughts to keep him occupied, after all. They sat up for a bit
in silence, and when Ron got to his feet at last, Malfoy jetted a stream of water through his wand to
douse the fire.

It seemed awkward not to say anything at all in the tent, so Ron said, “Night,” just to signal that
whatever shared bit of the evening was over, and Malfoy said it back from his side of the tent, and
they went to sleep.

The next time Harry and Hermione were taking their turn away from camp and Ron took out his
project, Malfoy didn’t take long to find a seat nearby and open a book. For a little while.

Malfoy crooked one finger lazily between the pages and shaded his eyes. “What are you working
on, anyway?” he said, sounding bored.

“A chess set.”

Silence again for a few minutes. Ron tried to ignore the fact that Malfoy had not returned to his
reading.

“Giving you some trouble, isn't it?” came the arrogant drawl.

“Sod off, Malfoy.”

Malfoy leaned forward. “What exactly are you trying to do?”

“Mind my own damn business.”

Malfoy smirked and adjusted into a more comfortable position.

After another minute, Ron said, “Are you going to keep staring at me all bloody day?”
Malfoy lifted one shoulder. “I've read this one already. If you don't want to have a civil
conversation, fine with me. It's not rude of me to have eyes, though. I'll watch until I figure things
out for myself. Or until you get too dull to be worth the trouble.”

Ron glared at Malfoy, then sighed. Talking with this prick was irritating, but he didn't fancy being
stared at like a zoo exhibit, either. “I have the pieces done. I'm trying to do the enchantments to get
them ready for game play.”

“They're not taking.”

“I'll get it.”

“Can I try one?”

Ron was surprised. Malfoy didn't sound nearly as sneering as he always had. There was something
almost wistful in his tone. Still, though. “Why?”

“Charms were never your strong suit, were they? Maybe let someone with better marks have a go.”
Okay, there it was. But Malfoy was looking at the chess pieces, not gauging whether his words had
struck home. “It looks interesting.”

Ron was sick of recasting the spell anyway, and it could be funny to see Malfoy trip on his own
arrogance, so he put down his wand. “You know what? Fine. Be my guest.”

Malfoy set his book down and came over. He picked up a queen with two fingers and aimed his
wand with a casual flick, casting the spell to animate the piece.

He frowned. “Oh, weird.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of wood did you use for these?”

“Vine.”

Malfoy glanced at him. “So they'd be pliable.”

“Right, exactly.”

Malfoy made a considering face. “Not an entirely idiotic concept, but--”

“But these are way too pliable, yeah. I figured that much out pretty quick.”

“Unhand me!” squeaked the queen in Malfoy's hand. “I'll have you beheaded! Guards!”

“The wood absorbs too much of the magic,” Ron explained. “They're supposed to understand
instructions so they'll move to the right place, but they come out sort of sentient.”

“How dare you, you knave!” shrieked the queen.

Malfoy, surprisingly, set the queen down on the stump and bowed his head formally. “My deepest
apologies, your Majesty. I meant no disrespect.” He snapped his fingers at Ron. “Give me a knight.
She's not going to settle until she has a protector.”

“Don't you snap at me, Malfoy,” Ron said. “I’ll handle it myself.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I'm not chivalrous enough to charm a knight, Weasley? Fine. Hand
over the other queen and the kings, then. Royalty’s more suited to my skills, I’d imagine. You can
take the bishops, too.”

By the time Hermione and Harry returned, Ron and Malfoy had finished the pieces and were in the
early stages of the most nontraditional game of Wizard Chess Ron had ever played. All the pieces
had turned out to be capable of argument, so the first phase was a matter of both boys offering
whatever mixture of rousing speeches, wheedling, or sly promises they thought it would take to
convince a particular piece to play on their side.

Malfoy had both queens, which would have been a formidable advantage, except that all the
knights sided with Ron, and Malfoy had only one of the bishops (“It's corrupt,” Ron complained.
“I'm not sure how that's even possible for something that's been aware for about thirty minutes,”
Malfoy replied). The kings and rooks split traditionally, and now only the pawns were swiveling
back and forth on the board, trying to decide where to go.

“What are you doing?” Hermione said.

“Playing chess,” Malfoy said, oozing isn’t-it-obvious .

“This isn’t chess,” Ron said.

“New chess, then,” Malfoy offered. “Sentient chess. Insurgent chess--Insurgency? Is it better to
drop chess out of the name altogether?”

Ron addressed the pawns. “See, this wanker is going to sit around trying to make up a stupid name
for what you’re doing. I’m here to make sure you conquer this board.”

The pawns conferred, and a large cluster broke away to line themselves neatly in Ron’s rows of
pieces.

“Oh, come on,” Malfoy said. “Doesn’t creativity account for anything? You want a thinker who
goes deeper than yes or no.”

A few pawns trickled his way.

“I’m making some tea,” Harry said, “And then I’m watching this. It looks like it’s going to be
worth it. Who else wants some?”

And for the next hour and a half, the four of them drank tea and watched Ron’s pieces trounce
Malfoy’s in three different games, one of which only lasted six minutes (to be fair, that round, the
pieces had reanimated with a particularly strong inclination toward battle, and Malfoy had only
managed to secure five to play with). And despite the clashing of miniature figures on the board,
none of the four of them was thinking about war at all.

Of course, worthwhile as all of this was, it still might not have come to anything more than the
occasional passing reminder that they were all, in fact, still also students who had grown up more
or less alongside each other, and not just people who war had thrown into closer connection than
anticipated, were it not for Draco and Hermione’s efforts, and a couple of nights when they were
all relaxed and things seemed to fall in place on their own. Nights like the evening of Harry’s
seventeenth birthday, the campfire night.

When Hermione had packed, she hadn’t expected to be out for weeks, but she’d also been aware
that it was hard to know what she really could expect. To that end, she’d hidden away a pack of
Lotus biscuits, a bag of marshmallows, and a few Cadbury bars so they’d have something to
celebrate with, if they were still in the Forest of Dean then. She was especially grateful for them
now, noting that Harry had pushed around more of the rice on his plate than he’d actually eaten.

After they all found sticks, Draco sat right next to Hermione and planted his hand on the log on
Hermione’s far side, so she'd lean back against his arm.

Ron made an annoyed noise. “Really?”

“He’s not doing it to dig at you,” Harry said. “They're always like that.”

“Like what?” Hermione said, indignant.

“They're worse than you and Lavender,” Harry continued. Ron's lip twitched.

“I'm not sure what you're talking about, but I feel I should object, based on your face,” Draco said.

“Ron and Lavender were obnoxious,” Hermione said. “They were attached at the tongue for about
two months.”

Ron grinned. “Where’s your hand, Hermione?”

It was on Draco’s thigh. Hermione blushed and folded her hands primly in her lap.

“What’d you say that for?” Draco complained. “Granger, you’re not going to listen to them, are
you? I’m not afraid of Potter and Weasley.” He hugged her closer and nuzzled into her neck to
prove it.

Hermione smiled, but she felt tight. It felt, suddenly, foreboding that she and Draco were sitting
together on one side of the fire, and Harry and Ron were together on the other. She was with her
family right now, inasmuch as she currently had one, and since Draco had returned she’d found
herself balancing time carefully between sides. What if this continued? What if, wild thought,
things stayed good with her and Draco, and it became a further and further distance for her to reach
across to Harry and Ron until they tightened into a pair of best friends, instead of a trio? Or worse,
what if it had less to do with the fact that the newcomer was Draco Malfoy, and the real problem
was that he was a newcomer at all? The three of them had gone through so much together. Maybe
the idea that she could become close to anyone who wasn’t one of them was enough to cause a
rift.

“We should do something different,” she said.

“Different how?” said Ron.

“It’s Harry’s birthday,” Hermione said. “It’s a new year, for him. So let’s do something new. Let’s
not talk about the same old stories the three of us know by heart. Tell us something no one here
knows about you. We can all go.”

“You and Harry know everything about me,” Ron said.

“I’m not telling these tossers my secrets,” said Draco.

“It doesn’t need to be a secret,” Hermione said, exasperated. “Just something we don’t know.
There’s got to be something.”
“I’ll go,” Harry said.

Hermione gave him a grateful smile.

Harry adjusted his glasses. “I don’t know if it’s really secret. Maybe. It’s not like I wouldn’t have
told Ron, or whoever, I just never did. But here goes, then. I almost got Sorted into Slytherin.”

Hermione and Ron actually squawked in surprise. Draco lifted his chin and shook his head.

“I’m not seeing it. Not with the way you bluster and swagger around.”

All three of the others snickered.

“Do you even listen to yourself when you talk, Malfoy?” Ron said.

Draco grimaced. “Poor choice of words, maybe. I can be subtle, though. You’re always just
charging around.”

Harry lifted a smoking marshmallow from the fire and blew on it. “That’s because when I sneak,
you don’t even notice me, for all your cunning,” he said airily. “Or were you also on a first-name
basis with the three-headed dog, first year? Because I don’t remember you being with me and Ron
and Hermione when we found it. Who got Buckbeak untied and snuck him right under Fudge’s
nose?”

“That hippogriff mauled me,” Draco said.

“It was a scratch and you know it,” said Harry. “The point is, I can be cunning. The Hat saw that,
clear enough. Ambitious, too. The Hat thought I’d make a great Slytherin.”

“Why didn’t you?” Hermione said.

“Well. That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Harry said, suddenly looking a bit chagrined. “I’d only just met
Malfoy, right? And he was an absolute git--I mean, you were,” he said to Draco.

“Just tell the bloody story, Potter.”

“And then your surname starts with M, so you’d gone right before me, and when the Hat was
trying to sell me on Slytherin, I just kept thinking, hell, I don’t want to bunk with that prat, not
Slytherin. So the Hat put me in Gryffindor.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

Draco burst out laughing. “You chose your House based on not liking me for the last twenty
minutes beforehand? Merlin’s balls, Potter, I take it back. That might be the most singularly petty
Slytherin maneuver I’ve ever heard of. You might have done all right, after all.”

“He’s done a bit more than all right as it is,” Ron said.

“Now I’m not sure why it didn’t put you in Slytherin, just for that reasoning.”

“It was the principle of the thing,” Harry said. “I wanted to be with people I felt like I could believe
in.”

“Oh, okay, right,” Draco said. “That would do it.”

“I almost got put in Ravenclaw,” Hermione said.

“Well, that’s no surprise,” Ron said.

“And I knew that already, so it doesn’t count,” Draco said.

“You did?” said Harry.

“You think we don’t talk, Potter? Of course I know things about her.”

“Ron, you got anything?” Harry said.

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m trying to think back. It’d have to be a baby story. I
don’t know. Did I tell you my parents thought I was a prodigy, for a while?”

“No,” Harry said.

“That’s amazing,” said Hermione.

Ron grinned sheepishly. “Well, not that amazing. I didn’t exactly turn out top of the class, did I?
But I was a pretty powerful little kid. I had my sparks party when I was three.”

Draco whistled. “Are you serious, Weasley?”

“What’s a sparks party?” said Hermione.

Harry shook his head. “Not a clue.”

Hermione felt Draco lean back in surprise.

“Potter, you don’t know what this is? A sparks party. Any little Wizarding kid has one. Maybe not
Granger, but that’s only because Muggle parents wouldn’t know any better.”

“Your parents throw a party for you when you first do accidental magic,” Ron said. “Most of the
time it’s when you’re five or six. It’s like an extra birthday, but even bigger. Everyone comes out to
celebrate that you’re a proper witch or wizard. You play loads of games, doing different kinds of
baby magic. Some of it’s meant to help you learn control so you don’t hurt anyone before you go
off to Hogwarts, but it doesn’t feel like lessons. It’s fun.”

“Mine lasted four days,” said Draco.

“Mine was a weekend,” Ron said, “although probably a few people stayed on a bit longer.”

Harry shrugged. “I was raised by Muggles, too. My aunt and uncle.”

“But they’d know,” Draco protested. “They’d have been told who you were. They must have done
a party, even if they didn’t call it a sparks party.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t.”

Ron sat forward a bit, boring his eyes into Draco.

“Why’s it called a sparks party?” Hermione said, to break the silence.

“Most kids make sparks, at first,” Ron said. “It’s one of the most common early magics, though not
everyone does that.”

“I painted the peacocks,” Draco said. “They’re all white, so I just went like that--” He streaked a
hand through the air. “Like finger painting. My father got home from--time away--and I’d made
them all piebald, all different colors.”

“That’s adorable,” said Hermione.

“I vanished a glass.” Harry sounded pensive. “Freed a snake. I could feel how much it wanted to
get away.”

“Bloody hell, mate, you were an odd one, weren’t you?” said Ron. “Anyway, it’s really rare to do
magic that early. Even four is really young, and I was barely three and a half. I could vanish. My
parents were worried that I’d figured out something incredibly strong, like some kind of elemental
form of Apparation. They kept asking where I’d gone. They had to notify Dumbledore and the
Department of Underage Magic in case I needed to be enrolled in special programming. They were
proud, mind you, no doubt of that, but there’s a lot of other things that come with having a child
who’s gifted that strong.”

“So what happened?” said Hermione.

“They eventually figured out I’d basically had to tap my magic that early, because of the twins.
Fred and George were five and a half, then. They’d only just had their sparks party a few months
before, and as soon as they could do any kind of magic, they were using it to play pranks on me. I
had to be able to get them back, or hide myself away when I didn’t want them to bother me. I could
turn invisible, I could lock and unlock doors with magic, I could do sparks and water both, but I
learned all of it because of Fred and George. Until my parents figured that part out, though, they
used to bring me out at parties to show off what I could do.”

“You must have loved that,” Hermione said.

Ron’s eyes crinkled at the memory. “It’s the main thing I remember, really, from being that little.
Some of the pranks, too, but getting fussed over was nice, while it lasted.”

Draco leaned his cheek against Hermione’s temple. “If we survive all of this, when it’s all over,
I’m going to throw you the belated sparks party of the century,” he murmured.

It felt less awkward now, getting cuddled in front of the boys. It felt luxurious and rare to have
Draco be relaxed like this, and Harry and Ron weren’t even saying anything, so she nestled her
head into the crook of his neck and stretched her feet out in front of the fire.

“If you do throw her a party,” Harry said, evidently having heard, “Are we invited?”

Hermione could feel Draco go still, considering the possible angles of the question.

“I suppose so,” he said coolly. “It doesn’t seem as though I’m going to shake loose of either of you,
as long as Granger’s around, and I’d never hear the end of it from her if I wasn’t on somewhat
cordial terms with you.”

“A heartfelt sentiment from a Malfoy if ever I heard one,” drawled Ron, reaching for another
biscuit.

“Says the ginger who’s vowed never to like me,” Draco said. “My parents most likely count me
dead, Weasley. You’re going to go after my family now and still call me the bastard?”

Hermione looked across at Ron, who paused and then nodded.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was too far. I’ll lay off.”

Draco nodded, too, acknowledging the apology.

Hermione was trying to think of something to say next, but Draco cut in again before she could
come up with a secret to share.

“It wasn’t like I never wanted to be on good terms with you,” he said. “With Potter, at least.”

“Yeah, we all know that,” said Harry with a short laugh.

“I mean I still did, later, in a way,” Draco said. “You lot were in my face all the time, weren’t you?
No, it didn’t make me like you any better, or suddenly want to slum it with the Weasleys, or
associate with Granger. Anyone could see what you three meant to each other, though. You put
each other first without question, without having to think about it for a second. No one would have
done that for me. Crabbe and Goyle did what I told them to, but they’re not loyal like that. My
other friends and I...we had good times and times we’d fall out, for a while. It wasn’t steady. Even
at home.” His fingers clutched Hermione’s waist, but he was too far in to stop now. “My parents
took care of everything for me, of course, but they were busy a lot, when I was a kid. I didn’t
always know when they were going to be around. You all were there for each other, whatever
happened. Maybe I didn’t want to be friends with you, but I wanted that.”

Hermione put an arm around him. “We’re here for each other now.”

“That’s the most ridiculous part of all of it,” Draco said. “I think I might actually believe that. I still
don’t plan on being best mates with you two, but I know that wherever we go from here, it’ll get
worse for me. I’m making the most of it, while I can.”

“It might not even be all that bad,” Harry said. “People in the Order would hear you out, at least.”

“We’ll see.”

“My secret’s similar to Draco’s, in a way,” Hermione said. “I was an odd kid. Probably most
Muggle-born witches and wizards are. I learned my powers from Matilda. It’s a book, about a little
girl who can make things move with her mind. I loved it. I taught myself to do it, too. My parents
go to church, but they’re not old-school, hell and demons religious, which is probably a good thing,
considering they walked into my room and I had all my toys spinning circles in the air around me.
They took me to see all kinds of people. Doctors, psychiatrists. I had my brain scanned every
possible way. They had the vicar come talk to me and ask if I ever heard God speaking to me,
which didn’t make sense to me at all. I thought, I’d learned all sorts of other things from books
already, this was just one more. Professor McGonagall actually came to pay us a visit herself, when
I was about six or seven.”

“Does she usually do that, make calls in Muggle villages?” Draco said.

“Don’t look so shocked. We don’t all live in villages, either. I grew up in a suburb. I don’t know if
she visits routinely. I expect some Muggleborns hide their magic as long as they can. I didn’t, and I
had parents who were relentless about looking for answers. Professor McGonagall had to intervene
or my parents would start drawing too much attention, I think. My point is, I felt out of place for a
long time. I didn’t even feel like I could belong at Hogwarts until Harry and Ron and I became
friends. That’s when it stopped feeling as much like a dream that was going to end any minute.”

“Until this year?” Draco said.

Hermione gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, basically. Who knows, now?”

“We do,” Harry said. “We know better than anyone that we’ve got a chance. Really, Malfoy, even
 the fact that you’re here. You can’t be the only one who’s pulling away from the Death Eaters.”

“People may not be keen to see you at first,” Ron said. “Once they understand it means You-
Know-Who is starting to lose followers, they might take it as a good sign that you’re with us.”

“And from there, all we need to do is come up with a plan to defeat You-Know-Who and save the
world,” Hermione said.

“Right, ‘all,’” Harry said. “At least we don’t have to do it tonight.”

Chapter End Notes

Switching POVs at this point was somewhat nerve-wracking for me, but I really felt
like I needed to get a sense of how Draco and Hermione look together now without
being inside either of their heads. I hope it wasn't too jarring, and gave you a new
perspective on what's changed or changing for the boys as well.

I was especially happy to get a chance to tease at another detail that's bothered me
before in HP canon, which is the question of underage magic. If magic comes out
involuntarily in moments of heightened emotion, but underage magic has severe legal
penalties attached, there has to be a cultural mechanism in place to teach control, right?
 Out of the Woods
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione thought Draco was starting to look a bit better. He wasn’t getting achy and exhausted
after meals anymore, didn’t have to spend as much time resting in the day. His skin didn’t have that
flaky, ashen look to it anymore. He was still too thin, but so much more alert, more there.

And the more he did really seem to be there, Hermione found, the more she felt an impulse to
check and feel sure of him. Those first few days, it was grotesque and laughable to think he’d
stagger away from the food and security their campsite provided. The stronger he was beginning to
look, the more Hermione wanted to reach out and touch him, to satisfy herself that he wasn’t going
to slip away again. The more she did, and felt him lean into her touch, and felt her brain prick with
excitement when they picked through Potterwatch news together, and let herself relax enough to
lull almost into dozing against his shoulder when it was late but they were dawdling about heading
into the tent, the more she found she wanted.

They’d stopped doing regular night watches again--it was too lonely and too much work to shuffle
rotations and spend hours staring into the dark wood--but Hermione and Draco had stayed up
anyway after Harry and Ron had gone to bed.

They crept back into the tent sometime after midnight, keeping footsteps soft and wincing at the
sound of the zipper pulling the tent flap closed. Neither Harry nor Ron stirred on their side of the
tent.

It was dark, but their eyes had already adjusted to no more light than what the stars and embers
provided. They found their way to the other side of the tent, where Draco’s sleeping bag was still
laid just on the other side of Hermione’s compartment. She unzipped the flap and turned back to
kiss Draco goodnight. He was waiting for her to do that, and his hand felt good on the side of her
neck, and the kiss made her want another.

His hair was soft, and cool from the night air. Hermione liked the territory of his back, the higher
planes of shoulder blades sloping into a valley the size of her spread hand, the knotted muscle from
carrying a pack for miles, and the stepping-stone vertebrae. And the kissing, all the while. So
much of him was taut and almost humming with energy, but against his mouth Hermione could
feel where he let himself relax. Kissing, at least this kind of kissing, was ease and warmth. And
neither of them had to hold the other one up. Hermione could let herself relax, too, without
worrying that it would cause a collapse.

She ran a hand down his side, brushed her fingers against the skin under the edge of his shirt. She
knew that dip in the muscle over his hip, too. She pulled away to see his face.

He closed a hand around the arm touching him. “Don’t go yet.”

“Come with me,” she whispered back.

His head darted up a bit. “Yeah. Yes. I want that.”

“I don’t know if--I don’t want to get your hopes up,” she floundered.

“We’ll figure it out. You’re going to wake them up. Can we talk in there?”
Hermione unzipped the panel between the compartments, and Draco lifted his sleeping bag
gingerly and carried it over to her side.

Hermione put hers on the floor, too. “Is it okay if we cuddle a bit? And stuff? See what feels
okay?”

“Yes. Just come here already.”

She lay down next to him, and he kissed her again, and that was good. He still smelled the same,
even out here. She cast a Lumos and tucked her wand mostly under her pillow, leaving just the tip
out for a little bit of light.

She liked his hand like that, too, gripping her waist and sloping up over her ribcage. The heel of his
hand grazed the side of her breast, and she rolled a little toward his hand before her brain had time
to make a more calculated decision, and that felt good, too. When he put his hand under her shirt,
she cast a silencing charm, and he smiled and nudged her onto her back. He put one of his legs
between hers and pushed her shirt up to bare her belly.

“I want this off.”

She put her arms over her head to help him. “You too, then.”

In the dim gleam of wandlight, Hermione could see the new scars criss-crossing the paleness of his
chest. When she touched them, they felt surprisingly smooth, long healed-over. Of course they
would, she realized. It had been months since Sectumsempra. She just hadn’t seen them yet.

His back straightened as her fingers continued to explore the path of scars.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered.

“No,” Hermione agreed. She put her hand flat against his chest. “Sorry. I can stop.”

“It’s fine. I don’t want to think about other things, right now.”

“Gods, no,” she said. She kissed a spot near the base of his throat, where a thread of a vein
sometimes showed. “I like this spot.”

He made a little sound and tilted his chin up.

She kissed it again. “You could stand to have a freckle there or something, to help me find it. Rude
of you not to, really.”

He touched her chest. “Don’t come complaining to me. You’ve hoarded the lot.”

“Prat.”

He smiled. “Been awhile since I’ve heard that.”

It was a little strange, for the next minute or so. There was more formality, Could I do this? and
Maybe we could try and How’s that? Hermione had been more afraid that something would feel
wrong, though, than it turned out anything actually felt anything other than familiar and a relief
and good. He didn’t feel tense anymore, more lithe and smooth. She wanted to press herself against
him. He did, too, and they found a rhythm. Their hands were roaming freely now, under or over
what clothes remained, and it seemed stupid to keep pajama bottoms on at this point.

Hermione tugged his down an inch. “Do you want to?”

“Fucking hell, Granger.”

She wriggled out of hers, and he nudged her legs apart.

“Come here,” he growled in her ear, and put his mouth on her neck, and they picked up where
they’d left off. Hermione closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to scratch her nails down his back, but
she couldn’t bring herself to do anything that would hurt, even a good kind of hurt, so she wrapped
one leg around him instead to pull him deeper.

She wanted his hands free after a while, so they rolled over to let her be on top of him. She steered
one of his hands down so she could grind against his fingers, and he didn’t need to be told what to
do with the other one, so she leaned forward to kiss him and let all the points of contact interplay.
He was using his tongue in the same rhythm as his dick, so there was a muffling effect to her
moans anyway, but enough sound still escaped that she was grateful for the silencing charm when
she came.

The feeling of her crying out into him was all he could take, too, because he broke the kiss as soon
as she’d finished and leaned back, eyes shut tight.

“Fuck, Hermione, shit.”

She folded herself back over him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She could feel his
chest rising and falling in little gasps. One hand, then the other found her again, gentler, holding
her against him. They stayed there until they wanted to find wands and do cleaning charms. Then
they curled up next to each other and kissed a little longer.

The space between kisses got longer. They dressed, slowly, and dropped back into place. Hermione
yawned.

Draco made a little grumble and burrowed against the sleeping bag. “I suppose I should get back
on my side.”

“No, don’t bother at this point. You’ll only wake them up.”

“Yeah?”

“If this is what scandalizes them, I’ll remind them there’s a war on.”

“Fair point.” He put his forehead against hers, eyes closed. “I almost walked right past you. I
nearly missed everything.”

“You wouldn’t,” she murmured. “I did a thing. I made a magic. So you’d find me.”

“You couldn’t know that.”

“You promised me.” She put her hand on his chest. “Don’t argue everything with me. If you want
to find me, you can. I hoped you would. Maybe I knew you would, sooner or later.”

“How’d you know you wanted to be found?”

“I want you,” she said.

She thought he was going to argue with her again, but the silence he was holding his breath in
changed, and he draped an arm across her, and the weight of it made it easier to fall asleep.
Two days of thunderstorms meant cramped daytime quarters, leaks in the tent, and miserable shifts
squatting out by the fire pit under a shielding enchantment, trying to cook up a meal in the damp.

Hermione thought Ron always added way too much water to the pot and let the rice get burst and
soggy, but she kept quiet and shoved forkfuls into her mouth. It was easier, sometimes, to try and
shut off the part of her brain that paid attention to flavor. She watched the others instead. Ron
added too much salt, probably in a last-ditch attempt to counter the too-much water, but ate
steadily enough. Draco, Hermione was pleased and not a little amused to notice, was beginning to
resume some of his fussier mannerisms around mealtime. He had an appetite, for sure, but he was
paying attention to things like posture, and napkins, and neat bites that didn’t make his cheeks
bulge out when he was eating. Harry took small bites, too. He also stirred food around on his plate,
and chewed the same bite for much longer than it should have taken. As Hermione kept a
surreptitious eye on him, his throat bobbed, twice, and he gulped at a glass of water.

Ron whisked plates away as soon as the others set forks down and switched the radio on, listening
to the static of the Potterwatch frequency before the password-request signal came through and he
could cast the enchantment.

It wasn’t a cheery broadcast. Dean Thomas and the Bones family were reported missing, Seamus
Finnigan was not accounted for. Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw in their year, had been attacked
and was in critical condition at St. Mungo’s.

“The Death Eater-controlled Ministry is now actively seeking information leading to the capture of
so-called ‘beings of interest,’ which is to say, Muggleborn witches and wizards,” River said. He
sighed. “I mean, I don’t need to tell you that’s bollocks, right? Listeners? For Merlin’s sake, they’re
not even going to refer to Muggleborns as ‘persons’ but they want you to believe this is all about
routine questioning and cooperation? I don’t know what sort of charnel house they’re running in
Ministry HQ these days--”

“River!” Lupin snapped.

“Romulus, if you really want to give these metal-faced arsemongers the benefit of the doubt, be my
guest, but I think it’s quite clear where all of this is headed--”

“We don’t know where all of this is headed,” Lupin said, voice clipped. “That is the entire point of
this broadcast. To cut past rumors and unfounded speculation, however in keeping with the overall
look of things it might seem to be, and deliver your listeners truth they can count on. The truth, as it
pertains to Muggleborn members of our community, is yes, you will be safer if you maintain a low
profile. Aurors loyal to the Order are hard at work gathering intelligence for various operations,
including thwarting suspected Death Eater plans to attack Muggle communities. For that reason, if
you are Muggleborn and have a safe place to stay and information to report, we urge you to bring
information about at-risk persons to the Order to coordinate further protection, for yourself as well
as your loved ones. Death Eaters may intercept certain attempts at ground or magical travel, so be
cautious in making evacuation arrangements.”

“All right, fine, action items.” A rap of paper against a table. “So. Next thing then. You want to do
our new favorite segment of Potterwatch, watching for Potter? Any word from the Golden Trio?”

“The good news we do have to report is that the Order has gathered information both on Death
Eater strategic goals, and some specific plan details. We have several operations in the works that
stand a fair chance to weaken You-Know-Who’s ability to achieve certain aims, but Harry’s
presence would be instrumental in improving our chances of success. We hope he will account for
this in his next decisions on where to seek shelter, and trust not in staying alone, but the true allies
of the Order."
“True that. We could all use a bit of a boost these days, so think long and hard about the adoring
people who await you,” River’s voice crackled on the radio.

“For Salazar’s sake,” Draco muttered.

Hermione shushed him, but when he met her eyes, she nodded.

Harry complained of a headache, not long after Potterwatch concluded. He’d been dealing with
increased pain in his scar for quite some time, and it wasn’t getting better.

Hermione beckoned Ron and Draco to follow her back behind their woodpile, just out of reach of
the illumination of the fire.

“We need to do something about Harry,” she said.

Ron glanced at Draco. “He’s all right. Just tired.”

“You know that’s not true. Have you been watching him at meals?”

Ron folded his arms. “We’re going to talk about this with him here?”

“I do, in fact, have a name,” Draco said.

“We should be able to tell each other things,” Hermione said.

“Brilliant,” Draco said. “Anyone planning on filling me in, then?”

“I’m worried about Harry,” Hermione said. “I’ve been seeing warning signs crop up, and I’m
guessing Ron has, too.”

“Warning signs of what? Is Potter going mental?”

“He’s touchy about food, all right?” Ron said. “Don’t you go breathing a word to him about it,
either, or I’ll take you for a walk and make sure you remember.”

Draco wrinkled his forehead. “I still don’t have a blasted idea what you mean, and I’ve heard
enough threats in the last year, Weasley. If you plan on carrying them through, I’m ready.
Otherwise, watch your mouth.”

“Honestly, I don’t know why I bother trying,” Hermione said. “I should have brought you out and
explained to you individually. I thought I’d try and save time, but I forgot how boneheaded both of
you are.”

“You can’t expect me not to defend myself,” Draco started.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Hermione cast a furtive look back at the tent and lowered her voice.
“Draco, Harry didn’t always have enough to eat, growing up. His aunt and uncle wouldn’t always
feed him. Or sometimes they made him make one pot of something last all week, as punishment,
knowing it would run out. Harry had to decide, as a kid, whether he wanted to go hungry that night
or later. Having to eat certain foods, or having the same thing too many times in a row, brings back
old feelings.”

Draco looked at Ron, as though for confirmation. Draco’s face knitted into a skeptical sneer, which
Hermione knew often masked confusion. She wondered if Ron or Harry would come to learn those
expressions. Draco, it seemed, had already picked up how to interpret the tension in Ron’s jaw and
the way he wouldn’t meet Draco’s eyes. He was looking between both Ron and Hermione now,
aghast.

“He’s Harry Potter,” Draco said. “Everyone worships him. No one says a cross word to the bloody
Boy Who Lived. He has everything.”

“Not always, he didn’t,” Hermione said. “So. We need to do something.”

“Like what?” Ron said. “You want to Apparate out for a takeaway? Because a load of bloody ferns
and mushrooms or grubs or whatever you’re planning to scrounge up next isn’t cutting it.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “I think it’s time for us to get out of here.”

Ron straightened. “What--really? Why now? You and Harry have been talking nothing but more of
this mess.”

“Yes, well.” Hermione glanced at Draco. “Draco and I have been talking lately about Potterwatch.
We think we have a theory.”

Ron’s eyebrows lowered. “What kind of theory?”

“The messages, from Lupin, and Lee,” Hermione said. “We’ve all figured it’s code. Draco and I
think we’ve figured it out.”

“When they say not the person, it’s Nott as in Theodore. Nott, the person,” Draco said. “Nott the
place would be Nott Manor. The Order’s trying to get you to meet up with Nott.”

“We didn’t want to say anything right away, but tonight’s broadcast seemed clearer than usual,”
Hermione said. “He nearly shouted ‘trust not,’ and ‘the adoring’? They’re bending over backwards
trying to work Theo’s name in.”

Ron crossed his arms. “Why would the Order send us into a Slytherin den, at a known Death
Eater’s home?”

“Nott’s no Death Eater,” Draco said. “No chance. Nott Senior, sure, but he’d be at Malfoy Manor,
then. Theo hates his dad. Even if he were inclined to follow the Dark Lord, which I can assure you
he isn’t, he’d stay away if only to spite his father.”

“Hermione, this is a serious leap to consider,” Ron said.

“So’s staying here. You’ve been saying all the while that we should go back. We’re going to run
out of food eventually. Faster, with Draco here. Lupin sounded urgent.”

“There’s been at least two or three Nott-related puns in every broadcast since I’ve arrived,” Draco
said. “Which, frankly, is another point of confidence. This sort of wordplay bullshit over a serious
matter is exactly the kind of behavior I’d expect from Theo.”

“How would we even get there?”

“That’s where things get a bit complicated,” Hermione admitted. “Apparating is safer than ground
travel, but I’ve never been to Nott Manor, and I’m not sure how well I’d do transporting four
without having a clear sense of the destination. Draco’s been, but he can’t Apparate.”

“I’ve been,” Ron said slowly.

Hermione’s insides did a nervous flip. “Do you think you could do it? Could you get us all in one
go? I’d like for us to be able to stick together, in case anything goes wrong.”
“So you admit there could be a trap.”

“There’s traps everywhere, Weasley,” Draco said. “Parts of these woods are crawling with
Snatchers. Who knows what else. You’ve heard as plain as I have that attacks are increasing.
They’ll venture further out here.”

“So what if they did? We’ve got this place Warded to the teeth.”

“I thought you wanted to get out of here,” Hermione said.

“I do,” Ron said. “I just don’t understand why Lupin would try to send us into enemy territory.”

“There’s a difference between a Slytherin and an enemy, Weasley.”

“You’re one to say so.”

“Ron!” Hermione said. “That’s enough. Are you in or not?”

Ron looked at her. “How sure are you?”

“Draco and I have talked it over every night there’s been a broadcast since he’s arrived. We don’t
have a better theory on what Lupin could mean.”

“I said how sure are you?”

Hermione clenched her teeth. “I don’t make my choices lightly, Ron. I would think you’d know
that about me. Or are you not sure of me, anymore?”

Draco folded his arms and raised a haughty chin.

Ron looked at Draco, then back at Hermione. “I trust you,” he said to her.

“It’s settled, then.”

“Without talking to Harry?”

“He’ll listen to us. I can’t imagine he wants to stay here any longer, either.”

Harry was dubious, the next morning, but it was clear enough that he was sick of the campsite, and
with the other three in agreement, there wasn’t too much convincing needed. The four of them ate,
then packed up. Hermione was jittery. Her hands kept trembling as she worked to tie off sleeping
bags in neat rolls and pull stakes out of the tent. The three of them had been out in the woods nearly
a month, themselves. She barely dared to let herself dream of things like clean sheets. God, a pizza.

Hermione was surprised to see Ron clutching the Deluminator, along with his wand, when it was
time to go. He saw her notice it, and his cheeks turned red.

“I’ve been, er, listening to it sometimes. At night.”

“It talks to you?” Harry said sharply. “Can it think? We shouldn’t trust it, even if it did belong to
Dumbledore.”

Draco’s lip curled.

 “No, it doesn't talk to me,” Ron said. “It’s like another radio, sort of. Maybe. I hear people talking
about me. Mostly my family. I dunno if it’s really them, or if the Deluminator plays what you’d
like to hear. I wanted to keep it with me, to help with the Determination bit. If we really are going
to meet with the Order soon, they might have word of my family. I thought if I can hear their
voices while we Apparate, it could help. A homing effect, sort of.”

"That's...actually really smart," Hermione said.

"I'm not entirely useless, Hermione," Ron said.

"Just what I wanted to hear before putting my life in someone's hands," Draco muttered.

"Piss off, Malfoy."

"We should all have our wands ready," Harry said. "Everyone face out in a different direction, and
be ready to disarm in case there is an ambush. Hermione, do you think you could Apparate us all
back here, quickly, if we end up in a tight spot?"

"I think so, yes."

“Okay, everyone hang on tight to Ron, then,” Harry said. “Oh, wait. I nearly forgot.” He poked his
wand inside their pack and cast a quick Accio for the Invisibility Cloak. “Crouch down a bit, all of
you. Otherwise our feet will stick out.” He threw it over the four of them.

Harry and Draco each took tight hold of one of Ron’s arms. Hermione wrapped an arm around his
waist. Draco put his free arm around her waist in turn, holding her firmly.

“To Nott Manor, then,” Ron said. “Here goes.”

There was a loud crack, and a tight squeezing, and the world swirled into darkness.

Chapter End Notes

It still feels strange at this point to be carving out my own parallel plot ideas for what
might have been going on during the timeline of the 7th book, but fun at the same
time. The story arc so far for Draco has leaned so hard on whether he's accepted by
Hermione. Important, to be sure, but at the same time, it's not sustainable for their
relationship to force her into this savior role all the time. It's one thing to talk about
wanting to change sides, or choose a side. It's another to confront the question of
which side, if any, will have you.
 Nott Manor
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco blinked hard. There had been a jolt, and the queasiness in his stomach told him they’d
Apparated, but the darkness was pure enough to be almost a tactile sensation.

“Hermione? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Ron, Harry?”

“I’m okay,” Potter said.

“Is it supposed to be like this?” Weasley said. “Did I mess something up?”

“No one seems to be splinched, so I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “What we need is some light.”

“No, wait,” Potter said, just as Hermione said, “Lumos.”

Wandlight illuminated shelves, glinting off rows of bottles. All four of them pointed their wands
different directions. There was no sign of anyone else in the room.

“It could have been a trap. We should have been quieter,” Potter said.

“It looks like it wasn’t. But where are we?” Hermione said.

“Nott Manor,” Draco said. “Obviously.”

“That’s where we meant to go,” Hermione said, putting a hand on her hip.

“Exactly. We’re here,” Draco said.

“We can’t be sure,” she said.

“I am,” Draco said. “Weasley, stop fidgeting and feel for yourself.”

Ron took a breath and closed his eyes. He nodded. “Yeah, okay. I don’t know it as well, but it
seems right.”

“What are you doing?” Potter said.

Ron looked around, seeming steadier. “These old estates have centuries of layers of spells and
wards. They get a sort of feel to them, after a while. Just close your eyes and sort of...smell, I
guess, but in your head? You’d never think we were in the Burrow.”

“It’s why you stop getting lost in Hogwarts by second year,” Draco said. “You can feel which way
the staircases are inclined to go.”

“But why are we here?” Hermione said. “I think we’re underground. I thought we’d Apparate
outside the manor somewhere, or at least on surface level.”

“Let’s find out,” said Potter. He cast his own wand into light, and the rest of them followed.

They were in a generously sized wine cellar. It took them a while, in fact, to find their way around.
The shelves were arranged to afford several semi-enclosed spaces and nooks. There was one larger
main area, complete with a few chairs and a small table with a pitcher of water, a loaf of bread, a
dish of fresh butter with a knife, and a few small jars of olives and fruit preserves.

A spiral staircase led up to a locked door. There was a piece of parchment fastened to the door.
Draco recognized the chicken-scratch handwriting before they were close enough to read it.

“That’s Nott,” he said, relieved. They crowded on the small landing to read.

“Welcome to Nott Manor,” the parchment read. “At least, that is, if you’re arriving as a friend, or
someone seeking shelter, and not some asshole trying to attack us. But let’s assume you come in
peace, and we can all get off on good terms with each other.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Nott,” Draco muttered.

“Shut it, I’m reading,” Hermione said.

“This cellar is the only part of the manor buildings or grounds that will allow Apparation by any
unapproved party,” the parchment continued. “Don’t bother trying to pop in anywhere else. In the
unlikely event that you get into trouble in here, you’ll have to choose an alternate destination.
Sorry, but it’s an unavoidable safety measure. Rest assured, we’ve individually blocked a fair list of
known Death Eaters and sympathizers, so you should be all right.

We check for new arrivals at reasonable intervals. There’s food and water available, and by all
means, please help yourself to a bottle of Nott Sr.’s prized wine collection. It is exquisite, so
undoubtedly he meant it to be enjoyed by guests of the estate.”

Draco laughed darkly.

“Do us all a favor and don’t, you know, break bottles and generally trash the place, though,” read
the parchment. “House rules, okay? Enjoy yourself, but don’t be a dick about it. See you on the
other side. With warmest hospitality, your servant, Theo Nott Jr.”

They tried knocking, then banging on the door, but there was no answer. Neither did an
Alohomora.

“You’re being rude,” Draco tutted. “You don’t go barging into other people’s houses. That’s not
how I was raised, at any rate.”

“Apparating was your and Hermione’s idea,” Harry said as sparks flew off the lock. “And don’t
bloody start on your upbringing with me.”

“If you had a shred of comportment in your body, I wouldn’t have to lecture you on etiquette.”

“I want this door open,” Harry said.

“So try being fucking patient.”

Ron put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We don’t want to stay up here, mate,” he said, eyeing the
open space below. “The door’s not going to open until someone in there undoes the charm. Down
there, we’ll be able to hear if anyone else Apparates in and keep an eye on the door as well.”

The tension in Harry’s posture eased. Ron had that effect on him, Draco noticed. For someone who
could ask for a manticore’s head on a platter and probably get it, Potter was surprisingly high-
strung. Weasley’s ordinariness, and sort of solidness, seemed to keep him grounded. He followed
Weasley back downstairs.

They all took another walk through the cellar, noting some of the more elusive spots.

“Right,” Harry said, sounding calmer. “If anyone else Apparates in, Ron, you take that spot, and
Hermione, you and Malfoy can take that one. I can go there, and then one of us should have a good
chance of seeing who it is before any of us are spotted. I hate to say it, but if anything looks like
trouble, you’re probably best off casting a Stunning spell as soon as you get a clear shot, even if
they haven’t spotted you. It’s not duel etiquette, but I’d rather keep us all in one piece.”

“What happens in the meantime, then?” said Hermione. “We just wait?”

“And drink, I suppose,” Draco said. He strolled over to a nearby rack of bottles. “Not much else to
do. Granger, do you have a preference? Bordeaux? Malbec?”

“Surprise me,” she said drily.

Draco pulled a bottle from the rack and read the label. Then he sauntered to a sideboard to set out
wine glasses.

Harry dropped into a chair. “You’re not going to ask what Ron and I want?”

“You’ll get what I pour you, Potter. If you’re that lucky.” He poured himself a sip from the bottle,
nodded, and filled four glasses.

Ron started setting out plates and rummaged in a drawer for a bread knife.

“I don’t like being cooped up in here much more than Harry does,” Hermione said. “Why aren’t
they answering when people knock? I’m not sure how useful a safe house is if you’re trapped in a
cellar, with no way to know when someone will come for you. Who knows how long a ‘reasonable
interval’ even is?”

Ron poked the loaf. “The cut side hasn’t even dried out yet. They’re checking pretty often, I’d
say.”

“I wonder how they know who to block,” said Harry. “Don’t the Death Eaters always wear
masks?”

“Perks of growing up in a house sympathetic to the Dark Lord,” Draco said, handing a glass of
wine to Hermione. “You hear some names.”

“Hell of a perk,” said Ron.

“They’re limited.” Draco sniffed at his own glass. “But then, you’d know something about limits,
growing up in--the Shanty, was it?”

Hermione took a long sip from her wine. “I’d suggest you enjoy this while you've got it,” she said.
“If anything goes wrong--either because of any other newcomers, or if Nott can’t be trusted after
all--I’m taking us all straight back to the woods.”

With that sobering thought in mind, all of them retreated into silence. They ate what was set out,
and waited, and knocked at the door again, and made an unsuccessful effort to Apparate to the
other side of the door, or the outside of the house, and continued to wait.

“What’s taking them so bloody long?” Draco grumbled after a few hours.
“It must be another safety measure,” Hermione said. “I wonder if they’re thinking of Polyjuice, and
giving it time for the potion to wear off in case anyone would try to disguise themselves.”

“What if they had more, like Crouch?” Ron said.

“You’d have to hope they didn’t,” Hermione said. “Or, honestly, by now you could have already
burned through a few doses, unless you’re an exceptionally gifted potioneer. Enough time, and
you’re more likely than not to exhaust someone’s supply.”

If that was Nott’s intention, he was evidently taking some pains to be thorough. There wasn’t a
timekeeping device in the cellar, but by their rumbling stomachs and the endless-seeming stretch of
boredom, they’d been locked underground for most of the day before they heard a voice call
through from the other side of the door.

“Hello in there!”

All four of them were on their feet immediately.

“Stay close, everyone,” Harry said. “I’ll go with Ron. Malfoy, you stay close by Hermione.”

They made their way up the spiral staircase, Harry in front followed closely by Ron, with Draco
and Hermione coming along behind. The four of them crowded together on the small landing in
front of the locked door.

“Everyone all right?” the voice said. “Anyone sick? Hurt?”

“Would have been nice if you’d asked when we arrived, instead of hours later!” Hermione shouted.
“We’re fine! More or less,” she added, with a glance at Draco.

“Okay, good, glad to hear it. This is Nott, by the way, as you may have guessed.”

“Are you going to open the bloody door or not?” Ron bellowed.

“Yes, of course. I don’t intend to shout at a piece of wood all evening. Just a few quick things first,
and we’ll get you set up more comfortably. Who’s all in there?”

The four of them looked at each other.

“Dudley Dursley,” Harry called, dropping his voice to a croak to disguise it.

“Stan Shunpike,” Ron said.

“Penelope Clearwater.”

“Going to stop you there, I’m afraid,” Nott said. “Shunpike’s known to be captured by the Death
Eaters, and Clearwater’s out of the country. We’ve detected that there are four of you. I’ll need you
all to send your wands through the keyhole, if you’d be so kind.”

Hermione gripped hers tighter. “Gracious, but we’ll have to decline.”

“Not a request, I’m afraid. You’ll have them back in just a moment.”

“What if we refuse?” said Harry.

“You’re in the locked and Warded cellar of a safe house, changing your names. I’m going to go out
on a limb and guess you don’t really want to Apparate back wherever you came from.” A pause.
“Look. I get that you’re probably scared shitless. Lots of people are, but I need to look out for the
safety of the people on this side of the door, too. This is standard for everyone who arrives here.
Wands. Please.”

Harry looked to Hermione, who exchanged looks with Draco.

“I think we’d better,” she said.“Draco can do a decent wandless Shield. Be ready, and we’re all
ready to get back to campsite if need be. But here goes.” She pushed her wand through the
keyhole, flinching a little when the last bit of vine wood disappeared from sight.

Harry studied Draco, and shook his head. “Never thought I’d see a day where I’d trust you on
something like this, even if it’s Hermione’s plan as well.” He tipped his wand through the keyhole.

Ron followed, then Draco.

The feel of the magic on the door changed, and the latch clicked as the handle turned.

Theo's mouth dropped open when he saw Harry standing before him. His eye landed on Draco
next, and his face creased with half a dozen emotions crammed into an instant. He nearly swayed
in place, and then he found his voice.

“Draco, you bastard, you're alive?” Theo rushed forward and threw his arms around Draco in a
rough embrace.

Draco returned the hug, surreptitiously eyeing the others. “Good to see you too.” After another
moment, he coughed discreetly. “Nott, this is getting unseemly.”

“Don't talk to me about unseemly,” Theo said. He let go and shoved Draco lightly in the chest. “I
fucking grieved, you dick.” He hugged him again, then stepped back for another look at the
Golden Trio.

“That explains the fake names, I’ll admit. Holy shit,” he said. “You should hear the stories people
are telling about the three of you already. I know I’ve seen you for years, but it’s weird. In my
mind, I’ve been remembering you taller.” He took them in for another moment, then turned and
bellowed back into the house. “Hannah!! Hannah, get over here a tick!”

“Give me a sec, love, the custard’s thickening and I need to watch it!” came her answering shout.

“Fuck the custard, woman!”

“Theo, language!”

“Sorry!” he shouted. “Hannah, seriously, you need to come over!”

“Okay, I’m coming!” She was still talking as she came around the corner. “Theo, sweetheart,
what’s gotten into you?” She saw them, then, and stopped in the middle of wiping her hands clean
on a red apron with ruffles and a sweetheart neckline.

Hermione gave a little wave. “Hi, Hannah.”

“Hermione!” Hannah squeaked. She flung herself onto Hermione, rocking her from side to side.
“Oh my goodness, you’re here! You’re safe! We’ve all been so worried.”

Ron was next to Hermione, and Hannah hugged him next, scritchling her fingers lightly against his
shoulders. “Ron, it’s so, so good to see you. Ginny’s here, too. Well, she’s out at the moment, but
oh, she’ll be so happy. We’ll have to send word to your mum.”

“Ginny’s--she is? Do you know if the rest of my family’s all right?”

Hannah nodded. “Last we heard was from Charlie, and before that from Fred, and George was with
him, naturally. It’s not safe to send owls anymore, but we have a few ears around, and there are
other methods You-Know-Who won’t track. Did you know Muggles have this funny thing called a
telephone? That’s where Ginny is, actually, a Muggle village, waiting for messages. As best as
we’ve heard, your family’s spread out a bit, but no bad news has come in.”

Ron’s body loosened in relief.

Hannah turned to Harry next, cupping his face in her hands before wrapping her arms around him.
“And you! Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you’re safe. I can’t tell you how encouraging it is, just to see
you. The others will want to hear all your news, of course, but we can give you a room a bit out of
the way. You must need rest.”

Then she seemed to notice Draco, standing off to the side from the Golden Trio, for the first time.

“Oh,” she said. She stepped back, twisting her hands in front of her. “Oh my.”

“Hi, Hannah.”

“Draco, you--you look well.”

Draco glanced at Theo. Theo side-stepped closer to Hannah and put a hand on her back.

Draco shook his head and nudged Hermione. “I should probably go.”

“No.” She grabbed his hand firmly. Draco was gratified, but it didn’t seem like the moment for
grandstanding.

“Hannah, we’ve got a tent,” Draco said. “Our food stores are low, but I just need a safe place to
sleep somewhere on the property. It barely matters where, at this point.”

“Have you gone mad?” Theo said. “You’ll stay right here, with the rest of us.”

Hannah’s pained smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “We don’t turn anyone away,” she said
firmly. She sounded like she was reading from a credo.

“I can vouch for him. There’s a lot to tell you,” Hermione said. She was still squeezing Draco’s
hand, standing near enough to him that the whole length of their forearms pressed together. “Is
there space for the four of us?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “We could probably fit all the Muggleborns in the country in here, if we
needed to, and they were willing to squish in a bit. Some days it feels like we already have.”

“Did you hear the messages we left?” Hannah said.

“Hermione and Malfoy figured them out,” Harry said.

“Thank goodness,” Hannah said, although she still wouldn’t look Draco in the face. She brushed
her hands down the front of her apron again and stood a little straighter. “You really have come at
the right time. There’s a lot the Order will want to tell you--the three of you, at least, and there’s
plenty of room for everyone. Theo’s right. Oh! And dinner’s just about ready, although I can easily
keep it warm, if you’d rather get set up in rooms, first, or take a shower.”
“Oh, my God,” Hermione almost groaned.

“Rather food first,” Ron said.

“For once, we agree,” Draco said.

“Okay,” Hannah said. “Yes. That would give me a moment to review my room chart as well,
which is helpful, although--hm. Theo, love, do you think we should put them in the morning room,
to eat? It’s just that them being here is bound to stir up a lot of--excitement?”

“Oh. Sure, yeah. That’s probably smart. We don’t want Potter to get trampled.”

“Or me to get hexed into ribbons, correct?” Draco said.

Theo made a polite grimace. “Granger’s vouchsafe will go a long way, I’m sure. The Order will
undoubtedly have questions for you nonetheless, but why not wait for them instead of having
everyone weigh in? We can take the House Elves’ corridor to the morning room from here; it’s
perfectly discreet.”

Hannah beckoned, and Hermione, Harry, and Ron followed her around the corner to a narrow
corridor.

Draco hung back a few paces and caught Theo by the sleeve.

“Nott, a word?”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but what exactly is on the menu?”

Theo’s lip curved up. “When have you ever failed to be presumptuous? Hannah made chicken pie,
I think, if that won’t offend your lordly sensibilities. Not to be rude myself, but by the look of you,
it might be a good idea to grab a plate of whatever you can get.”

“Chicken pie,” Draco said honestly, “May be the most enticing pair of words I’ve heard in
months. If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, don’t plan to give Potter any rice, at least for a week or
so.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. It’s been...trying. As you’ve observed, none of us has been sitting down for three
courses of anything lately. He’d take it as a favor.”

Theo waited a moment, in case Draco would say anything else, then cleared his throat lightly.
“Hannah’s an excellent cook. She often enjoys asking new arrivals about favorite dishes, allergies,
all of that. I expect she’ll be eager to treat Potter to anything we can get ingredients for. There was
something of a scramble, once the Order realized weeks were going by with no word and no way to
contact the Golden Boy.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Gryffindors.”

“Cast first, ask questions never.”

They joined the others in a small room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun had set, but it
was easy to imagine how light and airy the room must look in early light. The ash wood table and
white, curlicue chairs would nearly float. The sight of golden pastry crust, and the savory smell
 coming from beneath the lid, was far more captivating than whatever charming decor the Nott
family could have selected.

Real food, on proper dishes. Real cups filled with lemonade or tea, without the odd aftertaste of
water generated through a water-making spell. A roof and walls to shut out the sound of night
insects, leaving them instead with the sounds of metal clinking against china. If Draco understood
correctly, he could expect to sleep in an actual bed tonight for the first time in months. Luxury
upon luxury.

So better, then, as much as possible, to push away the thoughts of who else Draco would see in this
house, and what a questioning by the Order entailed, and the idea that while days and nights spent
out in the woods were far, far worse, there was a simplicity about that time that had now reached
its end.

Chapter End Notes

Theo and Hannah are the minor pairing I didn't plan for, but so enjoy now that it's
happening. I hope you are happy to see them, too. Thinking about how to set up
processes to safely admit people to a safe house was a cool puzzle, and I'm looking
forward to bringing in some characters beside the foursome.

About Draco and Theo: The whole canon situation on Draco's (lack of) friendships is
so interesting. He's clearly highly social, but I do agree with JK that highlighting
Draco's struggle to make genuine, close friendships was an important difference
between him and Harry. My best guess is that Draco and Theo were hot and cold, in
part *because* they grew up together. I can easily see Narcissa taking pity on poor
motherless Theo, and Draco lashing out with all the sibling rivalry, without necessarily
having the sibling closeness to cut the sharpness. They have so much in common, and
I think they'd have stretches of near-brotherly relationship, especially when Draco was
at one extreme or another (feeling particularly secure/in his parents' favor, or feeling
rejected enough to grab at closeness wherever he can get it). It would have been easy
for Draco to see Theo as competition for attention at other times, though.

One important scheduling note: I will be out of town next week such that it will be
difficult for me to take my computer along without possibly melting it? So this fic will
update next in TWO weeks, on the 26th.
 The Safe House
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Lupin and some other prominent members of the Order were away on a mission for a few days,
which suited Hermione fine. The situation at Nott Manor was better than she’d hoped. As it turned
out, “not accounted for” was more Potterwatch code, meaning that the people were, in fact, safe
and sound, accounted for at Nott’s. Seamus Finnigan, Ginny, and many others had successfully
found shelter, either for an ongoing stay or passing through on their way to other arrangements.
Hermione had barely let herself dream of finding some of the classmates she’d heard mentioned on
Potterwatch here, but she was grateful to find something almost like a small Hogwarts reunion in
what might otherwise have been a foreboding manor.

On this particular afternoon, Hermione collapsed into an armchair, laughing. She’d forgotten what
a relief it was to be around other girls sometimes. She, Hannah, and Ginny had been tearing
through the manor for the last thirty minutes and had stumbled into the formal parlor (not to be
confused with the rotunda, or the formal dining room, or the other spot that seemed to have no
other name but “the Nook”). Ginny had secured a Spice Girls VHS tape, and a broken-down TV
that she and Hermione had jerry-rigged back into playing. The three of them had decided to
recreate “Wannabe” as faithfully as possible, and given how much of the original video involved
running at random through a mansion, Hermione was getting a decent workout in.

One hiccup in their plan, of course, was that there were only three of them, not five, so there was
some amount of improvisation involved in distribution of parts. Ginny had ended up in a shouting
match with herself over what, exactly, she really, really wanted until all three of them surrendered
to a laughing fit.

When Hannah caught her breath, she said, “The trouble is you really are both Ginger and Sporty.
It’s no wonder you get mixed up with which part to sing.”

“I’m Scary as well, at least according to some. And my brothers and mum are only ever going to
see me as the baby,” Ginny said. “The only thing I’m not is Posh, which is just as well or I’d never
have a second to breathe.”

“Merlin’s wand, you’re right, you’re nearly the whole band by yourself,” Hermione said. “And I’m
none of them, I don’t think. Scary’s got the closest hair to mine, so maybe her? I’d probably get
stuck with being Brainy Spice or something dull like that.”

“You’re not dull at all,” said Hannah.

Ginny put her chin on her hand to consider. “You could be Brainy Spice,” she said. “If you wanted.
But then you’d have been in Ravenclaw as well, wouldn’t you? Bossy Spice is a bit more like it.”

Hannah sat up, inspired. “No, Boss Spice. Girl power, remember? Hermione founded DA in the
beginning, although Harry of course does most of the meetings. She had the idea to do the inter-
house Christmas party last year, too, and that’s part of why Theo and I even have this safe house at
all, since we met there. Anytime anyone in the Order comes around, I feel like they ask after you
nearly as much as Harry.”

“I like that a lot,” Hermione said. “I’d be really pleased, if that were me.”
“Brilliant,” Ginny said. “Hannah next. Goodness, and you’re easy, Hannah. Cozy Spice?
Sweetheart Spice? Gentle Spice? Whatever you like.”

“Any of those sound lovely,” Hannah said with a soft smile.

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure she believed the smile. Hannah’s face had tipped down. Perhaps
there was a wistfulness in her expression, too.

“What would you want to be?” she said.

“I think being kind and tender and gentle are wonderful things,” Hannah said. “Not everyone
knows how to respect softness, but think how much worse off the world would be without it.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “But it takes strength to make space for softness, too.” She grinned. “You
know what you’re like, Hannah? Now I think of it?”

“What?”

“You’re a bit like a knitting needle. You gather softness to you, wrap it all around yourself, and
whenever you’re doing what you’re meant to do, anyone who comes into contact with you would
feel all that coziness and warmth. But it’s all purposeful. You know how to make softness into
something sturdy and useful, and that takes having something firm and well-directed underneath.”

Hannah’s smile brightened her face now. “Hermione, that’s beautiful. I’m honored. That’s one of
the nicest compliments I think I’ve ever heard.”

“Not to bring down the mood,” Ginny said. “But Hermione, have you read the Prophet today?”

“No,” Hermione said. “I grabbed a bite from the kitchen this morning and spent a while in the
library. There are a few objects that would work for Harry to destroy the locket, if we can get hold
of it, but they’re difficult to get, too. Why, what’s in the paper?”

“You are,” Ginny said. “You’re officially listed as a Muggleborn wanted for questioning.”

Hannah bit her lip and reached out to touch Hermione’s knee. “I’m really sorry.”

“Wait,” Hermione said. “Was I not on the list already? I thought they’d been targeting
Muggleborns for months. Who’s been on it before now?”

Ginny’s eyes held a mischievous spark. “Are you jealous that someone else was considered a more
important target than you?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I’m just saying. After all the commotion fourth year about my
supposed romantic connection with Harry, not to mention founding DA, like Hannah pointed out. I
just would have thought.”

Ginny smirked at Hannah. “Told you. She’s not worried, she’s offended.” To Hermione, there was
a hint of an edge in her voice. “It is only a supposed romantic connection, right? You were in the
woods for a while.”

“Oh, God,” Hermione said. “It’d be like snogging my brother.”

“She and Draco are back together,” Hannah said. She fiddled her hands together in her lap.

Ginny twisted her mouth. “I heard someone else say that. I wasn’t sure how that could be true,
although I guess why else would you even have brought him here? I can’t even be in the same
room with him. You were making smarter choices when you were still socking him in the face.”

“I’ve put plenty of thought into my choices. You haven’t heard the full story, and everyone
deserves that much.”

“He killed Dumbledore.”

“He didn’t, actually, and if you’ve listened to Harry anytime he’s talked about that night, you’d
know that,” Hermione said. She sat straighter in her chair. “I really don’t want to argue about this.
The Order will be here soon enough, and they’ll do their best to straighten matters out, as much as
is possible anymore. You can’t deny I’ve been loyal to our side every step of the way, and got
Harry and Ron in and out of hiding safely. If Draco’s with me, it means he’s with us, if anyone will
let him be.”

“We hear you, Hermione, really we do,” Hannah said. “It’s just...it’s been hard. There’s been talk
all summer that Hogwarts herself is in danger of falling to Death Eater control, and you know that
wouldn’t even be a question if Dumbledore were still there.”

Hermione blanched. “McGonagall will never let that happen.”

“It may not be up to her,” Ginny said. “She’s still only one person. Everyone’s been talking about
who’s going back and who isn’t.”

“You’re not, I take it?”

Ginny tossed her hair. “No, of course not. I’m needed on the ground. I can go back to school
anytime, but actual lives depend on me right now.”

“Why, what are you doing?”

She couldn’t help preening a little. “I’m getting people out, without magic. My dad helped me
some, but I know more than he does by now about Muggle means of travel. What documents are
needed, how to understand what options are available and who can help make arrangements. I
helped Penelope Clearwater, and the Diggorys, and a bunch of other people. I’m basically the
express ticket out of town, for those who need it.”

Hannah smiled. “If you need a ride, talk to Rider.”

Hermione fought a mixture of gratitude and a surge of disapproval. “Are most of the Muggleborns
fleeing the country? I know people are frightened, but giving up your home instead of staying to
defend it doesn’t seem like the best long-term course of action, either.”

“Many people are fighting,” Hannah said. “But others need safety, too. I imagine most of the
people who have left wouldn’t have been able to fight even if they’d stayed, and might have been
hurt.”

“Think of it tactically, if it helps,” Ginny said. “The Order can only be so many places at once. If
we have a way to get the vulnerable out of reach of the Death Eaters, it takes away some of the
need to arrange other forms of protection. We can act more swiftly if we’re not having to check in
on people who aren’t actively helping, anyway. And you’ve got Hannah, as well, who’s hosting
people who want to stay. Seamus’ parents went to Ireland, but he insisted on staying here. We’re
marshalling as much power as we can. Even a few of the Slytherins, like Nott, have stepped up,
now that it’s clear what’s at stake.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Draco’s one of them, too. You don’t have to like him. He wouldn’t
expect that much from you. Just try not to write him off completely, and I promise it’ll be worth
it.”

Draco spent as much time as he could away from the others at Nott Manor as days went by without
a visit from the Order. It was obvious that most of them still weren’t comfortable in his presence.
Conversations stopped. Some people claimed they weren’t hungry, or were only there to fetch a
glass of water, if he sat down at the common table for dinner. He started keeping odd hours.

The upside was that the manor was, after all, spacious enough for Draco to make himself scarce.
Theo kept an eye out, too, discreetly suggesting a walk in the grounds or even just down the halls
in a less-populated wing. Nott had the good breeding to phrase it as a favor Draco did him,
allowing him a brief respite from managing the daily operations of a safe house, so Draco acted in
turn as though he might believe him.

They were meandering past the library and Nott Sr.’s East Office, picking up and discarding idle
fragments of conversation.

Draco ran his finger along the dark, blocky paneling. “Are you ever going to tear any of this out?
You can’t possibly get enough light in here to justify the color, even in the morning.”

“That’s Tudor. Shows the age of the house.”

“Not arguing that,” Draco sniffed. “Age isn’t the same as taste.”

“Neither is shuffling half the furniture in and out of the house two or three times a year. What isn’t
for sale at Malfoy Manor, to the right buyer?”

It was an old argument, supposed to be comfortable, but Draco’s stomach pinched. “Not much.”

Theo seemed to remember also that Draco was here, and not at home, and he fell silent, too. He
picked the lock on the Potions lab door, an old trick he and Draco had exploited before learning the
spell.

They puttered around for a few minutes, sniffing ingredients and shaking a few of the bottles
whose contents responded to movement. Draco watched a vial of clear liquid turn brilliant azure
and decided enough time had passed for him to speak without provoking an awkward explanation
from Nott.

“I don’t mean to be gauche,” he said. “But how are you keeping this operation afloat?”

“Where’s the money come from, you mean?” Theo said with a crooked grin. “Gringotts, of
course.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you stroll up to the counter and ask to raid the
family vault?”

“It’s more of a saunter than a stroll,” Theo said. “And heavens no, never ask. If I learned one solid
thing from my dad, it’s that you never bow and scrape for a goblin. You pull the muscles around
your nose just a bit, like this, and you say--” He dropped his voice a half-octave and looked down
his nose at Draco. “‘I require the key to the Nott vault.’”

Draco made an amused noise. “Didn’t realize your father had time to make you joint custodian.”
“Funny thing, that,” Theo said. “The bastard never bothered to update the records when I was born.
The custodian, officially, is Theodore Nott. No name suffix. I’m fully in the clear to walk out in
broad daylight with all the Galleons I can carry. I will admit we’re burning through a bit. Not for
the house--extra groceries and sundry guest items don’t add up quite that fast. Getting people out
of the country is something of another matter.”

“Who’s left the country?”

“Millicent, almost immediately. She was one of the easier ones, since she got her hands on the
most authentic-looking Muggle passport I’ve ever seen.”

“Might not be fake,” Draco said, testing to see what Theo knew. Surprise and confusion on Nott’s
face, so Draco backtracked. “The Bulstrodes are a Slytherin’s Slytherin. I’d imagine they’ve
collected documents for any eventuality. Currency, travel and identification papers, whatever they
need to be flexible.”

“You think she’s posing as a Muggle? I suppose it’s not the most far-fetched plan I’ve heard. At
any rate, she needed some help with funds for a flight. Others have needed travel fare and
documents. Ginny Weasley’s a passable forger herself, but she doesn’t have all the materials. Her
contacts can get you something that looks genuine.”

Something wasn't adding up. “You said flights. How can Muggles fly without magic?”

Theo shuddered. “You don't want to know. It's barbaric.”

“And it’s safe? From prying eyes and ears, that is? Surely the Dark Lord is capable enough of
tracking Muggle travel details.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Theo popped the top off a vial and started idly assembling
ingredients for a batch of Invigorating Draught. “He doesn’t seem to be interested, though, as best
as anyone can tell. I’m not privy to Order meetings, myself, but you come to know which walls are
thin and the unexpected places voices can show up in a draughty old place like this. The older
members, the ones who were in it all the first time? They say he’s acting the same as before.
Almost exactly the same. Odd, given how much else has changed in sixteen years.”

Draco thought of ghosts. “They should tell Granger that, when they show up here.”

“You think she’d know something?”

“Nott, never underestimate how much she knows. You’re sure they’re not tracking Muggles, then?
They were, over the school year. Granger’s parents might have been targets, to try to get to her.”

“Did they leave the country?”

“I believe so. It would have been months ago.” Draco hesitated. “I’d like to be able to tell her
they’re safe.”

“But you don’t want her remembering that promise, if you’re wrong.” Theo frowned at the
cauldron. “They probably are, if they got out that early. They’re at least not likely to be in more
danger than anyone else on the Undesirable list. I thought Hannah and I would run the safe house
for a few weeks, after the Ministry coup when a lot of people had to make quick decisions. There
was so much more need than either of us expected.”

“How long will you keep it going?”

“As long as I can. Until the money gives out, or the war is done, whichever comes first.”

“What, all the money?”

Theo smirked. “And have to get a real job, and live on wages like a common charms-caster? The
horror, Malfoy. There’s more at stake than inheritance, mate, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Draco said. “It doesn’t mean I can’t be surprised. You’re talking about
everything. All you were going to come into, in another year or two.”

“Maybe not all all. I’ve got a bit set aside, in the private vault in the house. Not too much. Enough
for a ring for Hannah, at least, when the timing’s right.”

“You’re that sure?”

Theo ran a finger along the line of a shelf. He didn’t look at Draco, and his voice was suspiciously
light. “This house is hers, as far as I’m concerned, whether she fully understands that or not. She
was the one who wanted to contribute to the war effort. Her parents have her little sister’s needs to
think about, too. I had space available, and money, and I thought, all right Nott, here’s something
you can give her. I don’t hate it, being in this old place, when she’s around. The house feels
different. Lots of things do. I don’t think I’ll ever want to part with that.” He shrugged. “Why do
you ask? What made you sure of you and Granger?”

Draco didn't answer. The Boggart was nearly too private to tell even Hermione. As for the rest--it
should count, to show up and offer somebody yourself. It should count more than anything, more
than a manor that was only partly yours to give, but it didn't seem to, just then. Not when you’d
wrecked yourself so utterly that the other person would be doing you a favor by accepting you, and
you both knew it.

Theo had always gotten to be a version of himself he liked, in front of Hannah. Perhaps he even
liked himself better, next to her, than he had on his own. They hadn’t reached the point where you
saw the worst of each other, and had to live with the knowledge that the other person had seen the
side you hadn’t meant for other people to find. Maybe they wouldn’t have to reach that point at all,
maybe that was just for the people who made too many wrong choices at the wrong time.

“Shit,” Theo said, and Draco realized he’d been quiet too long. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. When you
arrived together I just assumed--and I could have sworn Hannah put the two of you in a room
together, although that could have been me making idiot assumptions.”

“No, she did. We are. It’s--complicated,” Draco said, the word choking on his tongue.

“Sorry,” Theo said again. “Merlin, I keep bungling things today. New plan. Check this and see if
you still trust me to put together an Invigoration Draught without it going half-cocked, and we’ll
get hopped and go flying.”

Draco looked at Theo sidelong, then sniffed at the cauldron. “You don’t need to keep going out of
your way all the time, you know. I can handle myself all right.”

“Shut up. I’ll give you the shit broom.”

After what seemed like ages, though it was barely a week, the Order arrived. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione all flew out of their seats when Lupin walked into the dining room one evening.
Harry reached Lupin first. Lupin patted him on the back. He eyed the others, and though he looked
even more tired than usual, Hermione could see the spark of real gladness in his face, too. He even
hugged Hermione, the first time she could ever remember her former professor doing so.

“I should have known better than to take my eye off you,” he told her, half-admonishing, half-
proud. “Don’t go running off like that again. Although you did a masterful job of interpreting our
call, and keeping the three of you safe and hidden.”

“She got Malfoy, too,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Lupin said. “Hannah told me. Is he still here?”

Hermione nodded. “He doesn’t eat with us. He took a tray upstairs.”

“We’ll need to speak to him immediately.”

“I can get him. Where should we meet you?”

Lupin creased his forehead at her emphasis. “The parlor is fine, I imagine. He can meet us there.”

“I’d like to come as well.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “He’s already going to feel like he’s on trial.”

“I’ll assure him he isn’t. I can only do so much to make him believe me.” Lupin sighed. “I don’t
pretend to know much about your relationship to him. I wasn’t aware of it at all before the events
of the Astronomy Tower. Hannah and Theo told me Draco arrived with you, and gave me a brief
overview, but we’re all very much in the midst of catching up on information. As the matter stands,
you need to consider that it’s not going to reflect well on him if he’s looking to you before
answering questions, and we have no way of knowing what he might hold back if you’re in the
room. We’ll speak to him alone, and I’m afraid that’s final.”

Still, Hermione could at least insist on waiting with Draco and Lupin for the other Order members
to make their way to the parlor. Kingsley Shacklebolt shook her hand and offered the same to
Draco, but he didn’t take it. Hermione glared at Draco. His face didn’t change. Nymphadora Tonks
was there as well. Lupin’s face went soft when he saw her. He leaned in to put his cheek against
hers, and Hermione heard him murmur, “Are you all right, darling?”

Tonks nodded and gave him a private smile.

Next to Hermione, Draco’s back straightened a little.

“Can we get this over with?” he said, reaching for the door, before another sound made him tense
up.

The rhythmic thump of wood against the floor sounded down the hall, drawing closer. Moody’s
false eye rolled, the sickly blue sliding in the socket until he spotted Draco.

“There he is! Little miscreant. Could have told you years ago he’d end up on the wrong side of
some trouble.”

“Let’s all have a chance to speak before we draw conclusions,” Lupin said. “I’m surprised you
recognize him.”
“I remember the kid. Spoiled little weaselly type. Strutting around those stuffy events like he thinks
he’s the Minister of Magic,” Moody barked. “Turning him into a ferret is the best favor I ever did
for him.”

Lupin gave Moody a sharp look. “Alastor, that wasn’t you. You were locked in a trunk for
months.”

Moody waved a dismissive hand. “It’s one of the few things that bastard did I can agree with. A
little Transfiguration’s what the boy needed.”

“I doubt it would be a productive approach now,” Lupin said firmly. “Draco, as I explained to
Hermione earlier, you are not on trial. We’d like to ask you some questions to help us determine
our best options to keep you safe, as well as any others staying here. So it will be to everyone’s
benefit for you to take your time, and answer as fully as you can, so we can make plans based on
the best information possible.”

“In you get,” Moody said.

Draco didn’t move.

Tonks smiled at him. “In you get,” she said, more kindly. “Remus, do you think we could ask the
House Elves for tea? I wouldn’t mind a cup of something hot.”

“Of course.” Lupin paused in the doorway. “Hermione, you’re welcome to wait out here, although
I’m not sure for certain how long we’ll be. Or, another option is to wait in the Great Room, by the
kitchens, and see if you can get Harry and Ron together with you. We’ll want to talk with the three
of you next.” Then he shut the door.

Hermione compromised, leaving briefly to let Harry and Ron know the evening’s plan, and
reflexively grabbing a book off the coffee table, and then returning to camp herself in the hall.

It took just over an hour and a half (or only about 45 pages of reading, mixed in with frequent,
fruitless tries at listening through the door or wall). Draco slunk past her when the Order let him
out, and Shacklebolt swept Hermione, along with Harry and Ron, into the room before she had a
chance to ask Draco how it went. Tonks excused herself as well, saying she was tired.

Lupin clapped his hands together, a hungry-looking grin on his face.

“We’ve got a lot to cover,” he said. “In other circumstances, I’d want to hear every detail of what
you three have been up to, but to be perfectly frank, I’m sick of the waiting myself. Now that
you’re here, the Order can move forward with a number of plans we’ve been preparing.”

“We still want to take a measured approach,” Shacklebolt warned. “There’s a lot of risk, even with
Potter here.”

“Go easy on him, Kingsley,” Moody said. “Young ones like Remus are always eager to jump
ahead. They’re not used to too much hurry-up-and-wait.”

“Harry,” Shacklebolt said. “Before Dumbledore passed, how much did he tell you about something
called a Horcrux?”

Hermione groaned. If the Order was this far behind, how were they going to take any meaningful
action against Voldemort?
“A fair bit,” Harry was saying. “And Hermione’s been researching while we’ve been hiding out, as
well. I got a memory from Slughorn, last year. Dumbledore showed me. There are seven.”

“See? I told you they’d know,” Lupin said. “Seven? Are you certain?”

“That’s what Dumbledore told us,” Hermione said.

Moody’s eye swirled from Harry to Hermione and Ron. “He must have thought very highly of the
three of you, then. He didn’t confirm the number to anyone else, not even the Order.”

“We’ve been hard at work determining which objects are likeliest to be Horcruxes. You-Know-
Who wasn’t a young man in the first Wizarding War,” Lupin said. “And of course it’s been sixteen
years since then, although how much he was aware during part of that time is difficult to
determine. For a while, it seemed an impossible task to guess what he would have chosen. In fifty
years of life, how many experiences could have been meaningful enough to leave part of your soul
in?”

“Dumbledore’s notes, though they are few and cryptic, held the key,” Shacklebolt said.
“Fragmenting your soul means limiting your growth. Part of you remains stuck as you were, so
creating a Horcrux greatly reduces your ability to take meaning and pleasure in events that happen
after.”

“He made his first as a student. The diary. The second, a ring Dumbledore found and destroyed,
was also likely made when You-Know-Who had barely left Hogwarts. Possibly even still while he
was a student,” Lupin said. “Harry, the necklace you gave me, the false Horcrux. It’s a perfect
replica of an amulet belonging to Salazar Slytherin himself, according to legend. You-Know-Who
was binding himself tighter and tighter to Hogwarts. Based on this, and the overall strength of his
ties to Hogwarts, we strongly suspect that Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw’s tools are Horcruxes, as
well.”

“How are we supposed to know what their tools are, though?” Ron said.

“We’re still stuck,” said Harry.

“Honestly, the pair of you!” Hermione said. She smacked them both, hard, on the shoulder. “Open.
Hogwarts. A History. And you won’t sound. Like bloody nitwits. Every--single--time--we talk
about something important.”

“A cup and a diadem,” Lupin said with a smile. “Gryffindor’s sword is untouched. Typical House
rivalry, I imagine.”

“So you’re planning to return to Hogwarts and steal the Founders’ talismans?” Hermione said.

Lupin let out a bitter laugh. “I haven’t been welcome at Hogwarts in years. Not since Snape ratted
me out. You’d be amazed how many parents will send their children to a Death Eater-run Hogwarts
willingly enough, but balk at a werewolf on staff. Very few people at all know about the passage at
the Shrieking Shack, though. I was able to get onto the grounds and meet with Hagrid. He brought
us this.” He pulled out a ragged, dingy brown hat, which glowered back at him when he set it on
the table. “This is where you come in, Harry.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. There was something scandalous about seeing the Sorting Hat outside of
its place of honor in the annual ceremony.

Moody nudged the Hat closer to Harry. “Not even any Gryffindor can pull the Sword from the Hat,
but we hear you’ve managed it. It’s powerful, old magic. It’ll do the trick against just about
anything. If you can get it for us, we can destroy a Horcrux when we get hold of it.”

“Wait,” Hermione said. “You don’t have the Horcruxes at all? You just know what they are?”

“And where,” Shacklebolt said. “Through the Ministry of Magical Education connection, You-
Know-Who has pumped Hogwarts full of Death Eater faculty. It’s a strange choice as a show of
power. Even wizards with strong blood conviction have misgivings about active Death Eaters
supervising their children. It’s fairly clear the real strategy is to guard Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw’s
tools on the property.”

“We have one more guess on a potential Horcrux, as well,” Lupin said. “It would only bring us to
six, but that may be enough to weaken him enough to have to go back into hiding, bide his time,
and buy us time to identify the last. We think his snake might serve as a Horcrux, as well.”

Harry nodded. “Dumbledore thought so.”

“I’m still not sure I’m convinced,” Shacklebolt said. “It breaks the Hogwarts pattern, and I’m not
sure how the spell would work in a living being, rather than an object.”

Hermione shivered at the sick feeling in her stomach. “Did you ask Draco about the snake?”

Lupin frowned. “Should we have?”

“He’s told me about it. The way it moves, the things it’s capable of doing. It doesn’t act like an
animal, not even a familiar. It would make more sense, in a way, if they really were connected
soul-to-soul.”

“The bugger held back on us after all,” Moody muttered.

“We didn’t ask him about it,” Lupin said. “He may not even have made the connection. Hermione,
how much have you told him about this mission?”

“Not a lot,” Hermione said. “He was in such bad shape when he reached us, and he doesn’t like
talking about anything to do with You-Know-Who.”

Lupin nodded. “So first order of business is to see if Harry still has the touch. No, not right this
moment, Harry, goodness. Wait until we’ve got a safe place to store the Sword, if you do succeed.
The second step we wanted to discuss with the three of you is getting Slytherin’s real necklace.”

“You said it was in Gringotts,” Hermione said.

“It’s high time it wasn’t,” Shacklebolt said. “It’s a risky mission, but I’ve formed a diplomatic
agreement with one of the goblins working in the bank, exchanging his services as a guide for my
word to pass certain legislation once we retake the Ministry. Harry, you have the only true
Invisibility Cloak we’re aware of in functional condition, and we understand Hermione adapts
particularly well to Polyjuice potion. It would be tight, but we think you can make it in and out of
the Black vault in time.”

Lupin grimaced. “I rejected this plan before, but we’ve run every scenario we could think of, and
this stands the best chance. We need to go in after the necklace if we have any hope of ever seeing
it.”

Hermione looked to her left and right. The boys met her eye, and although everything was so much
larger than anything that had come before, she recognized a glint in both of their eyes, mischief and
adventure and something more like anticipation than fear. She could feel it in her face, too. Finally-
 - finally --they were going to get a chance to do something.

“Let’s do it, then,” she said. “Let’s rob Gringotts.”

Chapter End Notes

I'm back! And with a longish chapter to boot. I hope it is worth the wait.

I've got to tip my hat to Tumblr user courtnog, whose post that I saw on Pinterest
(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b7/72/bb/b772bbbb133dc638373708d1c127877d.jpg)
made it essential for me to address the Spice Girls within the context of a wartime HP
fic. Spice World was the first CD I ever owned, and I have many fond memories of
cleaning my room to it.

You will notice, as my beloved beta did, that my Lupin is much more like the third-
year, tired-but-responsible professor version of himself than canon's moody, suddenly-
highly-weird-about-becoming-a-father version. IDK, 7th-book Lupin feels kind of
OOC to me (if that's even possible, considering he's canon), and I desperately wanted
some adult in this godforsaken universe to step up and be like, "There is a war, and
children are fighting it, and I am a grown-ass adult who really ought to be taking some
degree of responsibility here." Like, argh, at this point Draco hasn't heard an adult tell
him the main priority is to keep him safe in what, a year? Not that he's likely to believe
it coming from Lupin, but phreeow, let the guy hear it somewhere.

Finally, I hate the word Muggleborn/Muggle-born, and I despair of ever landing on

one to use consistently. I am deeply sorry every time I use it, because I write this fic in
the evenings when I am mostly wiped out from work and toddler and baby, and I
simply cannot be bothered to look back and figure out how I've spelled it before. That
and Borgin &(and?) Burkes are the plagues of my existence.
 Reputation
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco wasn’t used to being hated. He’d faced his share of criticism and disapproval at home, for
sure, but he’d known, in a way, that the height of his parents’ standards for him was also a measure
of their esteem. And at Hogwarts, he’d either been feared or, more often, fairly well liked. He was
used to being able to hold people’s attention at mealtimes, make them laugh or join in with him
when he had a plan in mind he thought was interesting. Even when some, like Potter, didn’t like
him, that very dislike was something Draco felt he could control. He’d derived enjoyment often
enough from goading someone into a reaction.

Not like this, though. Not like how it was here. Weeks, and he was still waiting for anyone besides
Granger and Nott to extend any warmth his way. For Salazar’s sake, Hannah Abbott, who
everyone talked about like she was some kind of saint, barely had it in her to look him in the face.
Never mind the open hostility he faced from everyone else, as though it was a dirty surprise every
morning to realize they’d slept under the same roof as him.

It stung, more than he cared to admit. Worse was seeing Granger light up every time Hannah or
Ginny invited her to hang out, or see her deep in conversation with Finnigan, the two of them
laughing over some bloody fascinating material that all fell under the umbrella of, “Muggle stuff,
don’t worry about it.”

Hannah had moved him and Hermione to a room in a far wing when it became clear that some
occupants of the house were curious enough to linger around the main guest rooms, hoping to gape
at the Dark Mark when Draco was changing.

It was beginning to seem that some of the more daring guests of the safe house were ready for
more than a look. He thought he’d noticed people jostling him more on his left side when they
passed him in the halls. Once, a Ravenclaw called Terry Wildsmith grabbed him, just for an
instant, above the elbow before Draco shook him off with a curt jab of his own. As he reached the
end of the hall, he heard voices, and his name, and he slowed to listen while he was still out of
sight.

“Horace got a look at it. He says he saw it move.” The thick accent gave Seamus Finnigan away.

A hiss of disgust. “How sick do you need to be to get that thing on you?” said Kaden MacDougal, a
sixth-year, or would have been, had he been at Hogwarts this year.

“I heard You-Know-Who can talk to the Death Eaters through it.”

“So he could be planning attacks with them now?”

“What else do you think he’s doing? If I were Moody, I’d use him as bait. Let him call as many of
those bastards as he wants, blaze the wine cellar up with Fiendfyre, then Apparate Malfoy into a
dementor nest.”

“I wonder how deep it goes. The Mark, you know? You’d only need a few people to hold him
down, and a good sharp knife. Cut him off from his master, literally.”

A bitter bark of a laugh. “Who knows? If the Mark’s got that strong of an enchantment to it, he
might be grateful to us if we did.”
Draco straightened his shoulders, swaggered into view, and turned an icy stare on the other boys.

“Aren’t you a bit far from your dorms? Rude of you to go wandering around private areas of the
estate.”

“We have every right to go where we like,” MacDougal said. “You’re the one confined to his
room. Hannah’s too nice to make you eat in the dungeon, but she can keep you out of the dining
room.”

Draco curled his lip. “I prefer not to have your face spoiling my appetite.”

“Yeah, well we’d prefer not to have Death Eaters stinking up what’s supposed to be a safe house,”
Seamus said. “We think it’s about time you made plans to move along somewhere else, maybe
with your own kind, and free up a bed for someone from the Order or DA who actually deserves
it.”

Draco laughed. “That’s bloody rich, Finnigan,” he said. “I was at the DA meetings last year,
wanker. I never saw you.” A delightful thought occurred to him. “You’ve tried to join up now,
have you? Imagine that. These brave Gryffindors play tagalong, while the Slytherin’s been a card-
carrying member the whole time.”

Color rushed to Seamus’ ears. “You’re a filthy bloody traitor, is what you are.”

“The Order doesn’t appear to agree, do they? You’d know that, if you were important enough for
them to bother with you.” Draco pushed past them and tossed a look over his shoulder. “The knives
are in the kitchen, incidentally. Come find me if you ever develop the brains or balls to back up
that mouth.”

“Break his fucking arm,” MacDougal said. “Come here, you backstabbing piece of shit.”

Both boys started forward, determination and hatred written over their faces. They didn’t even
bother taking out their wands.

Draco jogged down a flight of stairs. There must be more than three dozen people staying here, so
of course now was the moment when he couldn’t hear or see another soul. Finnigan and
MacDougal were picking up speed, egging each other on, and Draco was beginning to seriously
hurry.

He ducked down one of the narrow corridors meant for House Elves and pushed open a door
labeled, “Supply.”

He’d expected to be alone. He would have been annoyed, though not terribly surprised, to find and
shoo away a House Elf. He was much more taken aback to find a boy with messy black hair and a
lightning-shaped scar.

“The hell are you doing in here, Potter?”

Potter frowned at him. “I was thinking. In private.”

“Well, clear out.”

“You sod off, I was here first.”

“Tosser.” Draco tried a sneer. Still morning and he already felt too spent to put more than a token
effort into keeping up appearances.
Potter sighed. “Sit down. I guess there’s enough space in here for both of us.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Draco spat.

Potter almost laughed. “After all this time, you think I’m going to start pitying you? Stop being a
git and pull up a bucket if you want, but let me be. I’m not in the mood for a fight.”

Draco pulled an upturned bucket out from under a low shelf with his fingertips and perched on it.
Potter had already put his forehead back in his hands.

Draco inspected his fingernails. Too late to pretend he’d come in here looking for fresh towels or a
bar of soap. Way too weird to try to ignore Potter the way Potter was ignoring him. He wasn’t even
trying not to look upset.

“Shouldn’t you be mingling with your admirers, or having tea with the Minister of Magic? Can’t
you find something better to occupy your time than getting in my way?”

Potter let out something like a laugh. “Better. Yeah. Shortage of people asking for my time isn’t
really my problem right now. Everyone keeps looking at me like I know something special. They
touch me when I’m passing them, on the arm or back, you know? Like it’s for good luck.”

“Poor Potter, exhausted by glory. You know what they do to me when I pass?”

Potter raised his eyes to meet Draco’s. “Did it feel like glory for you, last year?”

Draco stilled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Potter said vehemently. “Lupin wants me to tell him about nightmares and things.
Any flash of him in my head. The Order thinks maybe they’re not just dreams, like he and I are
linked enough that I might be seeing glimpses of things that are really happening.” He cracked his
knuckles. “It’s bad enough as a dream.”

Draco shuddered at the memory of the Dark Lord’s presence in his mind, ice burn and something
oily and rotten, a lingering stain. “Can he see you?”

“I try not to let him. Snape tried to teach me.”

“It doesn’t always work,” Draco said.

“It has to, doesn’t it? Or he’s going to find more people eventually, through me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Pity the others in the house aren’t here to hear you say that. The better
money in this house is that he’d use me. People think the Dark Lord sings me to sleep at night.”

Potter paused. “You really saw him, right? Not just other Death Eaters?”

“Yes.”

“I saw him get born, sort of, or--made. Whatever you want to call it. When he got the new body.”

Draco’s lip pulled back in disgust. Harry nodded like he’d spoken.

“Yeah. Exactly. I don’t get into it much. Cedric was already dead. That was more important. But I
saw it. I was part of it, sort of. Wormtail cut me, put my blood in the cauldron. Then he cut off his
hand.”
“Why are you telling me this?”

“You saw him, too,” Potter said. He put a hand up against his neck. “Do you think he’s, you know.
Human?”

Draco folded his arms over his chest and pressed himself back against the shelf. He didn’t want to
be there. Potter was looking at him through those ridiculous spectacles, and it didn’t seem real how
open and sincere his eyes could look, with the things he was saying.

“No,” Draco said. He hesitated, and he could swear Potter gave the tiniest nod of his head, like an
unconscious gesture to go on. “He doesn’t look like a real person. Or sound like one. But I don’t
know what else he could be.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Potter breathed out in relief. “He’s not like anything I’ve ever seen,
or heard about. I saw what he was before. Dumbledore showed me memories in his Pensieve. He
was weird, always, even when he was our age, but sometimes--sometimes I wonder if Dumbledore
and Sirius and Lupin and all of them really understand how much he’s changed, now. Maybe
they’re still thinking of Riddle, you know? And Riddle’s gone.”

The expression on Potter’s face was eerie, sickeningly familiar. It was the look of someone
realizing how far in over his head he was. Draco could almost hear the next words out of Potter’s
mouth before he said them.

“I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to make it out of all of this.”

“Granger believes in you.” Draco felt leaden.

“Thanks, but that doesn’t really help right now.”

“It’s not meant to help you, you prick. She’ll risk anything for you. You need to figure something
out, or she’s going to get hurt or worse trusting you.”

“Yeah. So you get why I’m here.”

Draco leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. Potter bent his head back into his
hands.

“Fuck it,” Draco said. He stood up. “I’m going to piss off, then. You stay here. Do what you need
to do.”

“All right,” Potter said. “Hey. Don’t tell anyone I’m in here.”

“I won’t.” He paused, one hand on the door. “Get it sorted. Right, Potter? They need to believe
you’ve got something figured out.”

Granger had at least promised to hang out with him for a little while in the afternoon, before
dinner. Draco was on his way to the library when he ran into Tonks. Her hair was almost as light as
his today.

“Hey you,” she said. “I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, stop,” she said. “I come in peace. Do you have a moment?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

Tonks arched an eyebrow. “Hermione or Theo?” She waited briefly for a response that didn’t
come, then tipped her chin up in an impatient gesture that, for an instant, reminded Draco a little of
his mother. “Draco, be reasonable. I’m not trying to impinge on your privacy, but it’s a bit
ridiculous to pretend the entire house doesn’t know who’s currently on speaking terms with you.
It’s not a difficult list to remember. Whichever one of them it is, they’re not going to mind if you
spend five minutes with me in the parlor first.”

“How could I possibly decline such a gracious invitation?” Draco said haughtily.

“Marvelous.” Tonks grinned. “Does the rest of the family really talk like that? My mum tried to tell
me the Blacks put on airs, but I never believed her. I don’t know how you’re supposed to make it
through a whole dinner without cracking up.” She held the door, relaxed into a French armchair,
and watched Draco sit on the double chaise. “Have you given any thought to the idea we
discussed?”

Draco glanced at the door. An ambush interrogation from the Order, then. Perfect. “No. Am I to
understand I still have a choice in the matter?”

“Yes, you have a choice. I’d be interested to know why I’m getting such a flat refusal, though.”

Draco gave her a contemptuous look. “I thought being the youngest Auror in the Order meant you
were intelligent. One suicide mission was enough for one lifetime.”

If Tonks minded the insult, she didn’t show it. “I can appreciate that. What’s making you think of
it as a suicide mission, though?”

“Be serious.”

“I am. I disagree with your assessment of the risks.”

“You do it then, if you think it’s such a simple matter.”

“I didn’t say it was simple. I said we had a good plan. For that matter, I did volunteer myself
immediately. My skills make me ideal for the job.” She gestured at her hair and face. “Or so we
thought. My control over some of the shifts has been less consistent, lately. Remus all but forbade
me outright, and while that would usually make me that much more likely to go for it,
unfortunately, my gut tells me this mission may be too risky for me.”

“But not for me?”

She ignored the scorn in his voice. “You told us Snape told you the entire Wizarding community
wanted you dead. What I need you to understand is that’s at best a highly oversimplified, and really
just plain inaccurate, assessment of the current situation.” She crossed her legs and folded her
hands over her knee. “Right after the events of June 12, I might have agreed with him. The first
thing we learn in training about civilians, though, is they’re fickle. There’s been a whole summer
of rumors, other news, smear campaigns against Dumbledore, you name it. Nowadays, when it
comes to you, there’s two main rumors still circulating. The first is that you’re dead. Obviously,
not the case. The second is that you’re some kind of Dark savant, who got rapidly promoted to
You-Know-Who’s innermost circle under a cloak of secrecy. There’s a smattering of people who’d
think differently, but I’d wager my entire vault that almost anyone who sees you still breathing
takes it as confirmation that you’ve been pillaging and torturing the summer away as the Dark
Lord’s prodigy. More than a few people in this safe house are afraid of you.”
Draco ran a finger underneath his jaw, interested despite himself. He’d assumed it was all mockery
and loathing.

“What do you suggest, then?”

“You’re a Slytherin, right? Ambitious and cunning. I’m keeping an eye on you. You carry yourself
well, even under pressure here. If the common consensus on you is you’re the Dark Lord’s
princeling, how can you use that as a tool? Who should continue believing that, and who needs to
be persuaded differently?”

“Rather tidy, isn’t it? You think I have an image problem, and you just so happen to have a solution
in mind that ties in perfectly with your mission. You’re not subtle with your tactics.”

Tonks laughed. “I haven’t tried to be! Of course your cooperation would benefit the Order. That’s
how helping works. I didn’t plan to insult your intelligence by playing at subterfuge. Look, Draco,
by all means take the safe route and keep skulking around not talking to anyone. That’s certainly an
approach that’s available to you, and I hope it works out the way you want it to. If you decide
you’re interested in taking action on a mission that is virtually guaranteed to improve your standing
in this house, come talk to me.”

Finally, he made it to the double doors of the library. Hermione had her legs tucked up under her
on a couch. She held out an arm for him to lean in next to her.

“You’re late,” she said happily.

“Not my doing,” he said. “Tonks wanted a word.”

She made a sympathetic face. “Oh. I hoped you were getting a chance to hang out with Theo, or
someone, and lost track of the time. Is everything okay? What did Tonks want?”

“Nothing important. Come here.” He put an arm around her waist and pulled her in to kiss her. She
had her arm draped casually over his shoulders, and for some reason it rubbed him the wrong way.
There was something smug about her, like she took it for granted that he’d be eager to see her
whenever she decided she could spare him a moment out of her busy schedule.

“Granger,” he said, keeping his lips close to hers. “What are you doing on Tuesday? Fancy
spending the day with me?”

She pulled back slightly, a thin line forming at the bridge of her nose.

“We could get out of the house,” Draco continued. “The grounds are safe enough. We could pack a
lunch, go down to the lake and see if the boats are still any good. It’s not Hogsmeade, but you must
be itching to get out of this house and go somewhere. So. Tuesday. Something the matter, love?”

She was biting the inside of her cheek. “Draco.”

“Or is Tuesday a conflict, for some reason?” he said. “What, are you robbing a bank that day, or
something?”

“Tonks told you.”

“She may have taken it upon herself to mention something to me. Why didn’t you?”
Hermione folded her arms. “Because I didn’t want to do this with you.”

“Do what?”

“The thing where you call me reckless or try to badger me into hiding, when you know perfectly
well I intend to fight, when I can.”

“So you’re not going to tell me what your plans are at all.”

“All you’re going to do is get upset with me.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She pursed her lips. “Yes. The Order is planning an operation to
retrieve--certain materials--from a Gringotts vault.”

“The Black vault.”

“Yes.”

“How do you intend to get in?”

Her eyes slid away from him. “Harry, Ron, and I are going. There’s a goblin on the inside who will
help us. Harry’s using the Cloak. Ron will handle keeping an exit clear for us and dealing with
anyone who tries to follow us back to the vault. He’ll be disguised, of course.”

“And you?”

“I’ll get us in,” Hermione admitted reluctantly.

“How?”

“We’ve got a batch of Polyjuice. It seems to last longer in my body than the boys’, so it’s safest if I
take it.”

Draco paused. “Come on, Granger, don’t make me drag all of this out of you. How many secrets
have I told you by now? What’s it going to take for you to spit it out?”

“Fine. I don’t know how they got it, but we’ve got hair from Bellatrix Lestrange. That’s what’s
going in the potion.”

Draco’s face twisted into a frown. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s no way in blazes you’re breaking into Gringotts impersonating my aunt.”

“This is why I didn’t tell you, Draco. This really isn’t your call to make.”

“You’re going to get killed,” Draco said. “You cannot possibly, plausibly imitate Bellatrix. She’s
completely deranged. Anyone will know something’s wrong. You’ve never even met her. How do
you expect to act like her?”

Hermione jutted her chin out. “I could act a bit more like you, for starters. I’ve got a front-row seat
to what it looks like to go round giving out orders.”
 “Yeah, you’re all about orders now, aren’t you? You’ll jump wherever the Order tells you like a
good little soldier?”

“They wouldn’t ask me to take on a mission for them if they didn’t think I had the best chance
possible to succeed.”

Draco wondered how long Potter had spent in the Supply closet. How many other times he’d
withdrawn to some quiet space. “I wouldn’t be so sure. They care about the Wizarding world,
Granger, not just you.” He took a deep breath. “Dumbledore knew students were in danger because
of me. He didn’t say anything. It would have given too much away, so he let people get hurt. Don’t
you think the Order will do the same?”

“Do you have a better idea, then?”

“I want you to think before you plunge into some harebrained scheme.”

“How is it not clear to you by now that I do think, and what I think is that working for the Order is
the best way I can be useful in this war? Just because I don’t come to the same decision as you
doesn’t mean I’m not using my head. Have you considered that maybe you could stand to do a
little more thinking yourself? You’re not in the bloody woods anymore, Draco, but you’re still
hiding and scrounging. Maybe it’s time for you to damn well step up.”

“Fine!” Draco got to his feet. “Fine. I’ll bloody well do it, then.”

“What?”

“You don’t care if you die. Potter, either, or Weasley, I’m assuming. Tonks is the only one in this
house talking any bloody sense after all.”

“What did she say to you?”

“You’ve made yourself clear, Granger, all right? You’re the Order’s Head Girl, and you’ll go
where they tell you. And you’re--” He cut himself short. She knew what she was. She had to, by
now. “Not Bellatrix,” he said instead. “So I’m coming with you.”

“She asked you to come on the mission with us? What are you planning to do?”

“I’m Draco Malfoy. Son of Narcissa Malfoy-Black,” he said. “I’m going to go claim my key to my
vault.”

Chapter End Notes

Had a few pieces I needed to move into place! Gringotts is coming up, promise.

When I put Draco in DA way back when, I felt that, prickly as he may have been to
some at Hogwarts, there'd be plenty of people who didn't know enough about him to
have an opinion. We saw student opinions on Harry shift back and forth, after all, and
he's way more famous than Draco. If we see HP canon through Harry's bias, and
Draco certainly would be happy to inflate his own importance, it might be truer to life
that our favorite blond, slick-haired villain was a smaller fish in a bigger pond than
he'd like everyone to think.
Makes it kind of fun now that he's done something big enough to put him on the
political map for real, that gives him that infamous reputation he always thought he
wanted.
 Gringotts
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“This is stupid and I hate it,” Draco announced, standing in the wine cellar with the Golden Trio.

“Shut up,” Hermione said, fussing with the draping of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. “You’ll do fine.
Just do it like we practiced. Harry, move your foot. Other one. You’re standing on the hem.”

Lupin was on Draco’s other side, scrutinizing the set of robes Draco had borrowed from Theo.

“I’m still not certain about the fit,” he muttered.

“What would you know about it?” Draco snarled, more out of nervousness than real anger.
“You’re shabby enough.”

“Live in ill-fitting clothes long enough, and you’re an expert on where to look for poor tailoring,”
Lupin said mildly. “Hold still.”

Draco couldn’t help leaning away as the werewolf reached for him.

“Draco Malfoy,” Tonks’ voice rang out from above them. “I can tell from here that sleeve isn’t
hanging right. Stop your fidgeting and let Remus fix it before you disgrace the family.”

Harry snickered from beneath the Cloak. “Getting chummy with Tonks, aren’t you, Malfoy?”

“Stuff it, Potter,” Draco said, managing to hold his arm out and let Lupin cast a charm to adjust a
seam. “That goes for you as well,” he shouted up at Tonks.

She made a rude gesture and grinned at him.

“Remember, keep focused on the mission,” Hermione said, for the umpteenth time that morning.
“Get in, get what we need, get out. Act like you belong.”

“Very well for you to say, you’re under that mangy cloak the whole time,” Draco grumbled.

Granger patted her pocket. “I’ve got the potion. I’m still game to take it.”

“If he’s going to do it, it’s best if he appears to be alone,” Lupin said. “We want him to seem as
dangerous as possible. If Bellatrix plays chaperone, he won’t be as intimidating.”

“If I get out there and one person looks like trouble,” Draco warned.

“We’ll be there the whole time,” Granger said. “I’ve got Harry, and Ron’s got you. If things go
sideways, we come back here.”

“We’ll be watching closely for your return,” Lupin said. “Try to get in and complete the mission if
at all possible. We’re not likely to get a second chance at this. If there’s serious trouble, though,
then yes, get yourselves out.”

“How are you going to know it’s us?” Harry asked.

“Well. We won’t, exactly,” Lupin said apologetically. “I’ve done my best to make a map of this
house, but it’s been a long time, and last time I wasn’t working on it alone. We can track how many
people are in a room, but I wasn’t responsible for spells to determine identity. That was Wormtail,
actually. He was so shrewd at telling who people were. I’ve never been able to understand why
he’d--at any rate. Sirius made everything smooth, so it followed everyone as they moved. I can get
the map to update every few minutes, but I don’t quite have his finesse. And James did the
concealment and unlocking charms. Most of the better insults, too, although he and Sirius came up
with a rather impressive list between them.” He smiled briefly at the memory. “The map will
reliably track appearances in the cellar, so we’ll know as soon as you’re back.”

Draco looked up at the doorway. The walls at Nott Manor had been closing in fast. Even so, now
that he was actually presented with a chance to go somewhere new, the idea of spending another
tedious afternoon in his and Granger’s room, reading, held a renewed attraction.

The top of the spiral staircase was crowded with faces. Theo was near the front. He was more
subdued than usual, his face paler. He gripped a scroll of paper in one hand, undoubtedly the map.
His other hand held something else just as tightly, a stick of some kind. There was a glint of silver
between his clenched fingers.

“Draco,” he called. “I found something for you. Hold on.”

He nudged forward and came down the stairs. At the bottom, he pressed the stick into Draco’s
hand and stepped back, looking embarrassed.

It was a walking stick, polished and elegant, of deep ebony, with a silver peacock’s head at the
top.

“Found it lying around,” Theo said. “Thought it looked familiar. Take it along, if you want.”

Draco knew it well. The peacock’s burnished gaze in his father’s hand had been at turns funny or
frightening over the years, depending on how old he was at the time. He looked at the bird’s stern
silver eyes, closed his hand over the head and felt the sharp tip of the beak poke between his
fingers. He looked questioningly at Nott.

“I think it looks right,” Nott said. “Granger, what say you?”

She looked over her shoulder and did a small double take. “Oh, wow. Yes. Even your face, really. I
thought this morning you might still be a bit thin? But you look...sharp.”

Lupin was filling Ron’s pockets with a variety of small packages. “What was the name you
decided on?”

“Dragomir Despard,” Ron said. His face was transfigured almost beyond recognition with bristling
stubble, a protruding brow, darkened hair, and a vivid scar slashing across his face. Hermione had
attempted to transform his voice with a thick accent, based on her recollections of Krum, but Ron
mainly sounded like he had marbles in his mouth.

“Better if you talk as little as possible,” Lupin said. “Now, this is darkness powder, this is
Dizzyroot, here’s some double-strength Weasley’s Whizzbangers in case all you need is a simple
distraction, and chocolate, of course. Just in case. You’ll act as associate and bodyguard, so Draco,
it might make sense for you to order him about once you’re in Gringotts, just for the show of
things.”

Draco grinned. “With pleasure.”

“Enough dillydallying,” Tonks shouted. “Remus, you granny, stop fussing with them and let them
get on with it.”

“Malfoy’s right, you can stuff it,” Lupin called amiably. He stepped back. “Ready?”

“As we can be, I think,” said Harry. “Take hands, everyone. On three, then. One, two--”

The world spun, and then the coolness of the wind hit Draco’s cheeks. Chilly stones and narrow
alleys tunneled the autumn air into a thinner, colder draft. He touched a wall. They were in a
corridor behind a cauldron shop, steps away from the main stretch of Diagon Alley. He could hear
the humdrum sound of shoppers making their way between errands.

It felt exposed and disorienting to be outside. Ron stuck his hands deep in his pockets and glared at
Draco from under his heavy brow. Hermione and Harry were nowhere to be seen. Draco was
grateful when Granger, unable as always to refrain from being bossy, prodded him from beneath
the Cloak.

“Stand up straight!” she hissed. “Stop gawking like you’ve never been to Diagon Alley before.”

“I do not gawk,” Draco seethed. “Come on, Despard, let’s get this bloody errand over with.”

He stalked down the alley, the silver tip of the cane tapping the cobblestones. He thought he could
sense a muffled swish of fabric as Granger kept near him under her invisible cover.

They hadn’t reached the main road before a dark figure exiting a neighboring shop stopped in
surprise.

“You--aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s boy?”

Bushy hair, graying prematurely from the stress of imprisonment. Long, sharp nose and cruel eyes.
A name rose to the top of Draco’s memory.

“Travers,” he said coolly.

“What a rare occasion to encounter you out for a stroll, lad,” Travers said, a conniving look on his
face.

“I could say the same. What are you doing on the outside? I’d thought you were in Azkaban.”

“Not since beginning of summer,” Travers said. “The Dark Lord doesn’t leave his faithful behind.”

“He doesn’t,” Draco agreed.

“Imagine you not knowing about the break-out,” Travers continued. “I thought all the loyal Death
Eaters played a part. Haven’t seen you at your father’s house, either. I seem to recall your parents
renouncing their connection to any family who had displeased the Dark Lord.”

Draco swallowed. “As they should,” he managed to say, hoping Travers didn’t hear the strain in
his voice. He couldn’t help asking. “Are they well?”

Travers took a few steps forward, and Draco realized he was now in grabbing range.

“Haven’t seen them in some time, have you, young Master Malfoy? We haven’t been hiding, have
we? Perhaps the Dark Lord would care to hear the reason behind your absence.”

Ron stepped closer to Draco, preparing to take his arm. Draco lifted his chin, a sudden rush of
boldness giving him his voice again.
“I’ve been abroad at his behest. Hogwarts under Dumbledore was hardly the place to get a
sufficient education,” Draco scoffed. “I spent the summer in Belarus.”

To Draco’s relief, Travers relaxed, mouth widening into a more genuine smile. “Belarus--that
would be Durmstrang, correct? A fine institution. Much firmer entry standards than Hogwarts’
coddleslop about taking in anyone who can throw a few sparks. A stronger grounding in the more
ancient arts, as well. So-called 'Dark’ magic has never been properly respected at Hogwarts.”

“Much more satisfying,” Draco said shortly. “If you will excuse me, I have business at Gringotts.”

“I’m headed that way myself,” Travers said. “I’ll accompany you. And your companion--?”

“Oh, this is Despard,” Draco said off-handedly. “He doesn’t speak much English. Good dueler,
though. Mind like a chess board. He’s sympathetic to our aims, and I needed someone to handle
various arrangements for me until it’s time for me to return to the Manor.” He gripped the peacock
again and resumed a deliberate pace toward Gringotts.

He couldn’t talk with the others now that Travers was around. Travers seemed much more at ease
now, making small talk and mocking the ones he referred to as “the wandless,” a category that
included Muggles and disgraced witches and wizards alike. Draco concentrated on his posture, his
gait, the scornful expression on his face that met any passerby’s stare with his unwavering certainty
that Diagon Alley and all that existed in it was his to buy or sell.

Gringotts was the largest building on the street. Its snow-white marble remained untouched by any
trace of city smoke or grime, a feat of protective goblin magic. Unlike every other time Draco had
visited Gringotts before, the goblin guards at the door were replaced instead by wizards holding
golden rods.

“Probity probes,” Travers sighed. “Inelegant, but necessary, while pockets of dissenters still exist.”

Draco’s stomach tightened, but the guards gave a little start as he and the concealed others passed.
Potter or Granger must have cast some charm to confound the probes.

They swept into the main hall. Travers clearly wanted to stay near Draco, but Draco gave him as
terse of a goodbye as he could manage within the bounds of Pureblood manners, and there was no
polite way to insist on accompanying someone to the teller’s window. Travers slunk away, still
casting the occasional glance over his shoulder at Draco.

He wasn’t the only one. Draco was conscious of multiple stares and whispers as he sauntered
across the marble floor. Several people gaped outright. Others fell silent when he came near. He
whipped his head toward a muffled sound of surprise, giving a pair of witches a vicious sneer, and
was reassured to see them shrink back. Tonks seemed to know what she was talking about after all.
Weasley didn’t have Draco’s swagger, but his surly glower seemed to do well enough, as well as
the fact that he was nearly twice as broad as Draco. Especially with his features coarsened like this,
he looked the part of hired muscle, and Draco felt a twinge of real relief at his presence a pace
behind him.

“Master Malfoy!” The goblin at the window was evidently startled to see Draco. “My word. How
can we be of service?”

Draco pinched his nose and upper lip into an aristocratic grimace and said, “I require the key to the
Black vault.”

The goblin frowned. “Do you have identification?”

“You identified me yourself not a moment ago.”

“Do you have a senior account holder with you?” the goblin said. “Madam Malfoy-Black, perhaps,
or Madam Lestrange?”

Draco heard Granger’s sharp intake of breath. They should have used everything at their disposal.
Too late, now. It would look far too suspicious for Bellatrix to conveniently arrive moments from
now.

“I’m not a child,” he said. “My mother, Narcissa Malfoy-Black, prepared documents for me years
ago to go into effect once I came of age. That date has now elapsed.”

“Jointly held vaults do require an extra consideration of security, as I’m sure you can appreciate.
It’s policy to enter a new authorized user in a senior’s presence.”

“I don’t give a rat’s toenail what your policy is,” Draco snapped. “You cannot seriously expect my
entire family to rewrite their schedule for your convenience. My mother and aunt have their own
responsibilities to fulfill. They are not at your disposal to summon as you see fit.”

“You must understand, it would be highly irregular to grant access, even to one well-known,
without proceeding through the appropriate channels.”

“Is my name on your papers or not? Read it out,” Draco said. He muttered under his breath,
“Father always told me you can’t trust a goblin to read unless you see its lips moving.”

The goblin’s eyes flicked down at the stack of parchment. “It is.”

“And seventeen is the age of vault inheritance?” Draco continued.

“For standard account ownership--” the goblin began.

“Then I fail to see the problem at hand,” Draco said. “Other than an appalling incompetency of
service. I am here for my key, and I expect it without further delay.”

The goblin turned its mouth down. “You’d have to speak with my supervisor, and he’s busy for the
rest of the day. Full agenda tomorrow, too.”

Draco drew himself up further. He didn’t need to fake his answering sneer, if this poxy tunnel-
crawler thought he could dismiss a Malfoy. He lowered his voice, each word crisp and venomous.

“You will serve me this instant, or shall I bring the matter to my supervisor’s attention?” He flicked
the button of his left cuff undone. “I doubt he’s inclined to look kindly on a witless runt interfering
with the needs of the new Ministry.”

It was always difficult to read emotion on a goblin’s face, but the hesitation betrayed uncertainty, if
not outright fear. Draco began to draw his sleeve up slowly, until the first glimpse of the twisting
black snake became visible.

“Perhaps--” the goblin said. “For urgent matters of business--for such a long-established clientele,
certain privileges might be extended--”

“Indeed.”

“If you would come with me, then,” the goblin said, and there was only a touch of irritation in its
voice. “Master Malfoy. If you will forgive the inconvenience, I must insist that your associate
remain in the lobby.”

Draco tossed Ron a withering look. “Why in Merlin’s name would I want him snooping around in
my family’s vault? Find something to occupy your attention, Despard. And be ready when I return.
I don’t want to catch you loafing again.”

“As you say, Malfoy,” came Ron’s sullen response.

“‘Master Malfoy’ will do, Despard,” Draco warned, and then decided to push his luck. “Or ‘my
lord.’ Immediately, then, goblin. I have other matters to attend to today.”

“Very well,” said the goblin, and a key appeared in its long-fingered hand.

In the torchlit passageway to the carts, the goblin beckoned to another guard.

“We will require a set of Clankers for the Black vault,” he said. He held a hand out toward the cart,
offering Draco a low bow, head tipped at a sardonic angle. “If the young sir cares to board, we will
transport you there directly.”

Draco felt Granger grab his arm through the Invisibility Cloak as he prepared to climb into the
rickety cart. They hadn’t thought this moment through. They’d have to board all together to prevent
the cart’s swaying from giving his hidden companions away.

Granger leaned hard on Draco, doing her best to use momentum to sync her movements with his,
but Draco couldn’t haul her and Harry both along with him, and he tumbled into the cart with
several additional suspicious thumps. Draco even caught a flash of Harry’s foot and ankle
protruding from under the Cloak, before the limb was hastily snatched back out of sight.

“What’s going on?” one of the goblins said, and both of them closed in on the cart.

Draco held his breath, but then a strange, glazed expression clouded one goblin’s face, and it said,
“All seems to be in order. Ready to proceed to the Black vault, no further assistance needed.”

“Yes,” the other said blankly. “I have customers waiting.” It turned on its heel and marched back
toward the marble hall.

The cart started moving, and Harry and Hermione winked into view.

“Potter, what are you doing?” Draco hissed.

Potter’s eyes were wide. “I, er, have them under control,” he said.

“Did you Imperio the goblins?”

Granger looked apprehensive, although there was a rebellious light in her eyes as well. “I think it’s
only technically illegal to cast it on humans,” she said breathlessly. “The ethics are more
complicated, but we really need to get into this vault--”

“Merlin’s dick.” Draco gripped the side of the cart as it began to pick up speed. “Sometimes I’m
not sure if it’s more dangerous to be with you or against you.”

Hermione leaned forward, her hair streaming behind her. “Big drop up ahead,” she said.
“Everyone, hold tight.”

The cart whizzed down a steep slope, careened through passages so narrow Draco could have
touched the rocks on either side, if he dared put his hands out past the edge of the cart, and finally
charged at a waterfall.

All three of them ducked, not that it saved them from being drenched. Hermione cried out when the
water hit them, clutching at the pocket of her robe.

Draco shook water from his hair. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted at the goblin.

Hermione managed to fling a vial out of her pocket onto the floor of the cart. “It felt like it was
boiling,” she said. The liquid inside was discolored and frothy. “That was the Polyjuice. It’s ruined.
There must have been an enchantment in the water.”

“The Thief’s Downfall.” The goblin’s eyes were sharp and clear again. “Burglars and imposters,
you’d slip a ruse past the goblins of Gringotts? We’ll polish your bones in your vault til they
shine.”

“Imperio,” Potter said, pointing his wand at the goblin again. He looked up at the others. “We’re
in too far. We need to see this through.”

“Can you keep control of it?” Draco said. “You have to mean those curses, or they won’t work.”

Harry’s face was steady. “I’m looking out for the four of us. I mean that well enough.”

The cart was slowing. There was another goblin waiting outside the vault, holding a heavy set of
metal instruments. This goblin didn’t show any sign of surprise or alarm to see Potter and Granger
in the cart along with Draco.

Potter took the lead when the cart stopped. “You’re Griphook? Lupin sent us. He told us you’d
help us.”

Griphook eyed the three of them suspiciously. “I agreed to a bargain. Entry for a sword. Where is
it?”

Potter patted his pocket.

“Do you take me for an imbecile?” the goblin said.

This time, Harry pulled out a few inches of fabric, revealing the bent point of the Sorting Hat. “I’ll
get the sword after,” he said. “We’ve got work to do first.”

“That wasn’t the agreement,” Griphook said.

“You can’t expect him to stroll into Gringotts swinging a sword around,” Hermione said. “It was
hard enough getting Harry in unnoticed as it was. Be reasonable.”

Draco fought a smile. He knew plenty of Purebloods who couldn’t inject that much command into
their tone. “You heard the lady. Open the vault.”

Griphook turned his beady eyes on Draco. “Just as you say.” He dragged the nails of one long-
fingered hand over the door, producing a high sound that whistled just on the edge of hearing.
Draco curled his lip, feeling the small hairs on his neck prickle, and then the door swung open.

The Black vault contained heaps of shining Galleons, of course, but after the first second or two,
they weren’t what drew attention. Like the Malfoys, the Blacks had a long-held tradition of
collecting artifacts. While the Malfoys took almost a magpie-like approach, acquiring anything
they deemed sufficiently precious and rare, the Blacks’ area of interest was...more concentrated.
 An entire wall of the vault, stretching back almost out of view, was lined with grim talismans,
skulls and dried parts of magical creatures, wicked weapons, stones with twisted metal settings that
looked like they were meant to cage the jewels from escaping. A stack of leathery books, greasy
with old oils and candle drippings, squatted like a desiccated gnome on the floor beside a pile of
gold. Suits of magically warded armor, clearly from different armies and even eras, stood at
disoriented angles. Draco wondered if some of them might not be empty.

“Where do we even start looking?” Hermione said.

Harry took out his wand. “Accio locket!”

Nothing happened. Griphook cackled.

“Not so simple as that. Vaults are protected against theft.”

“How do we find it, then?” Hermione said.

“That’s your business to settle, not mine.”

Hermione tossed her hair. “Fine. Let’s split the vault in thirds, then, or we’ll be here for ages. I’ll
take the right side.”

“The locket’s about the size of a Snitch, right?” Potter said, almost more to himself than the others.
“I can spot that against a crowd.”

Draco squared his shoulders, suddenly much more motivated to spot the Horcrux locket before
Potter could find it. He’d seen the replica too, after all. He concentrated on the memory of the
locket’s sickly yellow color and the gilded outline, and let the gray and black shades of most of the
other Dark artifacts meld into the background. Potter was creeping purposefully down the length of
the vault. Draco hung nearby. He felt more possessive of the contents of the vault than he’d
expected, and he felt a certain level of irritation that Potter was so blatantly surveying what would,
after all, ultimately be a large part of Draco’s inheritance.

“There!”

And yes, of course Potter would be the one to get to claim triumph at locating the locket, too. He
was pointing at one of the tallest shelves. There was a skull that would have looked human, except
for the shape and quantity of the teeth, and the antlers. The locket’s chain looped over several
prongs.

Harry jumped, arm outstretched, and missed. Draco wasn’t tall enough, either.

“What I wouldn’t give for a broom right now,” Harry said.

Draco saw a sliver of something shiny beneath a cobweb-gray cloth. A handle of some sort. The
curve of it was distinctly familiar.

“Granger, does that look like part of the Hogwarts crest to you?”

She came over beside them and peered. “Definitely. What have they got up there?”

“We need a better look at it. And without magic, so we just need to be able to reach--” Harry cut
off. “Malfoy, do you still have that stick? I bet I could hook the chain over the tip. Maybe get the
covering off that other thing, too.”
“I’m taller,” said Draco. “I’ll get it myself.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do what you need to. Let’s be quick, though, we need to get back to the
safe house.”

Draco had left his father's cane just inside the entrance to the vault. He retrieved it, noting the
scowl on Griphook's face. Back with the others, he raised the walking stick as high as he could
reach, delicately threading the tip through the chain of the locket. He poked the stick further, trying
to catch the cloth covering the other object. This tilted the cane, and the freed locket slid down,
into his hand.

The chain landed in the curve between his thumb and forefinger, searing where the metal links
touched him. The locket landed on a gnarled scar at the base of his thumb, scorching him again.
Draco shouted in pain and alarm, dancing in place to avoid the cascade of red-hot replica lockets
that split off from the original, showering down at his feet.

His hand burned. A thousand memories of slicing pain flared into life, and Draco panicked. He
stumbled backward from the shelf of Dark objects, stepping on a small pile of Galleons that began
to ripple into a golden furnace of replicas, and then he fled from the vault.

A blast of hot air hit Draco’s face when he crossed the threshold out of the Black vault. Hot, and
horribly moist.

Draco’s neck craned up, his eyes taking in a giant pair of eyes before him, milky with cataracts.
The dragon’s bones protruded. It snuffled at the air, clearly more dependent on its nose than its
eyes to survey its surroundings. Its scales were pale and flaking, and there were badly healing
marks on its wings and forearms, left from the metal tools the goblins used to prod it where they
wanted it to go. Even stunted and underfed, though, the dragon towered taller than a horse. Its
claws could nearly circle Draco’s waist, and the teeth that showed were as long as his finger.

Draco flattened himself against the wall. That sank in fast, too. It was a rough stone wall, not a
polished door anymore. In addition to the protective charms that doubled the contents of the vault
and made them burn intruders, there was some spellwork on the exterior, as well. Exit the vault,
and the doorway would be obscured, so thieves couldn’t find their way back in. There should have
been open space behind Draco’s back, but it was perfectly solid.

He was trapped out here.

He didn’t dare yell. One of the dragon’s ears was torn, but that didn’t tell him anything about how
well the beast could hear. Draco didn’t know if the dragon hadn’t noticed him or was biding its
time, waiting to see if punishment was coming.

“Granger,” he hissed over his shoulder as loud as he could risk. “Granger! Hermione! Potter, for
fuck’s sake--”

The dragon grunted. It opened its mouth in a croaking roar. Its head tilted, and the better eye, the
one that still showed some filmy blue behind the cataract that partially blinded it, focused in on
Draco.

One forearm swung forward, startlingly fast. The bone of the knuckle caught Draco just under his
breastbone, knocking the wind out of him and pinning him to the wall. Draco pushed at it
uselessly, kicking and wriggling to stay away from the sharp hook of the claw.

“Granger!” he bellowed, no longer worried about volume. “Help! Aah--get off, get off--help me!”
The stone wall gave way behind him, and he collapsed backward into a river of burning metal, heat
pulsing through his clothes. He scrabbled back away from the dragon with his hands and heels.

“Griphook double-crossed us! It's a trap!” Hermione shouted behind him.

Potter yelled, “Grab on!”

Draco caught a glimpse of the wooden cart through the space between the dragon’s legs. He
flipped himself onto his hands and knees, coins blistering his skin, and crawled. There was
commotion and shouting behind him. Something caught at the back of his robes. He didn’t know
whether it was Hermione’s hand or the dragon’s claw. He yanked himself free and reached for the
edge of the cart.

Inside, he spun, looking for a way to control the cart. His hands were shaking almost too badly to
pull out his wand.

“Draco!” Hermione sounded panicked, too.

He looked up. His heart dropped. Impossibly, Hermione and Harry were both sitting on top of the
dragon, straddling its serpentine neck. The dragon was bucking and rearing, stretching its wings.
Coming at him.

“Move!” Hermione shouted. “Draco, move the damn cart!”

“Propero!” Draco yelled, pointing his wand.

The cart’s wheels felt like they were wading through syrup. It was built for goblin magic, not wand
spells. Draco intensified the charm, achieving rattling motion as the dragon launched, its head
scraping the stone wall.

Hermione’s face was white. She blasted magic toward Draco’s cart, too, and her spell joined with
his to push him down the track a little faster. Then she gestured at the walls of the cave.
“Reducto!”

Boulders the size of Draco’s head came pounding down around him.

“Granger, what the fuck?” he yelled, crouching in the uncovered cart. Then he realized the dragon
was trying to fly in earnest. Hermione and Harry needed it to. If it stopped, and threw them off,
they were as good as dead. Hermione was clearing a path for it, buying her and Harry time.

His job, if he wanted to survive, was to stay ahead of both the dragon and the cascading rocks.

“Propero,” he yelled again, racking his mind for any speed charms he knew. “Propulso, velocita
maxima!”

The rickety cart was gaining speed, but so was the dragon. It roared again in indignation, rage, and
maybe even pain at the strain on its weakened wings. It exhaled flame. Not the fireball of a healthy
dragon, of course, or Draco wouldn’t stand a chance. Enough to leave sooty streaks on the stones,
though. Draco clung to the far side of the cart, ducking as reverberations of the Reductor Charm
shook more stones loose.

A circle of white light was widening at the end of the tunnel. Draco cast wild glances between the
raging dragon behind him and the entrance to Gringott’s main hall, where people still milled about
in business clothing. He needed to be far enough ahead of the dragon to get out.
Not enough time. Draco turned around and cast a Reducto of his own at the back of the cart, letting
the burst of energy thrust him backwards, out of the cart and onto the slick marble floor. The
dragon erupted into the hall just behind him, as he was pushing himself to his feet, starting to run
before his fingertips left the ground.

He couldn’t remember the code name. “Ron!” he shouted, sprinting. No one else was going to hear
him, anyway. The hall was instant pandemonium as people leaped behind counters and ran for the
Floo.

“Jump!” Potter shouted.

“I can’t!” Granger yelled.

Draco was still running, hot breath behind him, mind too flooded with panic to think about
anything besides forward motion.

Ron grabbed him. They Apparated with a violent lurch. For a horrible second, there was a
stretching, tearing sensation, and in the weird split-time of Apparating, Draco had a flash of fear
that something had gone wrong. Then there was a sort of internal twang as the magic snapped back
into place. It wasn’t pleasant, but a moment later there was the relief of the solid ground of the
wine cellar.

Draco didn’t let go of Ron’s arm just yet. His head was spinning. His whole body felt singed. He
looked around, terrified that the dragon’s talons had closed around them at the last second, and
maybe it was down here with them.

The door above the spiral staircase burst open. Lupin, Tonks, and Moody led, wands out.

“Why’re there two of you?” Moody barked. “Where’s the others?”

“Expelliarmus,” Tonks said, catching both Draco and Ron’s wands neatly as they spun up toward
her.

Draco scanned the empty room. With a dizzying pop, Hermione stumbled into view, dragging
Harry next to her. The concerned expression on her face mirrored what Draco felt on his, and then
she saw him.

“Sweet Godric,” she said, staggering toward him and Ron. Her head landed on Draco’s shoulder.
One arm was around him, and the other reached toward Ron. “Are you okay? Oh my God, I
thought we were going to die.”

“Revelio!” Moody said, aiming his wand at the four of them. The enchantments melted off Ron’s
face, restoring the ginger hair and the freckles. The rest of them were unchanged.

“It’s them,” Moody said. “Remus, you can let Nott in before he walks a trench into that hallway.”

Lupin poked his head back through the doorway. “They’re back, everyone,” he said, and
immediately Theo and Hannah pushed through, followed closely by Ginny and a dozen others
staying in the house. They cheered when they saw the four of them, singed but standing.

Hermione’s adrenaline was swinging away from terror. “Holy shit, look at my hands. They’re
shaking. Oh my God, that was unbelievable.” She put her hands on Draco’s chest. “And you! I
can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you that cocky,” she said warmly.

Draco let out a breath, dispelling some of the shakiness. “I’m not about to be pushed around by a
 goblin.”

“Not in the slightest. God, you were such a perfect asshole,” she said, and pulled his neck down
toward her to kiss him.

He moved his hands down the scoop of her waist, enjoying the kiss, and pulled her closer to him.
She pressed into him, dipping back so he had to put his arms all the way around her to keep her
from falling.

When he righted her again, she plucked something near her hip. “There’s a scale hanging out of my
pocket, Harry, look.”

Harry grinned. “We might not have been as stealthy as we planned,” he shouted at Moody and
Lupin. “Unexpected dragon. We had to improvise. And, er, make our own door back out.”

“Were you successful?” Tonks asked.

Harry raised a hand, flashing golden links between his fingers.

Tonks whooped, prompting another cheer from the rest of the crowd.

“How do you know it’s the real one?” Draco whispered to Hermione.

“It stayed looped over the walking stick,” she whispered back. “The rest were scattered all over the
floor. And that’s not all.” She raised her voice to reach the Order members. “We’ve got two of
them.”

“You found something else in there?” Lupin said.

“Draco spotted it,” Hermione said. “A cup. You should check it right away, but I think it’s the one
we need.”

Moody’s eye swiveled in surprise. “Let’s get to it, then. No time to waste,” he barked. “Good
work, the lot of you.”

Draco looked at the collected group. Difficult to say for sure, of course. This was a particularly
high-spirited moment. It would be crass for anyone to spurn him now. The real test would come in
the following days, if anyone seemed more likely to accept him. Still, enjoy the moment while he
had it. Right now, with Granger’s hand warm in his and people smiling down at him, or at least at
the company he was standing part of, it seemed like things might be changing for the better.

Chapter End Notes

Much as I love Hermione disguised as Bellatrix, I had a ton of fun imagining Draco
returning to his snobby Pureblood roots. Overall I adore this caper from canon, so I
really just wanted to play it straight, with some Malfoy thrown in for flavor (and a few
other details changed to serve this timeline's plot). One character piece I'm trying to
keep in mind is that Draco has never been brave enough to roll with the Golden Trio,
so I'm aiming for less Sudden OOC Action Hero Draco and more the Boy Who Loses
His Cool When the Shit Hits the Fan. I am ultimately interested in nudging him toward
whatever level of bravery he's capable of (again, keeping in mind that he's no Harry or
Hermione), but Rome wasn't built in a day.
 Birthday
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione had thought the Gringotts mission would kick off a whirl of activity. To her, it had
meant the start of her part in the war. She’d expected more tasks to follow, or for the Order to
reveal the next part of their strategy, but all she was getting was a lot of vague nonsense about
“confirming intelligence reports” and putting Order sympathizers through a basic “weapons and
warding” or W&W magic program, none of which happened at the manor. Hermione volunteered
to be part of any mission needing assistance, but nothing yet. Moody had laughed at her for
chafing, saying that a well-operated safe house was supposed to be quiet and boring.

Ginny heard Hermione out politely, and then matter-of-factly turned down her offer to accompany
Ginny on her own missions.

“I know your parents are Muggles, but you were, like, ten,” she said. “No offense, but I don’t see
what you’d know about travel planning that I don’t, and extra people only make us more
conspicuous.”

Despite promising herself many times in the woods over the summer that she’d never venture into
nature again, Hermione toured every inch of the grounds. Nott Manor wasn’t exactly close to other
points of interest, so there wasn’t much point in trying to sneak out. She was almost at the point of
naming distinctively-shaped trees.

“You’re pacing,” Draco said, one afternoon. They were in the solarium, where they could at least
watch the trees blow around in the gusty rain.

“I am not.”

“Wow, really? You’re going to try to lie to me about that?” He reached out and caught her sleeve
as she circled back his way again. “What’s bothering you?”

“Where should I start?” Hermione grumbled. “We either don’t have any information on what You-
Know-Who is planning, or the Order doesn’t want to tell us. We don’t have a plan to get the last
Horcruxes. I can tell you the wallpaper pattern in every room in the manor. I haven’t had anything
more urgent to do than offer cake suggestions for Theo’s birthday party.”

“You did rob Gringotts.”

“Yeah, two weeks ago.”

Draco started laughing. “You are impossible. ‘Oh, that. I robbed a bank one time,’” he said, in an
impatient, prissy voice that made Hermione stick her tongue out at him. “I’ll tell you why you’re
out of sorts. It’s September, and you’re still here. You miss Hogwarts. You miss having
schoolwork.”

“Maybe,” Hermione admitted. “Yes. Is that hopelessly nerdy?”

“Yes.”

Hermione waited for him to continue, then folded her arms at him when he sat there in smug
silence, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“And may I ask how it is that you’re apparently so content to lounge around for weeks on end with
nothing to do?”

She’d meant it rhetorically, but Draco tipped his head thoughtfully in consideration.

“There’s the difference of how last year was for me than for you, of course,” he said. “I’m more
ready to take a quiet stretch as a sign that nothing’s going wrong. You get bored faster. You’d also
expected to go back to Hogwarts for seventh year, and I’ve known for much longer that it wouldn’t
be possible for me. Although that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it, too,” he added.

“Like what?” Hermione said, feeling a fresh pang of homesickness. “What do you think you’d be
doing, if we were there?”

“I would have gotten to take Apparation this year. That would have been cool. Other than that?
Probably not Charms. Potions, though, I’ve always liked that class. And Transfiguration, maybe.”

Hermione looked surprised. “You hate McGonagall.”

“Potter said Sirius taught himself to be an Animagus while he was still in school. I’d like to be able
to do that,” Draco said. “I miss my friends. I suppose at this point, I mainly miss having friends.”

“Has it been better, lately?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not really. Hannah’s not as twitchy when I walk into the room, and no
one’s openly attempted to attack me in the last week, so, you know. Baby steps.”

“You’ve got Theo, at least.”

“And thank Merlin for that.” He looped an arm through hers. “Come on. The party isn’t for
another twenty minutes, and I’m done sitting around, too. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Hermione said.

He patted her hand with an air of breezy confidence. “Try not to overthink everything,” he said
expansively. “Quiet your mind. Let your feet carry you. There’s bound to be something interesting
going on somewhere.”

“We could see if anything needs doing in the Owlery, I suppose,” Hermione said dubiously.
“Hedwig's molting, so we've been taking turns keeping her feathers clean.”

“Not precisely what I had in mind,” Draco said. He was leading them generally toward the great
room, the only space besides the ballroom large enough to accommodate everyone in the house at
once, but they were taking the longer way to get there.

“So the Order isn’t working on much lately, then?” Draco said.

Hermione let her hand trail down his arm until she could lace their fingers together. “I’m not sure
how much of that I’m supposed to share with people besides Harry and Ron. It slipped out. Don’t
spread things around?”

“What’s the point of insider privilege if the occasional things I hear from you become common
knowledge?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I know something I imagine you don’t,
too. Did Potter tell you Lupin’s trying to get us to take lessons from him, together?”

“No. Why? What does he want you to do?”

“Be frustratingly better than Potter at Occlumency, I think,” Draco said. “Lupin seems to think he’s
more motivated to study when he’s got someone to beat.”

Hermione smiled. “There might be something to that. But then what’s in it for you? You’re not
going to say yes just to do Harry a favor.”

“You think more like a Slytherin all the time. I’m very proud of you, you know,” Draco
commented. “I’m not averse to the idea of keeping up with practicing Occlumency, myself.
Especially if the Death Eaters get more active and he tries to call me. Lupin’s said he can teach us
things to do with our Patronuses, too, and some of it sounds interesting.”

“I have known for a while that I wouldn’t be back at Hogwarts this year, either, you know,”
Hermione said. “Harry’s been getting more involved in all of this for years. He’s had private
lessons with professors to learn things like Occlumency, and meetings with Dumbledore. You
weren’t the only one with a mission, last year. Harry had to get information for Dumbledore, to
learn more about You-Know-Who’s plans and weaknesses. It got clearer all year that Harry was
going to have to do something serious, which meant Ron and I would have to go with him.

“I’ll admit, I don’t envy the bastard.”

“I just thought we’d be doing more, by now,” Hermione grumbled.

“You want more? I’ll give you more.” He tugged her into a dumbwaiter, the glass doors smoky
with age, and kissed her.

Hermione was pleasantly sandwiched between a wall at her back and a firm chest pressing against
her front. Draco kissed her again, more insistently, and she opened her mouth for him and snuck in
a quick gasp in the sliver of distance between them.

“You make that sound on purpose,” he said. “You like knowing what I like.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Hermione said. She ran her nails down a ticklish
line at the back of his neck, and was rewarded by a shiver and the tightening of his hands at the
small of her back. When the next break in kissing happened, she let out a little “oh” of a sigh.

He shook his head at her. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Two can play that game.”

His hands dipped under her shirt, tracing her stomach. He played with the band of her bra, and she
arched her back to press her chest against him. Her top fit too snug for him to move his hands
higher easily, so he took them away and started undoing the buttons.

“This is ridiculous,” Hermione whispered. “Someone could come through the hall any minute.”

Draco shifted his lips to her jawline. His tongue flicked against her pulse. “You’ve been pacing
every blasted hallway in this place like a trapped animal. So let’s make sure you won’t see this one
the same way again.”

“We’re supposed to do the birthday thing in a few minutes.”

“So?” He sucked harder where her neck met her collarbone and skimmed his thumbs along the top
edge of the bra peeking out of her shirt. “We’ll be late. We could even be conspicuously late, if you
want.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow and draped her arms around his neck. “Are you seriously trying to
talk me into hallway sex?”
“You can’t go on a life-threatening mission every time you have too much pent-up energy,” Draco
said. He took her by the wrist and held her hand against the wall, over her head.

Hermione relented. “There isn’t much point in only pinning one hand.”

“I want to see what you’ll do with the other one. Besides,” Draco said. “You’re being exasperating
and requiring convincing, so I need a spare hand to do this.” He slipped his hand inside her bra.

Surprising, how different his hand could feel against her here. They’d reached for each other so
many times by now. He’d had the time to refine his technique with her, learning the patterns of
squeezing and flicking and stroking that she loved, but she would have thought even something
good could eventually get dull. Her body only seemed to get more responsive to him over time, and
the idea that they couldn’t know how long they’d be alone here charged each touch with new
energy. He toyed with her, skirting around her nipple with his fingers before suddenly bending to
brush his lips against her, and she let out a cry of surprise and pleasure.

He nipped her, just below the ear, in the sensitive hollow on the side of her neck. “The whole
point,” he said, “is to keep quiet, so you don’t get caught. Unless you’re trying to get me to stop?”
He took his fingers off of her, barely, still brushing fingertips against her skin, teasingly close but
much too far from where they ought to be.

She wiggled. He moved his hand again, keeping the distance. “I didn’t say that.”

He smiled and shook his head when she tried to wriggle closer to him again. “No, you chose the
hard way. This is what happens when you interrupt me.”

He unbuttoned her trousers this time, stroking and grinding against her underwear and steadfastly
resisting her whispered instructions.

“Be patient. I will get ‘a little to the right’ when I am good and ready.”

When he finally got around to pushing her underwear aside and moving his fingers against and
inside her, she had to bite back the sound of a jittery orgasm almost immediately.

Draco frowned. “No, that’s not good enough at all,” he said. He shimmied her trousers and
underwear down and braced her hips with his hands. “If we’re going to do this out here, we’re
going to do it properly.”

And there was his tongue, soft and slow, smoothing out the jumpiness of overexcited nerves.
Hermione put her hands on his hair and let out a long breath, trying to get her heart rate back under
control. She thought she was too fried out, but he could at least catch some afterwaves. But no,
there was definitely something new coming into shape, a lower, steadier beat than the tingling
flash of the first one. She was starting to move her hips by instinct, riding him toward the exact
angle or rocking to say just a little faster, just a little more, keep the pressure like that, yes there, oh
god, do that, don’t you dare stop doing that for the rest of your goddamn life--

“Fu-uck,” Hermione groaned, a sort of strangled hiccup cutting the word.

Draco got up, glanced furtively through the glass, unzipped his own pants. “Can I have a go?”

Hermione rolled her head back against the wall. “You can do whatever you bloody want with me
right now.”

“I had one or two things in mind,” he said, leaning in to kiss her again.
About a quarter of an hour later, they were finally presentable enough (Hermione hoped) to stroll
into the great room. Hermione felt a flicker of annoyed admiration at how poised Draco looked.
She still felt wobbly on her feet, and she could only hope she was managing to conjure a natural
facial expression.

Theo waved at Draco. “So you managed not to forget after all,” he said cheerily.

“Forget what?”

“Ha ha. Grab a drink and come on. We’re playing Dragon’s Eye, five Sickles a round. I’ll deal you
in.”

“Hermione, give me a hand with a kindling charm?” Hannah said, beckoning Hermione toward the
kitchen. She nudged Hermione once she was alongside her and whispered, “You might like to
fix your top, while we're back here. The buttons aren't even.”

Hermione flushed. “Oops.”

“It's not obvious,” Hannah hurried to say. “I noticed Draco first. His hair is just a bit mussed, so I
checked you. I don't think anyone else saw.”

Hermione unbuttoned her shirt and started to redo it. Ginny came in while she was still adjusting
and nodded.

“Nice. Gross, on principle, considering the guy, but there's a war on.” She popped a slice of apple
in her mouth and grabbed the tray of sliced fruit and cheese. “Get yours, Granger.”

When Hermione rejoined the rest of the party, she noticed there were fewer people sitting at the
table with Theo than before. Plenty of games worked so players could drop in and out for a few
rounds at a time, of course, but Draco caught her eye from his spot next to Theo and drummed his
fingers on the table. Hermione wrinkled her nose sympathetically. She’d guessed as much.

Notably, Harry had joined the game, and was sitting across from Draco. Hermione found Ron in
the final stages of a chess match with Terry and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Harry and I are over there. Do you want to come play?”

Ron looked where she pointed. “Um. Yeah. Give me a minute, and I’ll be over.”

“Malfoy’s gone and ruined a perfectly good time, looks like,” Terry said. “Why’s Potter sitting at
his table?”

Ron moved his queen and delicately captured a knight. “They’ve just done a heist together. I figure
Harry can stomach a card game, after that. That’s mate, if I’m not mistaken.”

Terry’s finger hovered over his king as he eyed the board. “I’m still trying to work out how you do
that. I never see it coming. Bugger. Well, good match at least.” He tipped his king, and Ron stood
up from the chess table.

“Happy birthday,” Hermione told Theo as she slid into her seat.

He tipped a glass at her. “And same to you, birthday girl.”

“Thanks. It’s next week. Who told you?”

Theo looked quizzically at Harry. “Fuck. I’ve spoiled a surprise, I think.”

“You didn’t think we were going to let your birthday go by without doing anything to celebrate
you, too, did you, Hermione?” Ron said.

“It’s not even my birthday yet!”

“It’s close enough,” Harry said. “Besides, there’s no way we could have surprised you on the day
without you working it out.”

Hermione smacked Draco’s arm. “You had me be late to my own party?”

“They needed time to set up,” Draco protested.

“We enchanted a banner and everything,” Theo said. “Hannah’s going to kill me.”

“I’ve never seen Hannah get angry at anyone, for any reason,” Draco said.

“Well, no. She might admit to being mildly disappointed. That’s basically wrath. I better let her
know the imp’s out of its cage.”

“What’s going on?” Hannah said, settling into the chair on Theo’s other side.

He touched her arm. “I messed up. I’m really sorry.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Ron said. “Theo let it slip to Hermione that it’s her party, too.”

“That’s all? Theo, why did you scare me like that?”

“I thought you’d be upset that you didn’t get to see her face, or something. Do the big reveal.”

“Were you surprised?” Hannah asked Hermione.

“Yes! I mean--yes. I’m still surprised.”

“Then it’s all worked out the way it should,” Hannah said.

“You’re sure?” Theo said.

“Of course I am. It’s your birthday, love. We should be celebrating.”

There was indeed an enchanted banner, with both Theo and Hermione’s names on it, that unfurled
itself with a flourish of trumpet music when Hannah brought out the cake. The party was set up
open-house style (“fittingly enough,” Theo said), and just about everyone in the house came down
at one point or another to grab a plate, play some games, and wish the master of the house and
resident heroine the best.

It was difficult for anyone in the safe house to get out and shop for gifts, of course, but they made
do. Ginny brought Muggle sweets for both Theo and Hermione. Hannah had knitted Theo a
jumper, and a soft pair of wrist-warmers for Hermione in burgundy and gold.

“I didn’t have time to do fingers,” she said.

“I’m amazed you had time to make me anything at all, Hannah. They’re perfect.”

Ron gave Hermione the chess set he’d whittled in the woods. Harry gave her a book he’d asked
 Ginny to buy on one of her excursions into Muggle towns. And Draco handed her a piece of thick,
creamy paper, folded into its own envelope. She unfolded it to find a black-and-white sketch of
hydrangeas and Queen Anne’s lace.

Hermione held it up to admire it. “You’ve gotten really good. You’ve always had an eye for detail,
but I don’t remember you drawing like this.”

“I drew a lot of plants over the summer,” Draco said. “Touch it.”

Hermione put her finger over the hydrangeas on the page, and the blossoms flushed pink and rich
purple where she touched them. “Oh, that’s gorgeous. I’m going to make you show me how you
did this, later.”

Draco smiled. “Of course you are.”

It was only because Hermione was next to Draco so much of the time and watching Hannah fairly
closely that she noticed the work Hannah was doing to nudge people into little groups, guiding
certain people away and inviting others toward Hermione and Draco, like a buffer.

There was one moment, in the thick of the party, where Hermione realized she’d lost track of
Draco after he’d excused himself, and went to find him. He was on a tufted bench by the doorway,
looking over the clusters of people around the room.

When she put her head on his shoulder, he leaned back on her, resting his cheek on her head.

“Hey sweetheart,” she murmured. “You having a good time?”

“Hm? Of course.”

Hermione knew that tone. “I like spending time with you, in any case.”

He hugged her closer for a moment. “Happy birthday.” He straightened. “Come on. They’re setting
up a trivia game, looks like. Let’s go beat everyone.”

“They’ll never see us coming,” Hermione said, and they went back together to rejoin the party.

Chapter End Notes

So there was an unplanned delay getting this chapter out. There was a family
emergency, and while everything should work out okay, it was a really difficult and
scary week.

Draco and Hermione don't get together in this story until well after Hermione's 17th
birthday, and things were too tense and weird for them to do anything for Draco's, and
I couldn't let another birthday go by without some celebration! I enjoyed putting some
thought into the gifts.

Be safe and well, and if all goes as planned we'll be here as usual next Friday.
 Spill
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione was sipping a mug of cocoa late one evening in the first week of October, keeping
Hannah company as she sketched out meal plans and grocery lists, when Theo came in and put a
hand on Hannah's shoulder.

“I think there's been a spill in the cellar.”

Hannah went white and pushed back her chair. “Do we have everything we need?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t checked on them yet. The early signs don’t look ideal, but I wanted to get
you first before I looked in.”

“Is the fresh batch of dittany ready?”

Theo sucked in his bottom lip. “Almost? Almost-ish. Like I said, this could be a false alarm. Maybe
they’re just slow, or resting.”

“What’s going on?” Hermione said, following both of them out of the kitchen.

“Someone’s hurt,” Hannah said. “Or at least they’re not moving much, on the map. How much
longer on the batch? I thought you brewed it last night.”

“I got caught up with other stuff,” Theo said. “I started it around lunchtime.”

“Oh, Theo, I wish you’d remembered,” Hannah said. “Well, we’ll have to make do as best as we
can. I wish Tonks and Lupin were here.” The couple were visiting at Andromeda’s safe house.
Moody was trawling through various spots in Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, and a few other
busy areas near Ministry headquarters, gathering information.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Hermione asked. “I packed some dittany in my camping bag.
It’s probably still good.”

“That would be wonderful,” Hannah said.

“Just stick around for a minute first?” Theo said. “An extra set of hands might be helpful, and then
we can send you for whatever we need.”

They reached the door to the cellar. Theo tapped the door with his wand, muttering a spell to
amplify his voice on the other side.

“Hello! Nott here. Who’s all in there? Are you okay?”

Silence. Theo opened the map, frowning at the dots representing people. “See, Han, these three are
the ones I’m worried about, this little cluster here. I don’t think they’ve budged since Apparating
in.” He called through the door again. “Anyone able to speak for the group? We need your names
and wands, if at all possible, and then we’ll get you inside and looked after--”

There was pounding on the other side of the door. “We need help! Why won’t you open the door?”

“Hey! Who am I talking to?” Theo said.

“Sophie Roper! Open the bloody door!”

Hannah looked at Theo. “Sweetheart, I think we need to get in there. She sounds terrified.”

Theo sighed. “Yeah. Stay behind me, though, okay?”

He cracked open the door, stuck the tip of his wand through the opening, and said, “Petrificus
totalus!”

There was a thud.

Theo pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Sorry,” he said to the figure at his feet, and
hurried down the stairs.

Hannah crouched by the girl, her lips pressed tightly together. She gently twisted the wand free
from the girl’s stiff hand and passed it wordlessly to Hermione, then undid the spell.

Sophie scrambled into a sitting position, gasping. “What the bloody hell was that? What’s going
on? My wand--”

“I’m so sorry,” Hannah said. “You really are safe here, I promise. Can I help you up?”

“It’s a safety thing,” Hermione said in an even voice. “They collect wands at first until they check
everyone out. Hannah, I’m guessing this is what happens if they don’t hand wands over?”

“It’s not my idea,” Hannah said firmly.

“Well, obviously.”

“Not Theo’s, either. Moody insisted. He’s told Theo so many horror stories, he’s ready to go along
with these kinds of measures--” She shook her head. “Sophie, I’m so sorry, let’s get you inside.”

Sophie said, “We need to get the others,” at the same time that Theo’s shout came from beneath.

“Hannah, Hermione, can you get down here please? Now?”

They ran, and found a pale Theo pressing his hands hard against a red mess of cloth on a prone
figure’s stomach.

“Granger, we’re going to need that dittany. Immediately. And anything else you’ve got, just bring
the whole pack.”

Hermione barely knew where to look first. A middle-aged woman was sitting slumped against a
shelf. Her teeth were chattering, and her eyes kept falling shut. Even so, she had her good arm
clamped around a boy who looked perhaps a year too young for Hogwarts. The boy was bleeding
from a deep cut at his hairline. As Hermione watched, he belched, almost lazily, and a torrent of
dark red sludge came out of his mouth.

Hannah knelt by their side. “They’ve been cursed. And she’s splinched herself, too, probably from
Apparating all of them at once.”

“I’ll be right back,” Hermione said.

Hannah looked up at her. “Bring Draco with you. He might be able to help.”

Hermione nodded, and ran.

Draco was not in their bedroom when she grabbed the pack with her stash of medicinal potions. He
was in the first place she (rather optimistically) checked, in fact, in the great room where they’d
had the party. As usual, a dozen people, maybe a few more, were hanging out in various parts of
the common room. Draco was sitting at a small table with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, playing some
sort of game with a stack of Chocolate Frogs cards.

It was much more of an awkward than congenial tableau, to be fair. Even in her hurry, Hermione
noted Draco’s stiffness, Ginny’s sour face, Harry’s self-conscious expression, and the way Ron’s
body angled away from Draco. Harry must have been the one to invite Draco into the group.
Hermione was surprised he’d agreed to it.

“Draco,” Hermione said. “Come quick. You’re needed downstairs.”

“I am?”

“What’s wrong?” Harry said.

“Some people are hurt,” Hermione said, keeping her voice down. “No, Harry, you’d better stay
there. I don’t want everyone to rush after you and make a commotion. Keep people in here.
Draco?”

He stood and kissed her briefly on the lips. “Look natural, then?” he murmured by her cheek.

“Okay. But quickly.”

Draco put an arm around her shoulders and walked her out of the room, at a pace that felt
agonizingly slow. Hermione was grateful when they made it into the hall and she could run again.

“A group just Apparated in. It looks like they’ve been attacked. Hannah asked for you.”

“The resident Dark magic expert?”

“Basically, yes. You and me both, honestly. We’re still the best at multi-person counters.”

She pushed open the cellar door, and they hurried down the stairs. Sophie was back with the others
now, helping Theo. Hannah reached for the bag in Hermione’s hand immediately.

“You might need to use Accio,” Hermione said. “It’s got an Extendability charm activated.”

“Thanks,” Hannah said. “Can you see to the mother? Her name’s Mary Cattermole. She and Alfie
have both been cursed. I’ll pass Alfie on to you as soon as I treat his head wound. I haven’t even
had a chance to help Theo yet.”

Hermione and Draco sank beside the woman. Her eyes flickered under closed lids.

“Do we know what the curse is?” Hermione said.

“Look at her arm,” Hannah said.

Draco took the woman by the wrist and sucked air between his teeth before he pulled the sleeve up.
“Living Stone hex. Granger, this isn’t good.”

The arm was gray and rigid almost to the shoulder already.

“It'll poison her blood. I'm guessing she's Muggleborn, or Halfblood. Look how far up it's gone.
Shit.” Draco hummed briefly. “You remember that one?”
“Yes. I think so.”

“Pick whichever part you’re strongest at. I'll come in with you.”

They set to work, wands trained over the border of the damage, where the arm still looked like
flesh and bone. Draco took hold of the woman’s arm, testing to see if the hardness was lessening.

“Is it working?” Hermione asked.

“Maybe? It’s not getting worse,” Draco said.

“Gods save us,” Hannah cried out. She’d switched places with Sophie, who was comforting the
boy through another episode of vomiting, and had joined Theo to attend to the other member of the
group. “It’s Ernie. Ernie, can you hear us? Do you know where you are?”

“He got us out,” Sophie said dully.

“I thought she did,” Hermione said, indicating the woman.

Sophie shook her head. “She’s a Muggle. We were at King’s Cross, getting ready to come back
from a mini-break. There were Death Eaters at the Hogwarts Express platform. They closed in on
us, and he came running up and grabbed us.”

Hannah pushed Ernie’s hair back from his face. “He’s a prefect. It’s our job to take care of the
students.” Her hand hovered over Theo’s, which was still pressed against Ernie’s body. “Did you
look at it? How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad,” Theo said, voice tight. “I’m not a Healer. I’ve poured about half a bottle of dittany on
it. I was cleaning it, but the bleeding got worse, so I’m trying to keep pressure on it.”

Hermione looked from Mary’s slack, ashen face to Ernie’s. Sophie’s arm was wrapped around the
boy, who coughed out one more gelatinous glob and put his face on his knees.

“That looks almost like a Slug-vomiting Charm,” Hermione said. “More potent, I’d imagine. I’ve
got some Blood Replenishing potion in my sack.”

“We’ll need it for Mrs. Cattermole and Ernie, unless you’ve packed quite a lot,” Hannah said. “Is
there anything else you can do?”

“The treatment for Slug-vomiting Charm is treacle fudge, and a dose or two of Murtlap tonic,”
Draco said. “We can try that first.”

They spent the next quarter hour getting the newcomers stabilized as well as they could. Sophie,
although not obviously injured, started shaking uncontrollably and needed a blanket wrapped
around her. Theo fetched Seamus and Ron to help transport Mary and Ernie to the bedroom next to
his and Hannah’s, so they could check on the wounded easily.

Hermione took Sophie to another room. She tried to convince Alfie to rest there, but the boy
wanted to go back to his mother, so Hermione got extra linens to make up the couch in the room
until she could ask Hannah about a bed. Hannah and Draco emptied Hermione’s knapsack of the
rest of the medicinal supplies and conferred in low voices, arranging bottles of tinctures and
potions into clusters as they strategized how to distribute resources until fresh batches were
available.

Later, Hermione lay silent and awake next to Draco (who was also only pretending to sleep; they
 were huddled back to back for comfort but couldn’t bring themselves to talk through what they’d
seen). The image she couldn’t shake from her mind, besides the boy’s red vomit and the mother’s
stone arm, was Draco and Hannah pushing potion bottles back and forth, like they were pieces in a
game that couldn’t be won.

Chapter End Notes

The family emergency situation has stabilized a lot, thank goodness. Also, AO3
people are SO NICE, oh my God. I really appreciated the kind comments, and
especially the people who told me it was okay to take my time. I hate feeling like I let
anyone down, so things like this where (I flatter myself) some people might notice if
I'm late make me feel nervous about disappointing anyone. At any rate, it turns out
people here are lovely. I might as well go ahead and say I'm not as sure I can promise
that I'm going to meet each and every week on time, but I have the fic plotted out to
the end, and I like what I have left to write, so we're in good shape there.

Also! Canonically, Mary Cattermole is in fact a witch, of course, but I've changed
things here. I kind of wanted to see what things would look like for the Muggles living
adjacent to the Wizarding world, so I liked the idea of following a what-if on blood
status.
 King's Cross
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hannah wasn’t downstairs for breakfast, early the next morning. After conferring, the Golden Trio
split up. Harry stayed near the cellar to listen for anyone from the Order returning. Ron and Ginny
came up with a few activities and went to corral anyone lingering in hallways, so Theo and Hannah
wouldn’t be deluged with questions whenever they emerged. Hermione and Draco stayed in the
common area to wait for them.

When Theo made it down to the kitchen, looking drawn, Hermione had tea and toast ready. He
took a mug from her with a distracted nod and looked around suspiciously.

“Where is everyone?”

“We’re handling it,” Hermione said. “How are they?”

Theo shook his head and sat down at the dining table next to Draco, staring at nothing.

Draco sagged. “Who didn’t make it?”

“The kid’s alive,” Theo said. “And Sophie wasn’t hurt, physically at least.”

“God have mercy,” Hermione said. “What happened?”

“We lost Ernie just before midnight. We couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. Mrs. Cattermole held
out for a while, almost til morning. It was five, maybe. It had seemed like she was getting more
stable, and then she just--sighed, and things started going downhill really fast.”

“Where’s Hannah?” Hermione said.

“She’s sleeping, finally. I didn’t want to wake her. I just came down to grab a few things and head
back. I don’t want her waking up alone.”

“Why didn’t you come get us?” Draco said. “We could have tried to do something.”

“There wasn’t anything to do,” Theo said. “The Living Stone hex didn’t spread any more, but there
was a lot of damage already done. The Blood Replenishing potion didn’t take. We didn’t have
much left for her, after we tried with Ernie. We used everything we had.”

“It didn’t do any good,” Draco said quietly. “Those bloody counter-charms are worthless.”

“Mrs. Cattermole was lucid for a while. That meant something. She could tell us who to get in
contact with. She was with her kid, for a while.” Theo put his forehead into his hands and pushed
his fingers through his hair.

Draco put a hand on his shoulder.

Theo let out a breath. “So. Anyway. There was that. I need to find Ginny and get her to send for
Lupin and Tonks. If they aren’t here by the end of the day, I guess I’ll have to be the one to
Apparate Alfie back to King’s Cross and get in touch with his dad. God, he’s going to need to see
his wife. I’ll have to make him a Portkey or something--”
Draco and Hermione exchanged a look.

“Nott, you need to go to bed,” Draco said.

“I can make a Portkey,” Hermione said. “I’ll talk to Ginny. I’ll talk to Harry as well; he’s probably
the best one to deliver any updates to the rest of the house in your place. Whenever someone from
the Order gets back, we’ll explain everything. You go take care of Hannah, and yourself.” She
hesitated. “Has anything like this happened before?”

Theo shook his head numbly. “We’ve seen a couple splinchings from close calls, but nothing like
this.”

The helplessness surged as a flash of anger in Hermione’s chest. “If the Order hadn’t been
dragging their feet all this time, maybe we could have stopped this.”

Harry knocked on the doorframe. “Lupin and Tonks just got back.”

Hermione stood up from the table. “I'll go,” she said. “Draco?”

“I'll walk Nott back. When you get a chance, send Weasley back that way, too. We should have
someone around to head off anyone who’s too curious for their own good, and it probably
shouldn’t be me.”

Hermione’s lip pulled back in disgust. “You think people would try to go and look?”

“They come stare at me. Maybe they’d have more respect in this case, but let’s not get proven
wrong.”

Hermione was anxious to meet with the Order, but there were too many other things to do. It took
time to decide how to connect Alfie and Sophie, who were both traumatized and not in good
condition for side-along Apparation, with family members. Tonks talked to Hermione, Draco,
Theo, and Hannah separately about what had happened. She shook her head when Hermione tried
to ask what the next steps were.

“We're not at that point yet. There's a procedure Moody and I follow.”

“I want to do something,” Hermione growled.

Tonks held up her hands, exasperated. “What do you think we're doing, Hermione? We're working
as fast as we can. The families of the dead are going to have questions. I want to be able to answer
at least some of them. Why don't you go see if Remus needs help with the Portkey?”

Hermione threw herself into preparing Portkey spellwork and concealment charms, documenting
the spells and potions they’d used to try to save Ernie and Mrs. Cattermole, and trying to get
Hannah to at least drink some tea.

By early afternoon, the house was buzzing with questions. Rumors were already starting to spread.
It wasn't clear when Lupin and Moody would return with Mr. Cattermole, but it was getting more
obvious by the minute that it would take a compelling reason to keep other safe house guests from
crowding the halls around the wine cellar to wait for their arrival.

So Hermione waited until the common area was full of people before standing up to make an
announcement.

“I’m assuming Harry told you what we know about the Death Eater attack at King’s Cross
yesterday. I know you’ve all got questions. I have, too. As soon as Harry, Ron, and I have talked
with the Order and have news we can share, we’ll tell you more. What’s clear to me is all of us
need to do more to prepare ourselves, while we’re here, for what we might find once we leave Nott
Manor. We need to train. All of us should be sharper on our defensive and healing skills. There’s
never been a day quite like this before, when this safe house has lost people who came here for
help.”

“Some coincidence that Malfoy’s here,” someone muttered.

Hermione looked sharply in the direction of the voice. “Who said that?”

No one answered.

Hermione put her hands on her hips. “Anyone have anything to say to me?” She swiveled. “You?
Say it to my face.”

Kaden MacDougal looked around at the subdued crowd. “Everyone’s thinking it. I’ll say it. It’s not
you, Hermione, we all know what you’ve done to help Harry. None of us have a problem with you.
Malfoy’s another story. We’re grieving people lost because of Death Eaters. It doesn’t seem right
for him to be hanging out in the common spaces when something like this happens.”

“He was helping, you idiot,” Hermione said. “The only reason that mother had a clear enough mind
to be able to say goodbye to her son is because Draco stopped the curse from spreading faster.
Frankly, it would be a better use of all of your time to ask him how to perform that spell yourself,
rather than acting like he’s got anything to do with what happened at King’s Cross.”

“It’s about having respect,” MacDougal insisted. “Obviously he didn’t do this, personally, but
probably he knows the wizard who did.”

“If you hate him, I’m not telling you not to,” Hermione said. Draco shot her a look. She ignored it.
“You all can think what you want about him personally, or me for that matter. If you’re going to
turn down information that could help save a life because of who’s doing the teaching, then you
don’t deserve anyone’s respect. We’ll be in the West Gallery this afternoon to practice with anyone
who wants to learn. I really hope all of you will have the decency to be there.”

By the time the Golden Trio and the Order convened in Nott Sr.’s study that evening, Hermione
was drained. The only thing pushing her forward was her anger, and the need for some actual
answers to how the Order was planning to respond to the attack.

Moody paced, footsteps thumping on the hardwood floor. “They want Hogwarts. Why, Merlin only
knows. They’ve got the Ministry, and Gringotts likely as not. The Death Eaters shouldn’t need
control of Hogwarts to achieve their ends around our people, unless they’re planning a larger attack
against Muggles and want to secure a stronghold. Which doesn’t sound like them, based on how
they’ve operated before.”

“Aren’t they just trying to draw Harry out?” Tonks said.

“There are easier ways to do that. Capture any one of his friends and do some public Crucio.”

“Alastor,” Tonks warned.

“Do you think they will?” Harry said.

“They’ve always relied on ambush, like yesterday. Public torture goes against their usual methods,”
Tonks said.

“Who gives a bloody Skrewt about their usual methods?” Hermione said. “People are dying!”

“People have been dying,” Moody grunted. “That’s what happens in times like these. Happened
before, too. We can’t save everyone.”

“How can you talk like that?” Hermione said.

Lupin’s face darkened, too. “Alastor, that’s too far. The whole aim of the Order is to save people,
or haven’t you forgotten? Did you shrug and say you couldn’t save everyone about James and Lily,
too?”

“Remus, don’t start,” Tonks said. “All of you. If we turn on each other, we’re not going to do any
good for anyone.”

“I’ve been saying for weeks that I want to get moving on something. Why are we stalling?”
Hermione said.

“The problem is the sword,” Lupin said.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I can’t seem to get it out,” he mumbled. “I’ve
tried a few times. The Hat’s empty.”

“The Hat won’t answer us, either,” Moody said. “No idea why it won’t respond to him now, if it
did before.”

Harry’s shoulders hunched in. “Only a true Gryffindor can pull out the sword.”

Tonks put a hand on his back. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Harry,” she said. “This doesn’t
have anything to do with how good or true of a Gryffindor you are. The Sorting Hat is a highly
sophisticated object. We thought it responded to specific, chosen people. Clearly we’re wrong.
Maybe it can only access the sword under particular circumstances. We just don’t know.”

“The issue is that we can’t keep a Horcrux here indefinitely,” Lupin said. “Never mind two of
them. Theo’s done an excellent job warding the house, but his spells aren’t meant to contain magic
this powerful, or this dark. We’re straining the warding more by the day, and that compromises the
safety of everyone here.”

“We don’t have a good alternative,” Moody said. “Andromeda’s place doesn’t have the warding
capabilities, either. If Dumbledore were alive, parts of Hogwarts might have done the trick, but
that’s off the table now.”

“Where are you keeping them now?” Hermione said. “Are you keeping them together?”

Lupin frowned. “There are only so many places in the house safe enough to keep objects this
powerful. Why do you ask?”

“Well, besides the risk of theft, what if the Horcruxes can interact with each other?”

Tonks retched, then got up suddenly and left the room.

“Hermione’s got a point,” Ron said. “The diary talked to Ginny. Dumbledore told us himself he
hadn’t heard of someone making more than one.”
 “If they’re interlinked, who knows if there’s a way for them to strengthen each other, or
communicate information somehow?” Hermione said. “Keeping them in close proximity doesn’t
seem like a good idea to me.”

“They’ve already been stored in the same vault for an undetermined amount of time, but you make
a good case,” said Lupin. “Especially with the Death Eaters escalating attacks, I’m with you,
Hermione. I’m frustrated with intelligence gathering. It’s time for us to come to a decision.”

“There is one avenue we haven’t tried,” Moody said. “Godric’s Hollow.”

Harry perked to attention.

Moody prodded the table with his fingers, emphasizing his points. “The Potters lived there. Harry
was born there. You-Know-Who met his first end there. Gryffindor himself lived there, back in the
day. If we’re hoping for particular circumstances to let Harry get at that sword, sending him back
there seems to me like our best chance to do it. It’s not even far out from the anniversary of the
attack. Voldemort gave him that scar Halloween night.”

“You think I don’t remember that? You forget that you weren’t the only one fighting last time,
either, Alastor,” Lupin said. He stood. “I’m going to go check on my wife.”

Moody turned to the three of them when Lupin had gone. “It’s a gamble. You-Know-Who has been
drawn to important sites from his past before, and Godric’s Hollow is one of them for sure. There’s
old magic in that place that could help you, but you’ll need to be more vigilant than ever.”

“It’s up to you, mate,” Ron said, turning to Harry. “We’ll go where you go.”

“I’ve never been to see where my parents were buried,” Harry said.

Ron nodded. Harry looked at Hermione, a question in his eyes.

“How soon can we leave?” she said.

Chapter End Notes

It was especially interesting to read comments last week on what it means when war
comes home. The attack at King's Cross is the first event of the Second Wizarding
War that's my own (inasmuch as any of this can be my own, which is to say none of it,
JK et al. own all, as ever). Spells and plans don't always work the way you practice.
You can't save everyone you think you should. People who are hurt and frightened
and grieving can be as likely to turn on the outsider in their midst as to band together
against a common enemy. In other words, Draco's still got some darkness to reckon
with.
 Parting
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco sat on the bed in a state of dismay and disbelief, watching Hermione pack. “You can’t
seriously be going through with this.”

“Of course I am,” Hermione said, throwing another armful of clothes into her bag. “Why wouldn’t
I be?”

“Even Lupin and Moody have said this plan is half-baked. It’s been two days, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Two months since we first arrived,” Hermione corrected.

“You can’t possibly have figured out the arrangements you need to this fast.”

“All I've done since leaving Hogwarts is wait around, in the woods and now in here. I'm so sick of
it. I’m not staying in this blasted house quibbling over details when people are dying and we’ve
finally landed on a strategy that could work.”

“Oh, details,” Draco scoffed. “Who cares about shelter and food? Where are you staying in
Godric’s Hollow?”

“The old Potter house, most likely.”

“Brilliant thinking, there. No bloody chance the Dark Lord has any intention of showing up at his
worst enemy’s birthplace, especially if said enemy will be sitting around with only two students for
backup. He can read Potter’s fucking mind, Granger, he’ll know you’re there.”

“He hasn't read Harry's mind well enough to get our location yet.” She stopped piling toiletries in
her bag just long enough to frown in his direction. “Ron and I aren’t a pair of shrinking first-years,
either. I don’t need Moody and Lupin to hold my hand.”

Draco sneered. “Is this you trying to look like some fierce, independent type? You’ve always been
a teacher’s pet. Rushing into this is just a more reckless version of sticking your hand all the way in
the air.”

She tossed her hair dismissively, turning her back to him to load her arms with spellbooks. “You
know, I’ve heard all your arguments before, and I don’t think you’re right any more than the last
time you tried to persuade me to sit around twiddling my thumbs. There’s no reason for me to wait
around here any longer.”

Draco waited, just an instant, to see if she'd hear the words echo back and say something else. She
didn’t. His tone cooled. “No, certainly not. The timing of this mission couldn’t be better.”

“The Order needs us to go. I get that you’re upset that we’re leaving without a lot of notice, but try
and think about the greater purpose here.”

“Would you quit getting yourself off on how brave you feel for five minutes?”

Hermione squawked. “I’m not fighting a war for the rush of it, Draco.”

“You’re fighting because it’s the right thing to do, sure. We’ve all heard. You think volunteering
for something dangerous means you don't have to answer for anything else.”

Hermione set the bag down and looked at him for what felt like the first time in two days, since
she’d started ransacking her drawers and brewing new potions for the journey.

“What on earth do I need to answer for?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “We could look at the fact that you told everyone in this house to go
ahead and hate me.”

“Oh my God, Draco, seriously? You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Do they know?”

“Yes!”

“You’re that sure? People died,” Draco said. “After you came and escorted me out of the common
room. And then you told the collected assembly to hate me, and are now making plans to leave me
in your dust while you gallivant off on some shot in the dark. And you don’t see any reason why
people might come to unfavorable conclusions?”

“Listen--”

“Not to mention that you didn't bother informing me that you decided we'd be teaching again, let
alone that then you were going to leave at your earliest convenience. Is your idea for me to teach
Dark magic curses and counter charms alone? That's going to go over well.”

Hermione pushed her hair back from her face. “What do you want me to do? I don’t know if this is
some kind of subtle Slytherin way of asking to come with me and Harry and Ron--”

“I don’t want to tag along with you and Potter and Weasley,” Draco shot back. “This is not some
‘subtle Slytherin thing,’ this is an incredibly blunt and obnoxious Gryffindor thing--”

“Well, come out with it then, because I still don’t understand what you're getting at, although
you’re certainly obnoxious enough if that’s what you’re after.”

“At what point do I register on your list of people worth your consideration?” Draco yelled. “Potter
scratches his forehead and you jump, you run after Lupin and Tonks and Moody the second they
set foot here. Why do you only get around to telling me anything once you’ve already made your
decision?”

“Because that’s exactly what it is. My decision, and it’s difficult enough to go through with what I
need to do without you getting on my case on top of it.”

“Why is it so impossible for you to consider that you’re not the only person whose opinion
matters?”

“Because some things are more important than us!”

“Oh, there’s a bloody surprise. You’ve made that perfectly clear, Granger. Just when I think things
are good with us--”

“When have they not been good?” Hermione demanded. “What can I possibly have failed to do for
you? Ever since you found me in the woods, I've stuck up for you. I don't know what more you're
expecting from a girlfriend.”
His eyes flashed. “Hannah tells Theo everything. She doesn't make a move without checking how
he feels first.”

Her voice was acid and spite. “Maybe you should find someone more like Hannah, then.”

Draco held his breath. They looked at each other for a few seconds without saying anything.
Hermione took a step forward, and he pulled away.

“That didn't come out how I meant,” she said. “I don’t want to leave like this.”

“No one’s making you.”

“No. They’re not. They wouldn’t be able to make me stay, either, if I knew there was a way I
could do something worthwhile. I’m choosing it. Can’t you see that? I won’t be the same person, if
I don’t go.”

Something was spiraling down inside him, dizzying and cold. “If that’s the way you want it.”

The pack dangled in her hand. “Are you going to come see us off?”

Draco put his feet up on the bed. “I don't see why I should.”

“I think it might be time to revisit my stay here,” Draco said to Theo, on a walk in the grounds one
smoke-scented evening.

“What? No need, we’re happy to have you,” Theo said automatically.

“Hannah’s not here, Nott.”

Theo put his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, all right. Where are you thinking?”

“That’s the problem,” Draco admitted. “I haven’t exactly had a list of options to begin with, and if
things aren’t working out here of all places, I don’t know where to start looking elsewhere.”
Something caught in his chest. “I can’t go back to my parents’.”

“Gods, no. Not even remotely an option.”

“So you see how that complicates matters.”

“Complicates, but nothing’s impossible,” Theo said. “As it happens, I had noticed that it’s been--
tenser, at times, shall we say--with you around. It’s occurred to me that a change of scenery might
not be a terrible idea.”

“I didn’t realize you’d already planned my departure,” Draco said, eyeing Nott sidelong.

Theo swung his feet easily, tilting his face up to enjoy the crisp air. “I’ve been getting sick of your
face.”

Draco relaxed. “Likewise.”

“We’ve got a pretty robust range of transport options, but that depends on destination. Most people
arrive here with a pretty well-defined idea of where they’d like to go. Family, or another country.
Understandably, that’s not the case in this instance. I thought I’d poke around a bit.”
“Is there anything?”

“You’re forgetting how many people you have to vouch for you by now. I’m no Harry Potter, but
I’ve got some influence, especially among those of us who offer the help we do. Only
Andromeda’s place has been running longer than we have. Short answer: It’s a short list, but yeah,
there are a few places that will take you. How do you feel about Knockturn Alley?”

Draco frowned. “Are you thinking of having me pose as sympathetic with the Dark Lord? It
worked well enough for the Gringotts heist, but I don’t know about maintaining it long term.
Wouldn’t people wonder why I wasn’t at Malfoy Manor?”

Theo shook his head. “No, no need to bother with a cover story. Open your eyes, Malfoy. If you of
all people came around and don’t want to have anything to do with the Dark Lord, don’t you think
some of the rest of us who used to talk shit were just--talking shit, for appearances? Plenty of
Slytherins don’t want this war, either, and they need somewhere to go.”

“I thought they went back to Hogwarts.”

“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to think, yes. The reality is more complicated. Melia
Greengrass has a place near Knockturn for Slytherin students taking an ‘independent study’ term.
She still remembers when you were the Seeker who was sweethearts with her daughter for a few
months two years ago. She’ll take you in.”

A week later, after confirming that there would be a room available at Grenelaird Cottage on
Gloaming Way, and deciding on the best means of transportation, Draco and Theo loaded a pair of
the sturdier brooms and cast Concealment Charms for a night ride.

Flying from the Nott’s estate in the country to Knockturn Alley was a journey of several hours,
even for strong riders. Draco murmured an extra Warming charm against the chill and offered
silent thanks for the several months of good food and frequent broom outings with Nott that had
rebuilt the muscle and conditioning that the woods had wasted away. There was no point in
attempting to say as much to Nott. The whistling of the wind made any conversation below a shout
impossible, so they communicated only about directions and occasional stops to rest.

Draco was grateful also, although again he wouldn’t say it aloud, that Nott would spend the first
night at Grenelaird’s, too. Too fatiguing to head directly back, so they had timed the trip to
coincide with one of Ginny's more intricate smuggling operations, where Nott's presence might
prove useful. It was good to know that at least for the first few hours, Draco would have a friend
around.

Grenelaird Cottage was a gracious, modest-sized structure, large enough to host eight or ten
comfortably, Draco guessed. Or it would be, if it hadn’t been left to go to seed. The tiny garden
separating the cottage from the street was unkempt, and the paint on the waist-high gate was
flaking. The windows, elegantly faceted into diamond-shaped panes, were marred with bird
droppings, lichen, and even a few broken panes. There was a soggy pile of mail left to rot on the
front stoop.

Theo flipped the latch on the gate. “Most people are sleeping, I'd expect. Melia is away tonight, but
she said someone would sit up to let us in.”

“Are you sure you’ve got the right place?” Draco said. He hadn’t been expecting to stay in another
sprawling mansion like Nott’s, but it would have been nice to count on clean bedding and a hot cup
 of tea. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in months.”

“Of course not, bludger-brains,” Theo said. “Keep your shirt on and give me half a second.” He
traced his wand in a delicate sigil on the cobwebbed door knocker.

The world shimmered as the glamour evaporated. The overgrown thicket of a garden melted away
into a patch of trimmed grass and a row of ruffly orange flowers, and the flaking paint fell away to
reveal a neat white gate. Most welcome of all, the windows mended and polished off the grime,
and for the first time, Draco noticed the warm gleam of a lamp inside the front room.

Theo gave him a told-you-so look. “It’s a safe house, you daft wanker, not the Leaky Cauldron. Of
course they have to mask the fact that there’s people living inside. Did you honestly think I’d put
you up in some abandoned shack?”

Draco’s neck felt warm with embarrassment. The truth, humiliating as that also was, at least might
make him look less like a snot-nosed kid who’d only ever seen household magic. “That still would
have been better than where Snape left me.”

Theo sobered. They hadn’t talked in much detail about the woods, but Draco and the others had
mentioned enough in passing that Nott had probably put together a decent guess. “Okay. Well, I’m
not Snape. Come on, let’s get inside.”

Draco pushed open the door, treading softly so as not to wake the sleeping household. As
promised, though, one guest was already awake, awaiting their arrival.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said a cool voice, although the speaker couldn’t disguise a hint of
curiosity.

Draco peered into the shadowy living room, where the light of a reading lamp caught the round,
impassive face of Millicent Bulstrode.

Chapter End Notes

I realized, over the course of writing this fic, that I wanted to write a relationship, not
just the falling-in-love part of the story (I initially only saw about as far as Chapter 13,
and by the time I got there I was bursting with ideas). And that means stuff still comes
up, even if you've overcome obstacles before, and even if, in another story, you'd be
tucked firmly behind the veil of HEA.
 Godric's Hollow
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione had always thought of her life as split into two distinct worlds. There was home, with
bicycles and tape cassettes and Barbie dolls seated in a stiff-legged row on their shelf, afternoons
reading in the dentist waiting room while her parents finished work, summers at the country club
pool, the glow-in-the-dark stars she’d never gotten around to peeling off her bedroom ceiling. And
there was school, wands and magic and danger and war, dragons and giant spiders and teapots with
whiskers. Her best friends. Her first kiss. Her first time.

She’d read, of course, in A History of Magic, that many Wizarding communities lived tucked into
the margins of small towns, but the idea that the worlds could blend that much was so foreign to
her that it was difficult to keep in her head.

In Godric’s Hollow, some houses had cars parked outside. Hermione saw the lights in windows in
the evenings and noticed the subtle difference in color between electricity and magic. The
newspapers people carried were different, and it was like listening to two radio stations at once,
catching fragments of news delivered to the fuzzy chorus of a pop song.

The Potter house wasn't difficult to find. There was a sign, and even a statue of the family in front
of it. Harry was touched by the graffiti, but faltered when it came to going inside.

“Something might happen, if I’m in there,” he said. “With everything it means, for me and Vol--
You-Know-Who,” he added through gritted teeth. “I want to go in when we’re ready.”

Once they had the sword, he meant. They were expecting to meet with a contact sent by the Order,
code name Bathilda Bagshot, who was an expert in rare magical artifacts. Bathilda would examine
the Sorting Hat and see if there was a way to convince the Hat to give the Sword to Harry. Until
she arrived, the Golden Trio were staying in a boarded-over Muggle house with a much faded
“FOR SALE” sign swaying outside.

Before long, Hermione and Harry couldn’t resist the temptation to spend an evening or two on the
Muggle side of town. Harry didn’t have especially fond memories of things to do with Muggles; his
summers had never been a time for relaxation or comfort, but he was exhausted by the weight of
recognition and expectation in the Wizarding world. He liked the anonymity of being just another
ordinary kid drinking milkshakes in a booth at a diner, or throwing popcorn at the screen at a late
showing of I Know What You Did Last Summer.

Hermione missed her parents more than ever. After Mary Cattermole’s death, she had been trying
to keep hope alive that she would get to see her own mother again. It had felt big and dangerous,
casting the memory charm, but it hadn’t sunk in at the time that there was a real possibility of the
separation being final. Being around Muggles in Godric’s Hollow felt like a promise. If the
inhabitants of this small town had found a way to weave magic and Muggle life, maybe there
would come a day when she could, too.

Ron, meanwhile, was increasingly distant. Muggle money confused him. Harry and Hermione
unthinkingly slipped into a different kind of conversation in Muggle parts of town, and Ron grew
more surly at each reference to something he didn’t understand. Hermione tried explaining that
they didn’t mean to exclude him, they were just surrounded anew by the devices and songs and
shows they’d grown up taking for granted. His ignorance irritated her, though. He’d been both of
their friend for years, hadn’t he, and they were no more Muggle now than they’d ever been. Ron’s
father worked in Muggle affairs, for goodness’ sake! He’d had plenty of time to try to understand
her world, and he was so convinced that magic was the better way of life that it simply hadn’t
occurred to him to learn more about how Harry and Hermione had grown up. When he complained
that he didn’t feel like going out for a night of Muggle fun, Hermione didn't get into an argument.
She just let him stay behind.

As Halloween approached, some of the appeal of free evenings began to wear thin. They had left
Nott Manor in a hurry, true. Moody and Lupin had warned them that travel was more difficult these
days, so it might take a while for Bathilda to reach them. But the aim was to perform the magic to
destroy the Horcruxes on Halloween night, a time of high magic in any case and especially potent
because of the power of the anniversary. Bathilda was cutting it close.

The fun of the evening was already fading by the time Hermione slipped inside the house, casting
an Alohomora-proof locking charm behind her. She and Harry had had a good time, but they’d
missed the usual bus and had to take one on a different route, which let off half a mile further away
from the abandoned house where Ron was waiting, growing increasingly ill-tempered. Hermione
thought she saw someone in a cloak taking too many glances at her and Harry, although they were
dressed in Muggle clothing and shouldn’t have drawn attention. It unnerved her, and she had sore
feet, and a taste of artificial butter coating the roof of her mouth.

“The Order didn’t mean for you two to go faffing about watching the latest ‘flip,’” Ron grumbled.

“It’s a ‘flick,’ Ron, and no one even calls it that anyway. It’s just a movie,” Hermione said.

“Whatever it’s called,” Ron said. “You’re spending all our money on a load of crap, and I don’t
even get a share.”

“No one stopped you from coming. Besides, excuse me for not realizing you’d planned to pop
round to the shops. We’ve got money in the kitty for groceries.”

“Bunch of bloody sandwiches, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

Hermione put a hand on her hip. “Again. Not my fault or Harry’s if you don’t want to come out.”

“Keep your greasy Muggle food.”

“It was just a bit of fun, mate,” Harry said. “Go easy on Hermione, will you?”

Ron got up and began to pace. The wood floor squeaked under his footfalls. There was running
water in the house, but no electricity, so the only lights in the room were his wand’s Lumos glow
and the pale light from a streetlamp that came through the bare window. Hermione watched his
shadow swing back and forth across the room.

“I came out here because we’re supposed to find the sword and destroy these blasted things,” he
said, kicking at the sack that held the Horcruxes. “Not to play babysitter while you two get nice
and cozy pretending to be Muggles. I’m beginning to think you don’t even want to bother with your
parents’ house at all. I think the Order gave you an opening to get away, and you took it.”

Harry shot up. “You take that back!”

“I don’t think I will. We came barreling out here because you and Hermione couldn’t wait to leave.
I thought that meant we’d be doing something, not sitting around. First the woods, and now this. I
could’ve been at the Burrow getting some decent grub and seeing my family instead of sleeping on
a cold floor for weeks while you work up your nerve.”

“Ron, that’s enough!” Hermione gasped.

“I’m not brave enough, am I?” Harry shouted. “I’ll show you.” He grabbed his coat and charged
out the door, leaving it banging open behind him.

“Look what you’ve done,” Hermione snapped, and hurried to follow Harry.

After a moment, Hermione looked behind her and saw Ron trailing behind them both, the sack
with the Horcruxes in it swinging from one hand. Harry was marching in the direction of the Potter
house. He hadn’t looked back to see if either of them was coming.

At the house, Harry hesitated at the door only for a second before pointing his wand at the knob
with a sharp incantation. Then he stepped inside.

The house was dark, with all the chill of a late October night on the inside as well. Harry was
standing very still in the entryway when Hermione crossed the threshold to join him. He was
looking at a staircase.

“That’s where he died,” he said. “Just there. Look. He would have been standing on the landing.”

Hermione looked. It seemed to her that she could almost see, like the afterimage of a flash of light,
a dark-haired man who was at once frightened and so impossibly brave, spectacles askew, feet
planted strong.

Harry scanned the house, taking in the wedding portrait in the hallway and the faded furniture in
the small parlor. “My room was upstairs,” he whispered.

Hermione knew he couldn’t remember anything of this place. Except hadn’t he told her and Ron
that he heard his parents’ voices, when he’d fainted from the Dementors? Maybe some lost part of
him remembered, dimly, pulling himself up to stand by the overstuffed sofa in the parlor or smiling
at his reflection when his mother held him up to the mirror. She shivered.

Harry was moving to the stairs. “We have to go up there.”

Hermione didn’t want to, but he was already climbing. She followed. Below, she heard Ron enter
the house. He caught up with them upstairs, as Harry paused, breath coming shallow, looking at a
door that stood ajar.

The room looked out at the street. The first thing Hermione saw was the light of the streetlamp
shining in. The second thing she saw, on the floor, was the shadow of the bars of a crib.

“Oh God,” she said. The thought that it was still here, too, was almost more than she could stand.

“Listen, you don’t have to--” said Ron.

Harry stepped inside.

The crib even had a little mobile hanging over it. No electric cord, of course. A charm would have
made the little lambs turn gently over his face. There was a changing table. Hermione had a sick
feeling that if she opened the drawers, there might still be nappies folded neatly inside. There was a
rocking chair.
Harry’s head turned slowly from one thing in the room to the next.

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to look and see another afterimage, feeling like
someone was walking over her grave. So she turned to Ron and hissed through her teeth.

“How could you be so bloody selfish?”

“I’m selfish?” Ron whispered back. “I thought you had an actual plan.”

“Guys, there’s someone outside,” Harry said.

Hermione and Ron hurried to the window. An old woman was standing alone outside the Potter
house. Her shoulders were so stooped that her head seemed to balance precariously on top; it was
hard to tell from here whether she was reading the plaque on the door or peering up at them.

“What is she doing?” Hermione said.

“Do you reckon it’s Bathilda?” Harry said. “We told the Order we’d be staying here.”

“Halloween is tomorrow night,” Ron said. “What took her so long?”

“We don’t know if it’s her. She could be anyone,” Hermione said.

“I’m going to go see what she wants,” Harry said.

There was something odd about the woman standing in the street below. Hermione couldn’t put her
finger on it. Maybe the layers of clothing and the ratty shawl she wore made her look somewhat
misshapen. Hermione tore herself away from the window to catch up with Harry, concealing her
wand in her sleeve as she went.

Harry pushed the door open a few inches, and the woman hobbled forward.

“Are you Bathilda?” he asked.

The woman nodded and beckoned to him. She shuffled a few feet away, turned to see if he was
following, and beckoned again.

“This is weird, Harry,” Hermione whispered.

“Halloween’s tomorrow,” Harry said. “We need to get this done. Come on, it’s three to one and
she’s tiny, I think we can handle her if she tries anything funny.” He nodded at her to lead them,
and she began to shuffle again down the dark street.

“This is mental,” Ron grumbled under his breath, as they trailed behind Harry and the old woman.

“Oh, I’m so sorry that this hasn’t turned out the way you’d hoped,” Hermione whispered.

“It hasn’t, thank you so much for asking,” Ron said. “I never thought I’d see the day that you of all
people slack off, but here we are.”

“And what exactly are you accomplishing by sitting alone in the house? We check Order message-
posts while we’re out.”

“Those are in all those restaurants and such, are they?”

“Don’t try to make me feel guilty just because I haven’t chosen to be miserable every second.
We’re all having a hard time, and there’s no point in making it worse than it already has to be.”

“That’s all very well for you to say, but I left my sister to come out and destroy these things!”

“I left Draco!” Hermione whisper-shouted back.

“That’s completely different, and you bloody well know it. I haven’t seen my family--”

“I cursed my family,” Hermione hissed.

Ron stopped walking. “You what?”

The tears were coming on their own, streaking hot lines down her face. “I Obliviated my family, to
keep them safe, and keep them from having to wonder what happened to me, if I never came back.
Harry didn’t get to know his family at all, and I’ve lost mine, and you won’t shut up flaunting
yours, when you’re the only one of us who hasn’t lost a bloody thing!” She could hit him, for
gaping at her like that. “Just--fuck you.”

“She says it’s this way, come on! In here!” Harry called. He and the woman were just up ahead,
standing before a shack.

It smelled bad, inside. Bathilda hobbled deeper into the house, lighting sputtering candles.
Hermione wrinkled her nose. Dank and musty, dry rot, and beneath it something worse. Something
rancid. Something had gone off in the kitchen, maybe.

“Let me give you a hand,” Harry said, and disappeared after Bathilda.

Ron sighed loudly. Hermione wondered if he was going to apologize. Then she wondered if the
silence was intended to give her time to apologize, and she decided that if he wanted to go and tell
her he was sorry right now, she didn’t want to hear it.

“Hermione,” Ron said.

“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione said.

He stiffened. “Fine, then.” Then he jumped. “What the hell?”

“What?”

Ron held up the bag with the locket and cup inside. “Something just moved in there!” he yelped. “I
felt it!”

“We need to get Harry,” Hermione said. She’d lost him somewhere inside the house, she realized,
and it occurred to her that this could be a serious mistake.

“Harry?” she called.

There was a rickety staircase that had unfolded from a trapdoor, in the rear of the shack. Hermione
heard a rustle from above, and then the sound of glass breaking.

“He’s coming! Hermione, he’s coming!” Harry screamed.

Hermione sprinted up the staircase, Ron only half a step behind, and she nearly tripped over a
shapeless mass of clothing at the top. Her foot hit something sickeningly solid in the rags, and
through the gloom Hermione looked in horror at the boneless body of Bathilda Bagshot, crumpled
on the ground.
 Ron’s wordless shout made her look up again, and she didn’t even have time to scream. Her vision
was filled with the yawning, needle-fanged mouth of an enormous snake.

Chapter End Notes

SNAKE!!! Don't mind me, just brushing up on my cliffhanger game. I read this book
on writing, where the author was like, "My editor could immediately tell I was a short
story author, because I wanted to end every chapter on some thoughtful or poignant
conclusion, instead of giving the reader reason to press forward to the next chapter,
and I needed to completely relearn how to write in order to produce a successful
novel," and I felt maybe, slightly attacked. Kind of wild how differently you have to
think about structure, even within fiction, depending on what form you choose.

Harry and Hermione go alone at Christmastime in canon, of course, so I am playing

with cast and timeline -- and adjusting some events that happen, because why stop
short at that point?

I have to say, it feels strange to post on a Thursday, but seeing as how we are getting
on a plane tonight and won't get to the country we intend to see until tomorrow
evening, I doubt I'll be able to manage a Friday post, and I feel better about being a
day early than a day late. Wishing a wonderful weekend to everyone, and doubly so
for anyone whose baby is also going through a nasty sleep regression!
 The Den
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The Slytherins staying at Grenelaird Cottage never called it by its actual name, referring to it
instead, half-affectionately and half-sardonically, as the Den.

“Unfashionably on the nose, perhaps,” Daphne Greengrass allowed, “But what else do you call a
home for a group of snakes?”

The first day Draco stayed at the Den, after Theo left, he found himself in the parlor, surrounded
by faces that hid their true feelings behind carefully composed expressions of mild interest or
laconic neutrality. Besides Daphne and Millicent, Blaise Zabini was there, along with Terence
Higgs, who had graduated a year above the rest of them.

“Well,” Daphne said after a minute. “Don't be all day about it, Malfoy. Explain yourself.”

Draco’s eyes flitted from face to face. He didn’t trust the quality of the silence. If they turned
against him here, he really didn’t know where he could go.

Maybe it was the weeks spent with three raging Gryffindors as his primary company, but he found
himself reaching for simple truth.

“I may have the Mark, but I was trapped into my mission last year. I don’t want anything more to
do with the Dark Lord. If you don’t believe I’m not a Death Eater, I don’t blame you, but it’s true.”

“Don’t be stupid, Malfoy, of course we know that,” Blaise scoffed. “Clearly you’re not a Death
Eater.”

“How are you that sure?” Draco said.

“Because you’re here,” Millicent said. “If the rumors about you were true, you wouldn’t be. It’s
more than obvious that most people are spreading false information. I’d heard you died.”

“I heard your parents rushed you abroad, to take the summer session at Durmstrang,” said Blaise.

“It was Romania, I thought. Is it true you set a dragon to attack Gringotts?” Terence said.

“Why would he attack Gringotts?” Blaise said. “Do you listen to yourself when you speak, Higgs?
That’s completely inane.”

“A dozen witnesses saw him, clear as day, leading a dragon!”

“What could he possibly stand to gain from that plan, though?”

“I heard you were seen in company with Potter himself, although that I find rather hard to believe,”
interrupted Daphne.

“Not that hard,” Millicent said thoughtfully. “Potter’s usually not far from Hermione Granger.”

“The Mudblood?” said Blaise.

“Don’t call her that,” Draco said quietly.

Blaise put a finger to his jaw. “That’s interesting.”

Draco felt a flicker of irritation. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn’t been quite so careful to
cover his tracks last year. “Yes, all right, we’ll put everything out in the open today. I care about
Granger--”

“You still care about Granger,” Millicent corrected.

“You’re a little sneak, but we have eyes,” Blaise said. “You let Theo catch the two of you in broad
daylight. Obviously we knew. I would have expected you’d long since fallen out. She’s--the
principled sort, isn’t she? Whereas your reputation has been somewhat more sordid.”

“Depends when he got the Mark,” Millicent asked. “Perhaps she’s more understanding than I
might have guessed. So why aren’t you with her now?”

“Never mind that,” Draco said. “Why are you here? I’d heard you left the country.”

“Who told you that?”

“Nott.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose he would,” Millicent said. “I came back.”

“Really.”

“Shut up.” She paused, looking at the ceiling as she chose her words. “The New Order took control
of Gringotts,” she said after a moment. “That means there’s no way of ensuring that money
transfers aren’t being monitored, especially when they’re being sent abroad. Death Eaters have
been known to hunt down families they’re interested in, for whatever reason, so providing a trail to
track is counterproductive. We were not able to continue staying where we were without additional
income, so my parents thought it best that they be on the move. It’s easier to do this
unencumbered.”

Millicent’s parents would have to go through another Wizarding bank to do an international funds
request to access their vault from abroad. That wouldn’t be difficult to trace for Death Eaters who’d
infiltrated Gringotts or bribed the right goblin. It was already risky to be so bold as to flee the
country when war broke out. Other Pureblood families, like the Abbotts, who stayed put, might not
attract the Dark Lord’s attention. Running made it look like the Bulstrodes had something to hide,
and if magical traces led to, say, a Muggle family sheltering them…

“Are they all right?” Draco asked. “Your family?”

“I don’t hear from my parents often, as you may imagine,” Millicent said. “As far as I’ve heard,
my family is well, thank you.”

“But you have seen Harry Potter, then?” Daphne said. “That part’s true?”

Other heads lifted a fraction.

“Yes,” Draco said, and he thought he could detect a general release of breath.

“Does he have a plan?” Daphne said.

Blaise sat straighter. “We thought we’d hear something by now. The Order of the Phoenix has
claimed responsibility for a couple of things. Nothing impressive. You-Know-Who has the
Ministry of Magic, Azkaban, the Prophet, now King’s Cross. The Order has, I think, the Quibbler?
The Weasley twins’ joke shop is known to trade in news and black market items, although they are
spectacular at covering their tracks. Four raids, and the Death Eaters haven’t turned up so much as
a faulty whizzbang.”

“The rumor is the Death Eaters are conscripting students at Hogwarts,” Millicent said. “Starting
with the Slytherins. There’s two new DADA teachers, both Death Eaters. The Potions professor,
too.”

“Is Snape not back at Hogwarts?” Draco asked.

“No, no one really knows where he is. The Death Eaters have been changing Hogwarts classes,
though. Ministry orders say no more Muggle studies--”

“They killed Professor Burbage,” Daphne cut in.

“--and they’ve added Dueling in its place.”

“Which means it’s a straight Dark Arts class,” Blaise said. “They just won’t admit it yet, not until
they have the school outright.”

“Has the Order really raised an army, then?” asked Daphne. “What’s Potter even doing?”

Draco thought of Hermione, lost in her own world, lips moving as she checked the contents of her
bag against a mental list. “I don’t know.”

It ate at him, even as he enjoyed the sensation of entering a room without seeing anyone
immediately leave it, and being looped in easily to conversations or activities. At the end of the
day, he went to sleep alone, and he didn’t like it. He missed talking with her. She knew so many
things about him that were far too complicated and private to tell other people here, so when he
was with her, he could say a couple words and have her understand perfectly what he meant. He
missed her restlessness. He thought, sometimes, about her kissing him after the Gringotts break-in,
and the pride in her face.

He'd been happier to keep a low profile at Nott's, but he’d also been recovering from near
starvation, and attacked if he showed his face at the wrong moment. Things were different here.
Card games with the Slytherins, even if he appreciated being dealt in without asking, got boring.

“What else is there to do around here, anyway?” Draco said, another day.

Blaise was draped over an armchair, one leg dangling over the side. He shrugged. “It’s quiet. My
mother’s left home. She’s traveling between a few friends’ houses, so I Floo in where she is from
time to time.”

“There’s a potions lab in the house,” Millicent said. “I practice a bit.”

“Mum wants us to act as though we’re at Hogwarts, as much as we can,” Daphne said. “It’s no
castle, here, but we have a respectable library. We wouldn’t have gone farther than Hogsmeade if
we were at Hogwarts anyway, and even if there’s not a lot of people around, you only associate
with so many others. It’s smaller, here, but you have to make do.”

“Bollocks,” Draco said.

“It’s a safe house, Malfoy. So what if it’s not especially exciting?” Terence said.

“I’ve had about enough of this,” Draco said. “Nott’s place got small enough, given enough time. I
hardly intend to piss around the same three rooms in here forever. I’m going out. Who’s coming
with?”

“Be serious, Malfoy,” Blaise said. “You of all people can’t go strolling down Diagon Alley.”

“Who said anything about Diagon? Knockturn, maybe.” He looked around the room. “Mill? You
in?”

She cocked her head. “Don’t you think people will recognize you?”

“So disguise me.”

“Hm.” She looked at a small cauldron, which was giving off a rather noxious odor, then at the
window. “Yeah, all right. Come here, then.”

Daphne perked up. “I want to see this.”

They tried a few things. Facial enchantments were difficult to make look natural, but hair was easy.

“All that blond is really what people remember, anyway,” Daphne said. “And that lip. Don’t make
that face, or you’ll give yourself away.”

Millicent frowned in concentration as she worked with her wand. She pulled back to look at the
results. And put her hand over her mouth.

“What?” Draco said.

“Daphne, show him,” Millicent said.

Daphne produced a mirror.

There were curls. Big, tousled, fraying sort of curls, in a mousy brown. There was a prickly hint of
a moustache and a very patchy spattering of beard.

“Oh, for Salazar’s sake,” Draco said. He pushed a hand through his hair, barely even managing
that. He wasn’t even sure where to begin looking for a place to part it, and a particularly perky curl
right by his temple sprang back exuberantly when he tried to push it down.

“Boing,” Daphne whispered.

Millicent made a sort of choking sound, and then before Draco knew it both girls were practically
in tears, holding each other’s shoulders.

“It’s not that funny,” he said.

“This is all your fault,” he said, to Millicent, accusingly, which didn’t improve matters at all.

Finally, Millicent took a sharp breath, let out a decisive hmph, and composed herself.

“That should do for you, then. We’ll just color my hair, I think, and style it differently.”

“We can try some different makeup,” Daphne said.

“Yes, that’s a good idea.”

Daphne found some students’ robes in a chest upstairs for them. Even though term was in session,
she explained, plain black robes were the best way to avoid too much attention. Locals were used
to students passing through to purchase additional school supplies, or spend a weekend at home
visiting family.

Daphne knew too many people living nearby to venture out of the Den often, so Draco and
Millicent went to Knockturn Alley on their own.

Draco steered them in a wide berth from Borgin & Burkes. Most other shops, however, provided a
welcome source of entertainment. Noggin and Bonce was always worth a quick poke about.
Hermione might have laughed if she saw him put his chin on the shelf by the shrunken heads in
their jars and twist his face into a rictus. Millicent, he wasn’t so sure. In Hogwarts days, he would
have done it anyway. Here, it wasn’t worth pissing off whatever friends he had, so he merely poked
her to make sure she saw the ugliest one before they left the shop.

Shyverwretch’s Venoms and Poisons had a surprisingly good ice cream parlor in the back, if you
were brave enough to pick up a spoon after the witch behind the counter grabbed a flask apparently
at random and poured a concoction over your bowl. (The deep red, sticky liquid with odd little
chunks in it turned out to be strawberry balsamic syrup.)

Millicent was more dedicated in her pursuit of potions than she’d indicated, so she wanted to spend
much of the time perusing Mulpepper’s Apothecary.

It was fun, overall. Not as much fun as hanging out with some other people could be. Millicent
liked to keep herself to herself; she didn’t spark off of him the way Granger did. Still, she waited
up to see if he was ready before leaving one shop for the next one, and right now Draco was
prepared to accept this as a significant stripe on the pros column.

They went out a couple times, listening in on conversations and buying ingredients for Millicent.
She wanted to be a Healer. Without NEWT scores to rely on, an impressive repertoire of potions
could make her a favorable prospect for an apprenticeship.

Mulpepper recognized her by now, under a different name, of course. He shook his head curtly at
her question.

“I understand it’s a rare ingredient,” Millicent said, somewhat affronted. “I didn’t intend to insult
your shop.”

“It’s not you, girl, it’s the blasted trade that’s got me irritated,” Mulpepper said. “All this messy
business around here is bad enough, but now half my best sources are getting jumpy, and that hurts
my livelihood. If some folk want to stand up for purity, that’s all well and good, but don’t get in
the way of respectable wizards and witches earning a few coins. Or learning a good trade,” he said,
nodding at Millicent.

Draco kept an eye on them. The apothecary clearly took Millicent for a Pureblood girl. Which,
officially speaking of course, she was. Draco wondered what Hermione would say, if she were
here. Millicent didn’t change her expression.

“I’ll try another time,” she said.

“Don’t bother, I doubt I’m likely to see anything rarer than Gillyweed for a good while yet.”
Mulpepper leaned in then, and lowered his voice. “Listen. You’re a smart girl. Stop by the White
Wyvern sometime, see if you spot a man by the name of Slughorn. Some say he comes across the
odd curio, from time to time. His prices are bad--I’d have to mark it up to make it worth my while
to get it for you, and you come by often enough, there’s no sense in gouging you.”

Millicent paid for the intoxicating hareslip she’d laid on the counter and tucked the wax paper
packet into her purse. “I find myself thirsty sometimes.”

“I bet you do.”

“You do it,” Millicent said, in the White Wyvern.

“It’s your errand. You go talk to him,” Draco said.

“I don’t want to.”

“What, are you scared?”

Millicent was perched on a barstool, knees and feet pressed together. “There are rumors
everywhere. I’m not supposed to be in the country.”

“He’s not going to recognize you. The old coot only has eyes for people who make it into his
precious club.”

Millicent sipped at the foam on her drink.

“Fine,” Draco said. “Goblin’s balls, if you’re going to be difficult about it. Stay nearby so I can
wave you in.”

Slughorn was at a table by himself, although every so often someone approached to shake his hand
or offer him a drink, and there would be a brief conversation. Draco slipped over and put his
fingertips on the table.

“Professor Slughorn? Sir?” Draco said, playing up the obsequious note in his voice. “What a treat
to see you here, if I may say so.”

“Eh? Well, yes, very good to see you, too, er--”

“Brax, sir, Brax Flume?” Draco said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t remember me. I attended one of your
wonderful parties at Hogwarts, last year. I’m a friend of Blaise Zabini’s?” he added, when
Slughorn still looked doubtful.

“Oh, yes! Mr. Zabini’s mother is an extraordinary beauty indeed, and quite an unusual character.
And--Flume, did you say? You aren’t by chance related to Ambrosius Flume?”

“My great-uncle,” Draco said.

“Splendid! He consulted me before opening the doors of Honeydukes, you know. A good head for
business, Ambrosius. Good potioneer, too. Ingenious, to use his talents for confectionary. I’m sorry
I didn’t recognize you, my boy, but I believe I do remember you, now that I see you again,"
Slughorn said. He peered closer at Draco.

Draco was mostly convinced Slughorn was bluffing to be polite, and avoid the risk of offending
Ambrosius, but he didn’t entirely like how closely Slughorn was examining his face. He had made
something of a scene at the Christmas party. It wouldn’t do to be recognized, so he took Millicent’s
arm. “I was passing by with my good friend--”

“Millie Bobbin,” Millicent cut in smoothly.

Slughorn pressed her hand in both of his. He looked for a moment as though he might kiss it, but
something in Millicent’s face seemed to convince him otherwise. “Charming! You make a--hm--a
fascinating couple.”

Millicent pulled her hand back. “My friend Brax,” she said icily, “told me you were one of the
most astute professors he’s had. I had a few questions, about certain qualities of powdered dragon
gizzard. If you would be so kind as to spare a few minutes of your time for a brief lesson on the
subject?”

Slughorn’s eye was roaming to the bar. “I’m not teaching this year,” he said absently.

Millicent sighed and nudged a hand into her pocket. “What a shame. They do say wisdom is worth
more than gold,” she said, with a faint clink.

“Ah! Yes, of course. Well, as they say, learning is a lifelong adventure, and a teacher must always
do his duty for a dedicated student,” Slughorn said. “Come, my dear, I think there’s a quiet table
back this way.”

Draco found a table that looked like it may have received a cursory swipe with a dishrag, and
waited. Not long after, Millicent appeared, looking satisfied.

“He really does have access to just about anything,” she said. “He has a whole case of things in a
back room. I can’t imagine how much he must be paying off the owners here. He must be raking
the Galleons in.”

“Well, you’re very welcome, happy to facilitate deals that have nothing to do with me anytime you
don’t feel up to making your own introductions,” he drawled. Then he offered her one of his more
rakish grins, draping his arm over the back of the banquet where he was sitting. “I thought you
were going to bite Slughorn’s nose off for calling us a couple. Am I not handsome enough for
you?”

Millicent sniffed. “You’re pretty,” she said. “I’m sure there are girls who go in for that sort of
thing.”

“I’ll have you know they do, in fact,” Draco said. “This had better be a use of ‘pretty’ that is meant
to convey unerring masculine poise and confidence--”

“I could break you over my knee,” Millicent said. “Although that, too, I will happily leave to
Hermione Granger.”

That night, Draco took a small radio back to his room and muttered the Potterwatch password
under his breath. He’d kept up with the broadcasts, since the woods. Possibly others here listened,
too, but it seemed smarter to listen privately until he knew for sure.

It wasn’t a particularly long broadcast. Sometimes one thing was big enough to push almost any
other piece of information aside. Draco could barely concentrate on anything that the
correspondents said after the first sentence of River’s report.

“Hogwarts is now openly under the control of the New Order of Magic, more commonly known as
the Death Eaters.”
Chapter End Notes

I know one of the more common standards for Draco is Slytherin Sex God, and it's
true that he's certainly, canonically, good-looking, both in book and movie depictions.
But. At the same time, I have to admit that while I've long held strong and complicated
feelings about the character, I've never really crushed over Draco Malfoy physically?
The slick, calculated-charming thing always makes me more uneasy in a guy than
intrigued. So I thought, why not roll with a universe where Hermione is super into
what Draco's bringing to the table (er...bedroom? Tbh, probably table as well), but
Ginny and Millicent are like...we'll pass, thanks.
 Horcruxes
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The snake clamped down on Hermione’s outflung arm, fangs slicing easily through her. The
muscularity of the animal was overwhelming. Hermione could feel the force of the lashing coils
reverberating through her arm. Below that, the burning, then deadening, sensation of venom
seeping into her. She was screaming.

Ron’s misaimed hex shattered a window, but the next one struck the snake, and it released
Hermione and whipped in another direction. A thick coil knocked Hermione aside. She stumbled
into a wall, and Harry was ghost-white, mouth open wide, harsh hissing sounds coming from his
mouth.

Hermione’s first impulse was to try and launch herself toward Harry. It was impossible. The snake
seemed to fill the room. It thrashed as though the creature was panicking, and perhaps it was, torn
between competing instructions from instinct and magic. When Hermione tried to take a step, the
jolt of her footstep and the motion of her arm made the pain surge. She gripped her arm with her
good hand, squeezing it above the elbow to keep the venom from spreading more quickly.
Meanwhile, the snake closed in on Harry, curling around him. Hermione’s arm was numb, but she
scrambled behind Ron to pick up her wand from where it had fallen and point it at the snake.

“Confringo!” she yelled.

The spell unwrapped the snake from around Harry’s legs and yanked it into the air, smacking it
hard against the ceiling. This time Ron caught the tip of its tail to the face and staggered backward,
falling hard inches away from the trapdoor opening. The snake writhed as it fell. It was facing
Hermione again, and she threw up an arm to protect herself, knowing it would be useless, but the
creature twisted away and poured itself through the window.

The snake’s tail brushed against the bag Ron had carried, dragging it a short distance across the
floor. The locket and cup fell out. At the sound of metal grating on wood, Harry’s neck twitched
toward the sound, fast as a serpent himself.

His eyes were fixed. He opened his mouth again. Hermione couldn’t understand the rasping noise
he made, but it sounded depraved. She was flooded with a sick feeling that she couldn’t bear it if
his head turned now, and he looked at her, while he was like this.

The latch sounded with a tiny click, and the locket opened. Hermione saw dark, lasciviously
handsome eyes inside, and then eerie light blasted out, and the voice pulsated through her.

“I have seen your heart, Ronald Weasley, and it is mine.” The voice came from the locket, but also
from all around them, an evil wind.

“Least loved, always. Failure from birth, unwanted son, poor shadow to your friends...The easiest
to forget. The easiest to cast aside.”

The strange light was coalescing now, blobbing into three parts that gradually became recognizable
as people. A girl, between two boys, one dark and one fair.

It was her, and it wasn’t her. The locket-Hermione was sleek and sinuous, more beautiful than she
knew herself to be and more terrible. Her throat gleamed. A prouder, stronger locket-Harry stood
close by her on one side. The locket-Draco held himself with refined hauteur, his arm draped over
the locket-Hermione’s shoulders, elegant fingertips almost grazing the perfect curve of her breast.

“We are greater without you,” they said.

Hermione saw, hazily, that the perverse look was gone from Harry’s face, but he seemed frozen in
the locket’s thrall, forced to watch as the new trio spoke to Ron.

“Bumbling idiot. Tiresome, hapless dolt. How could you believe you deserved to be one of us?
When your back was turned, we laughed at your presumption, your stupidity, your cowardice.”

“What use do I have for you?” the locket-Hermione asked. “I have the Chosen One, and the man I
love. What have you done, compared to the Boy Who Lived? What good are you now that I’ve
given myself to another? We are complete without you.”

“Our friendship was an accident, a chance meeting on a train car,” locket-Harry said. “You were
a child’s playmate, but we’re not children anymore. When will you understand?”

“You are nothing,” the locket-Draco said. “You came from nothing. You have always been
nothing, and you’ve always known it. They were always going to leave you behind.”

“It’s not true.” Hermione’s voice was tremulous. Not loud enough. Anger clouded Ron’s face. He
jerked his head slightly, like he was listening to other voices that Hermione couldn’t hear.

She needed to force his attention away from the commanding stare of the trio. The sack he’d
carried was in her reach. Hermione pulled the Sorting Hat out and threw it at Ron’s face.

Ron flinched and caught the Hat as it fell. Then he looked down in surprise, and Hermione seized
her chance while the link between him and the locket was weakened.

“It put you in Gryffindor, Ron. You can’t be a coward! Chivalry, and daring, and friendship--that’s
what it saw in you. What we see. That’s what you still are to us.”

Ron looked at Hermione, and for a moment, a spasm of pure hatred crossed his face. His hand
closed into a fist. Then he looked startled and more like himself again. He moved his hand, and
there was a gleam of metal. The locket-Trio’s eyes were glowing scarlet, and there was scarlet in
Ron’s hand, too, rubies glinting in the hilt of a sword.

Harry lunged at the sword, and the Trio were shouting incomprehensible things. Helga’s cup, on
the floor beside the locket, was filling over and over again with blood that poured over the floor,
making the boys slip as they scrabbled for control of the sword.

“Stab it, Ron, stab it!” Hermione’s head was pounding the same rhythm as her arm, and when the
sword flashed through the air she wasn’t sure which direction it was going. She cringed. There was
a crash of metal and a long shriek.

Then the Trio disappeared. There was only Ron, standing there looking at a shattered locket, and a
broken cup, and a pale Harry sprawled at his feet.

Hermione tried to get to her feet and couldn’t. She tried to focus her eyes on her wounded arm. The
gashes were two scarlet eyes looking back at her, weeping.

Ron slung Harry’s arm across his shoulders and reached for Hermione’s hand.

“Dit,” she mumbled. She had to concentrate on lifting the weight of her tongue. “Dinny. Did any.”
She didn’t remember more after that.

Hermione woke up somewhere warm. She shifted, setting off throbbing aches in her arm and head.
She groaned.

She heard, “She’s awake,” and then Ron and Harry's faces appeared.

“What time is it?” Hermione mumbled.

“About nine at night. You've been sleeping nearly a whole day,” Ron said.

“Do you think you can sit up? How's your arm?” Harry said.

Hermione looked. It was wrapped tight. “Did you put dittany on it?”

“Awake for thirty seconds and already ready to tell us what to do, are you?” Ron said. “Yes, I put
dittany on it.”

“Harry, you're all right?”

“Yeah. Ron said I was out for a while, too, but I felt fine this morning. We've been keeping an eye
on you all day. You had us worried.”

“We made tea,” Ron said.

Hermione sat up. She felt woozy. “What happened?” She wasn’t in her sleeping bag. It was a
proper bed, with sheets covered in tiny flowers. “Where are we?”

“You and Harry were in bad shape, after everything that happened. I didn’t feel right taking you
back where we were staying. I saw the Muggles who live in this place loading up their car a couple
days ago. It looked like they packed enough that they won’t be back for a while.”

“Normally I’d say you shouldn’t break into other people’s homes,” Hermione said, feeling the
reassuring weight of the comforter on her. “Given present circumstances, though.”

“You did good, mate,” Harry said.

Ron looked at his hands. “It’s really the least I could do,” he said. “I haven’t been the best
company.”

“Who gives a bent Sickle what kind of company you’ve been?” Harry said. “You pulled through
when it mattered.”

Ron still looked unsure. “The things it was saying. The locket, I mean. It was like it was
underneath my skin. I could see myself--doing things? It felt like they would be right. The locket
wanted me to. I almost listened to it.” He shivered. “I was thinking, since you’re both all right now,
maybe I ought to go, so nothing like that happens again.”

“Have you gone completely barking?” Harry said. “Whatever the locket said to you, you know it
was all a lie.”

Something tightened in Hermione’s stomach. It wasn’t all a lie. She knew it by the look in Ron’s
face. And in what she’d thought, while the terrible, beautiful locket-Trio spoke.
“It’s destroyed, anyway,” Harry continued. “It doesn’t matter, anything it said. It’s always going to
be the three of us.”

“Four,” Hermione said. “It has to be the four of us now. Don’t you see? The locket spotted the
weakness. It was lying, obviously, but it wasn’t completely wrong.”

“Of course it was,” Harry started.

“You talk to Malfoy sometimes,” Ron cut in.

Harry broke off, startled.

“You think I didn’t know?” Ron said. “You had your special lessons together, with Lupin. You
invited him to hang out. Even if it’s just those couple times, you never did that before. And
Hermione’s always going off to see him.”

“That’s not how he sees it,” Hermione said. “Draco’s always saying I’m off with the two of you all
the time.”

“That’s not true,” Ron said.

Hermione hugged her legs to her chest. “There’s the old Trio, us three, and there’s me and Draco
against the pair of you as best friends, and maybe there’s times when Harry and Draco and I click
in a way you’re not part of. That doesn't mean any of those smaller groups are the real one. We
need to be able to trust that all four of us matter. That’s what the locket was going after, last night.
If someone gets shut out, it means any of us could, and it’ll break us all apart.”

Draco could have seen almost exactly the same vision Ron had, she knew. He’d see her with her
best friends, putting them first without thinking about it, the way he’d longed for someone to do
for him. The way he’d expected her to, and been hurt and disappointed when he found himself on
the outside again.

“We'd have died without you, Ron. You can’t deny that,” Harry said.

Ron looked over his shoulder, where the Sword of Gryffindor was resting on a dresser amid
tangled necklaces and several dusty perfume bottles. “I did get the Sword, didn’t I? The Hat saw
something in me after all.”

“Of course it did. Bloody hero, you are,” Harry said.

“I made a mistake,” Hermione said. “I shouldn't have left Draco the way that I did.”

Lupin was expecting them to meet him at the old Black house at Grimmauld Place. Even
destroyed, the remnants of the Horcruxes might be dangerous for having been imbued with Dark
magic for so long.

“I need to go back first and see him,” Hermione said.

It took days before they were ready to leave. Hermione needed time to recover. The snakebite
wounds didn’t heal well. They resisted most of the magic in dittany, oozing and scabbing and
breaking open again. When she was on her feet enough for Apparation, Harry wanted the three of
them to visit his parents’ gravesite together. Hermione thought the triangle symbol scrawled on the
Potters’ headstone was meant to represent the slitted eye of a snake. Then she saw it again on
another stone on their way out of the cemetery, and the memory clicked of seeing it doodled in the
margins of her book. It troubled her.
 Maybe it was because she was still thinking about it when they Apparated back into Nott Manor,
or it could have been her weakened state, but at first she couldn't place what felt so wrong about
the wine cellar.

She blinked. Her eyes stung. There was an acrid, bitter smell and a strange, hazy quality to the
light.

Which didn’t make sense. The cellar was normally pitch dark until you cast a Lumos. Hermione
looked up to the spiral staircase.

The cellar door that Theo guarded so carefully stood ajar.

Chapter End Notes

Cliffy resolution, at long last! Sorry for the overnight delay -- I forgot AO3 needed to
do maintenance, and then I was too tired to stay up to post.

I love the Horcrux scene in canon so much. Especially in the movies, since Ron gets
shafted so damn hard throughout the movies. I like Ron to get a Shining Moment to be
just as heroic as Harry constantly is, and see what an essential part of the Trio he is.

The aspect of the scene that troubles me in canon is the treatment of Hermione -- she's
the one who gets so diminished, to me. Like, I get major "I am not a prize to be won!"
Princess Jasmine feelings about the way the scene plays out. The thing is, I don't think
Ron needs to "get the girl" to feel validated that he belongs as a friend and a hero. He
doesn't need Hermione's sexual attraction to give him the extra oomph to be on equal
footing with Harry, or whatever (ugh).

...I do actually like the scene a lot, despite how much I just complained about it. I just
thought it could be so cool to have Ron reach the same realizations about his own
worth without commodifying Hermione. FRIENDSHIP. It slaps.
 Andromeda
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Over the next several days, news spread quickly. As was increasingly the case, it was difficult to
know for sure what was rumor or outright lie, and what was actually happening. Draco and the
other Slytherins at the Den combed through papers together, reading between the lines and
swapping bits of information they gathered from various other people they spoke to. Bit by bit, a
picture developed.

The Death Eaters claimed Hogwarts as under their control (true).

Snape was newly appointed as Headmaster (true).

McGonagall was killed (almost certainly false).

Muggleborn students were expelled en masse (false).

Muggleborn students were killed (again, almost certainly incorrect).

Muggleborn students were persecuted and disdained, subjected to more serious prejudice than
Dumbledore would have tolerated, but were ultimately shielded from the worst by McGonagall,
who was such an institution at Hogwarts that even staunch Purebloods would revolt if she were
sacked or hurt (that sounded vastly more likely).

The Death Eaters were using Hogwarts as a way to establish credibility, using the school as a
recruiting ground for future members and to communicate a sense of both near-respectability and
far-reaching control to the Wizarding community at large (who could say what their motives were,
but this seemed like the practical outcome).

Any Pureblood student who was not currently at Hogwarts better have a damn good reason for it,
or a well-chosen place to hide (indisputable).

Draco saw Melia Greengrass for the first and last time when she came to retrieve Daphne.

“Pack your things. You’re coming home,” Melia informed her daughter. “I’ve notified Hogwarts
that you’re taking a year at home for medical reasons.” She looked around the room at the other
Slytherins. “If any of you wish to stay on here, I have no objection to your continued use of the
Cottage. But let me be clear: I don’t know you’re here. Use the house as you wish, but if anything
goes wrong, I won’t be able to help you.”

After Daphne left, Draco noticed a new chill in the Den. Blaise got up quickly from the fireplace
when Draco walked in the room, shifting position to hide whoever he’d been talking to from view.
Millicent spent a lot of time in her bedroom.

“What’s the plan, then?” he said, when Blaise and Millicent finally happened to come down to
dinner at the same time.

“What do you mean, plan?” Blaise said, peeling off a delicate flake of fish with his fork.

“Attempting to play innocent, Blaise, or idiotic? You’re not convincing, either way,” Draco
sneered. “And you? Mill? Awfully quiet over there. We’re all mates, aren’t we? Haven’t had a
heart-to-heart in a while.”

“Stop it, Draco,” she said quietly. “This is serious.”

“Thank you for that astute insight, Bulstrode, I’d have had no idea otherwise,” Draco drawled.

“What’s there to say?” Blaise said. “The Den is shutting down. Other arrangements are necessary.
I’m not sure why you expect us all to trade itineraries.”

“So that’s it, then? You’ll just scatter.”

“Pleasant as it’s been to spend a few weeks with you all, I’m not convinced there’s any advantage
in insisting on continuing the arrangement,” Blaise said. “Traveling in numbers is unwieldy. It
attracts unwanted attention.”

“Millicent, where are you going? Do you even have other family nearby you can get to easily?”

Millicent looked miserable. She kept smoothing the napkin in her lap, stretching the cloth so tight
it looked more like a band holding her in place. “I’ll work something out.”

Blaise leaned an elbow on the table, letting his head rest atop his elegant fingers. “She’ll keep her
head down for a while. As will I. As will you, or so I would have expected. You’ve been hiding,
too. Why get worked up now?”

“Because it’s not good enough! This isn’t going away, in case you haven’t picked up on that yet.
They’re in Hogwarts now. That’s ours, that’s home, and you’ll just let them take it? Have you even
thought about what might be happening to Parkinson if she’s at Hogwarts, or Tracey Davis, or the
Carrow twins, or Crabbe and Goyle? What’s it going to take for you to—” Draco realized the
words stand up were on his lips, and that he was in fact standing, arms crossed, and the others were
staring at him like he was—well, like he was some drunken Gryffindor.

“Fuck!” he yelled. He lowered his voice and glared at Blaise and Millicent, words crisp. “Don’t
make any drastic moves yet. The Den is still secure. I bet I can come up with something better than
being a third wheel while your mum gets cozy with daddy number eight, Blaise. Give me a couple
days to sort something out.”

The Weasley’s shop on Diagon Alley was closest. The November chill provided enough reason for
why Draco was bundled in a heavy, hooded cloak. He went at dusk, hiding himself in the throng of
shoppers hurrying to get their errands done before nightfall and curfew, and slipped a note under
the locked shop door.

Rider,

Are horses afraid of snakes? Come to the Den and find out.

Nott’s friend

Ginny arrived a few days later, with Tonks accompanying her.

“Ready to go?” Ginny said, standing on the threshold of the Den.

Draco leaned in the doorway. “Pleasure to see you, too, won’t you come in, one sugar or two.”

“Yes, sure, pleasantries all around,” Ginny said. “I need to be at King’s Cross this evening to meet
with Luna, so can we get a move on? Who’s coming?”

Draco addressed Tonks. “Higgs left. Zabini and Millicent are here. I told them you’d find
somewhere where Slytherins are welcome.”

Tonks nodded. She looked a bit thicker around the middle, Draco thought. “I am sorry that things
didn’t work out as well as we’d hoped at Nott Manor, Draco. I hope it’s been better here.” She
clapped her hands. “Off to the reunion then! Hope you’re excited. Mum is very curious to meet you
after all the bits and pieces she’s heard.”

“We’re going to Andromeda’s?”

“Yes, I thought Ginny told you.” Tonks waved over Draco’s head at the other Slytherins peeking
out. “Hi! All packed?”

“Andromeda Black?” Blaise said. “I thought she was in exile, essentially.”

“Andromeda Tonks, for the last couple decades or so,” Tonks said. “Much as they like to think of
themselves that way, the Sacred Twenty-Eight aren’t actually a monarchy, Zabini. They don’t have
authority to exile anyone. You’re riding with Ginny and Draco today. We’ve brought brooms.”

“Can you handle a Nimbus, Zabini?” Ginny said.

Blaise smiled. “Just because I don’t play for Slytherin doesn’t mean I can’t catch some air. If you
supply a decent broom, I’ll manage it fine.”

“Millicent, you and I are going by train,” Tonks said. “I understand you’re familiar with Muggle
transport and know how to dress appropriately. I’ve retired flying for the time being, and it’s better
if we don’t all go together anyway. Ginny knows the way.”

“Nott thought you’d like a token from the old days,” Ginny said, thrusting a Nimbus 2001 into
Draco’s hands. She snapped her fingers, and the Firebolt leapt into her hand. “Bet you remember
this one, too. Let’s make this a quick flight, okay? Speed is safety.”

Draco hadn’t done proper racing flying in years. It was exhilarating, even if he could tell half an
hour into the flight that he was going to feel muscles he’d forgotten he had the next day. Ginny
careened in front of him and Blaise, leading them over tree cover and climbing as high as they
could manage when they had to cut over houses.

“Weather’s on our side!” she shouted when a thick, gray mist rolled in. “We can take a shorter way
with extra cover!”

Draco curled his shoulders against the freezing damp. The mist was right on the edge of turning to
fine sleet. His face and lungs hurt. Ginny’s red ponytail flicked in and out of view in the mist,
annoyingly far ahead, and he didn’t want to ask for a rest to catch his breath. He pushed the broom
on.

Fortunately, Blaise’s shout brought Ginny circling back.

“What is it?” she called.

“Look down there,” Blaise said, curving his broom around to point.

“I don’t see anything!”

“There. That street. I could have sworn I saw—”

Then Draco saw it, too, a rotten black streamer floating through the maze of lanes and alleys. A
Dementor.

“Damn it,” Ginny said. “Hang on.” She flattened herself on her broom and hurtled toward the
rooftops. Draco hovered his broom, with Blaise beside him. In a moment, a small silver horse
appeared and charged at the Dementor.

“Is that a full Patronus?” Blaise said. “Isn’t she only supposed to be a sixth year?”

“They practice, in DA. Potter learned his third year. Quite a few of them can produce one.”

“DA?”

Startling, to remember that his friends still didn’t know. “A secret club, at Hogwarts, for defensive
magic. It’s mostly Potter’s friends, and half the Gryffindor Quidditch team. A few Hufflepuffs and
Ravenclaws. And--me, last year.”

“Can you make one?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you show me how?”

Ginny ascended again, stallion galloping behind her until it shimmered over her and dissolved into
a flash of light. “Let’s keep going. I’ll send someone from the Order to check out the village later
and make sure that thing doesn’t come back.”

Between Ginny’s shortcut route and the three of them pushing the pace as hard as they could, they
arrived at the Tonks house only a few minutes after Tonks and Millicent.

Andromeda answered the door and embraced her daughter. “You look pale, Dora,” she said,
touching Tonks’ face. “Have you been Apparating? I wish you wouldn’t.”

“It’s only once or twice a day max, Mother. I’m out of first trimester, it’s fine.”

“It’s bad for the baby.”

“Baby?” said Draco.

Tonks laughed. “Did you think this was all pumpkin pasties?” she said, touching her belly. “You’re
going to be a—hm. Not an uncle. Mother, I always get it mixed up, would it be cousins once
removed or second cousins?”

Andromeda raised an impeccable eyebrow. “Does it matter, after one family disowns the other?
Come here, boy, let me have a look at you.”

Draco had spent a fair portion of the flight preparing for this moment. He’d never even seen a
picture of his second aunt. Her likeness was burnt out of the Black family tapestry. He knew her
only as an ugly mark, halfway between his mother and Bellatrix, and as someone who was more a
topic of alluded conversation than a real person. His parents rarely even mentioned her by name.

None of the Black sisters looked alike. Where his mother was fair and fine-boned, and Bellatrix
was dark and wild, Andromeda suggested richness and warmth. At first glance, her face was almost
a perfect mirror for Bellatrix, but she held it differently. The brown waves were soft, not unruly.
 Draco saw more of his mother’s restraint and elegance in the way she tilted her chin one way and
the other, drawing her own conclusions as they considered each other.

“He looks a good deal like Narcissa,” Andromeda said at last. “I'd always heard he favors Lucius,
but I don't see it. Look at his eyes, and the shape of his mouth.”

Draco shifted uneasily.

“Don't slouch, it’s unbecoming,” Andromeda said. She nodded inside, presumably toward the
kitchen. “It wouldn't hurt to have extra help with the housework, I suppose. Do you know how to
scrub dishes properly?”

Draco looked aghast. “Don't you use magic for anything in this house?”

Andromeda laughed. “Good. Whatever you've been through, it hasn’t broken you. Of course we
use magic, heaven forbid. Ted didn’t marry a witch to work his fingers to the bone.” She stepped
back, clearing the doorway. “Come inside, all of you. You can leave your things in the front parlor
until I sort out bedrooms, and leave your shoes on the rack if you don’t mind. Dora, will Remus
join us for dinner?”

“Afraid not. With everything going on at Hogwarts, he’s pulling a lot of late nights.”

“He works too hard,” Andromeda tutted.

“I should get going myself. I promised I’d Apparate Gin to King’s Cross.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll come in and have tea with me like a civilized family. I have some
soup heating on the stove, and I can lay out some cold salmon and bread. I can take Ginny after.
You need rest.”

“I promise I’m fine,” Tonks said, but she let Andromeda take her hand and pull her into the house,
where she kicked her shoes off and looked around with a happy sigh.

Draco had never been in a Muggle house. Even if they did use magic here, it was clear the house
wasn’t built for a Wizarding family. The light came from round fixtures fastened into the ceiling.
He heard various low hums and whirrs. There were machines of some kind made from shiny
metals and black glass. He smirked, reaching for familiar bravado to muffle the unease. If Granger
could see him now.

If she could see him rallying Slytherins under the Order’s wing, that is, and sleeping under a
Muggle roof, would that finally be enough for her? Or was she still so dead-set on her relentless
version of bravery that anything he ever accomplished would be tossed aside and taken for
granted? The woods felt like a long time ago, which was good in many ways, but there were things
about Hermione that were harder to feel certain of, these days. Draco knew what he wanted. He
wondered where she was, and if he’d feel it if she decided to look for him this time.

Chapter End Notes

I've got to hand it to karmacookie, who totally called the ending of this chapter out two
weeks ago (I promise I'm not just waiting for your comments to write the next bit, lol).
I find myself leaning more toward Draco as POV character lately, as he's got more
dynamic growth left in his arc. I'm definitely interested in following questions about
what his role would turn out to be regarding the Order and the last critical months of
the war. I'm curious about how to balance his family against the bonds he's developed
so far. Hermione gets to keep being a badass, and finding her balance between her
status in the Trio and what she wants with Draco, but there's a bit less that's up in the
air for her, growthwise, at this point.

I am a little curious about balance. Part of me says keep putting a good faith effort
toward fairly even distribution of chapters between D and H as primary POV
characters. Another says center the character I'm most interested in poking at in each
chapter, which would tip the scales more toward Draco. Any thoughts? (Full
disclosure: I am both genuinely interested in your insights as readers of this fic, and
ultimately committed to doing whatever seems best for the story when I'm hunkering
down to write.)
 Reunion
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

In the hazy light of the wine cellar, Hermione gripped her wand. “Harry, this isn’t right,” she
whispered.

Harry put a finger to his lips, crouching slightly. “Stay close. Wands at the ready.”

Ron took out the Deluminator. He fiddled with it, producing a triangle of thin, silvery light. “It can
layer light and darkness. Only we can see.” He held the Deluminator overhead, turning to cast the
beam along the cellar.

There were scorch marks on the wall. Several shelves were broken, with broken glass and dark
pools of liquid on the floor. Ron continued to creep the beam of light forward, until it reached the
open space where Theo and Hannah put chairs and food for new arrivals. Hermione thought at first
glance that the smoky shape was the Morsmordre, hanging in the air like the imprint after a
fireworks explosion. Instead of the snake, though, three smoke ravens circled beneath the skull.

“Theo set the warding to stop Death Eaters from getting in,” Hermione said.

“Apparently not all of them,” said Harry.

“They could still be here,” Ron said. “They could have people captured, upstairs. Or worse.”

Harry started for the spiral staircase. Hermione lunged and caught the back of his shirt.

“We need to have a plan!” she said. “Harry, think! They want you. What if they found out you’ve
been staying here?”

Harry shook loose. “There’s no point in trying to plan anything, Hermione. We’re not going to
know who or what’s up there until we get a look. If they have Lupin’s map, they’ll have spotted us
already. We’re wasting time.”

They climbed the stairs and pushed the door wider. The house was quiet. Hermione was so used to
footsteps and the cheerful din of half a dozen overlapping conversations. Peering into one dark,
silent room after another was nothing like the Nott Manor she’d come to know. She felt a pang of
sympathy for Theo. No wonder he was always calling back and forth with Hannah from wherever
they happened to be. Hermione itched for the reassurance of noise.

“Where is everyone?” she whispered.

“Someone sold them out,” Harry said. “One of their friends.”

Ron clicked the Deluminator, casting a glimmer into one of the rooms set up with bunks for when
the safe house had more people than bedrooms. “It’s too neat. Look.”

The room was nearly stripped bare. A few odds and ends remained, a towel draped over the back
of a chair, but Nott Manor was usually filled nearly to capacity. There should have been
possessions and bags strewn everywhere, but the manor was nearly empty. In the common rooms,
too, there were signs of hurry—dishes in the sink, an abandoned game—but not panic. Furniture
was undisturbed, and there were no more marks of attack spells inside the manor. A desertion, not
a battle.

“If someone sold out the Manor, it went both ways, looks like,” Ron said. “They had time to get
away.”

“A Death Eater’s defected?” Hermione said.

“Or Order spies heard something,” Harry said.

Then Hermione heard something, too, and she realized that what was worse than being in Nott
Manor alone was hearing footsteps behind when both of your friends were in front of you.

She spun. “Petrificus totalus!”

The Death Eater blocked her spell and flashed another in her direction, which bounced off Ron’s
shield spell.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted, and the wand whipped out of the Death Eater’s hands.

“Run!” Hermione yanked Harry’s arm. The three of them took off back in the direction of the wine
cellar.

The Death Eater yelled for backup. A woman stepped into the hall, brandishing a wand. A woman
with white-blond hair, wearing a forest green gown that skimmed the floor. Hermione almost
didn’t recognize her with that desperate expression on her face, instead of her usual haughty, dung-
smelling sneer.

“Give him to me!” Narcissa Malfoy demanded, waving her wand between the three of them.

Harry darted to the side, pulling Hermione and Ron after him into one of the narrow House Elf
corridors. The moment of hesitation a Pureblood would feel before entering servants’ quarters
bought them a sliver of time, and even Nott Senior probably didn’t know which doors led where.
The Elves’ passageways weaved behind walls and through concealed doors, branching in a pattern
that complemented the human’s quarters of the estate, but according to an Elf’s sense of logic.

The three of them burst into the morning room, wands out. Thankfully, it was empty.

“There’s no one left here but Death Eaters,” Hermione said, panting. “We need to get out.”

“This way,” Harry said, reaching for a false window that opened into the wall. “We don’t know
how many of them there are,” he said over his shoulder. “We need to conceal ourselves.”

The fault in the plan, of course, was that while Elvish corridors were better to hide in, they weren’t
the quickest route back. Narcissa was waiting for them, along with three Death Eaters in their
metal masks. They were at one end of the hall, the Golden Trio on the other, with the door to the
wine cellar between them.

One Death Eater raised his wand, rushing toward them. “Avad—”

“Silencio!” Narcissa shrieked, and the Death Eater choked on the rest of the spell. “The Dark Lord
wants the boy alive! Call him! We’ll deal with the spares later.”

“Impedio!” Hermione aimed her wand at the Death Eaters’ legs, slowing their progress.

“I can’t hold the shield much longer,” Ron gritted out. “We going to make a break for it?”
“Go,” Harry said, and they rushed at the door.

Ron reached the door first, wrenching it open just before a Death Eater’s curse sent him reeling
back, senseless. Harry caught him over one shoulder, nearly doubled under the weight.

One of the Death Eaters snarled an incantation. Scorching heat blasted from his wand, and the
cellar ignited with a whumph of oxygen. The flames arched upward, spreading and multiplying into
the feathers of an awful bird.

The Fiendfyre writhed, flowing from one ravenous form into the next. A hawk, a wolf, a snake.
Hermione didn’t need to be told that these flames would cause no ordinary burn. The Fiendfyre had
its own malevolent energy. It would cling like napalm.

Torture first at Death Eater hands, Hermione thought. Then death. Would it be better to die in
flame?

She looked again into the wine cellar. Another animal form emerged in the midst of the flame. A
different one. White, even silvery, and not a predator but a doe. It shone brighter. Its light definitely
wasn’t fire. It seemed to push against the Fiendfyre, in fact. Hermione felt a shift in the air, a
bubble that felt cleaner and cooler.

Hermione grabbed Harry by the hand. “Jump!”

They launched into the wine cellar. Hermione felt a Death Eater’s fingertips brush the back of her
cloak. Then space twisted as they Apparated away from Nott Manor.

They landed in Crawley, by the Hawth Theatre where Hermione's mother once took her to a
performance of Romeo and Juliet. She and Harry dragged Ron down a garden path, hoping no one
had noticed them pop into being. Ron was already groaning back in consciousness. The Death
Eater had gone for something wordless, but easy, maybe nothing more than a Stupefy. In a few
minutes, Ron was on his feet.

“Where are we?” Harry said.

“It was the first place I thought of,” Hermione said. Her arm ached. Too much magic, too quickly.
It aggravated the snakebite wounds.

“How do we get back?” Ron said.

Slowly, it turned out. Hermione developed a low fever and muscle aches. They didn’t want to risk
Apparating again if it would make her worse. Not to mention that they couldn’t agree on the best
place to go.

Harry was in favor of trying to get to Grimmauld Place, but the others were wary. If Nott Manor
was found out, Grimmauld seemed too high-profile of an Order meeting spot to have escaped
Death Eater notice. Hogsmeade and Diagon were obviously out. The Burrow was deserted as far as
they knew, so there would be no one to help if Hermione got sicker.

They found themselves sleeping at a church that was sheltering homeless youth for the week. Over
cereal, weak tea, and sliced oranges served on Styrofoam plates, they talked through their options.

“We can’t go anywhere magic right now. We don’t know where You-Know-Who has people
stationed,” Harry said.
“If only we could get in contact with Ginny, or Lee or anyone,” Ron started.

Hermione thumbed the corner of a phone book. “I don’t know how to contact Potterwatch either.
But there’s a phone at the church. Tonks is Half-blood, right? Maybe her parents have heard from
her.”

“We don’t even know where they are. Andromeda’s family cast her out ages ago. She’s a total
recluse,” Ron said.

“From wizards, yes. Not from Muggles.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Harry said. “An operator could help us look up a number, at least. Tonks isn’t
exactly a common surname.”

“They’re here,” Hermione said, skimming her finger down the page. “Look. Tonks, A and T. That
has to be them.”

Harry craned his head. “Well done, Hermione. Lucky, too, for all three of us.”

Privately, Hermione hoped it was more than luck. It seemed better odds than sheer coincidence,
didn’t it? Fidelius was supposed to make it just a bit easier to head in each other’s direction again,
like swimming with a current. If it was this easy to slip back into contact with the Wizarding world,
then maybe Draco missed her more than she’d occasionally feared.

Andromeda’s voice on the other end of the line was kind, if harried. “Yes, we’re still operational.
Room’s tight at the moment, but you may as well come by and we’ll see what we can sort out. Can
you find your own way? It’s difficult for me to come out and collect you at the moment, so it
would be convenient if you can meet us here.”

It was as simple as a bus ride. Hermione glanced around when the bus let them off and didn’t see
anyone suspicious. Like in Godric’s Hollow, this seemed to be a Muggle street that just happened
to have a witch in residence. They counted down house numbers and arrived at a townhome with a
terrace. Draco and Theo were playing catch with a Snitch outside.

At the sight of them, something seemed to snap inside Ron. He let out a huff of breath and ramped
up his pace. The color was rising to his cheeks. Hermione thought he was going to attack them, and
then his mouth opened and Molly Weasley jumped out. A somewhat rougher version of her, at
least.

“How about sending a bloody note, fuckwit?” Ron seemed to barely restrain himself from grabbing
Theo by the ear. “For Merlin’s sake, all that bloody pride in all your stinking codes, and you can’t
be bothered to come up with some cryptic message this time? Of all the reckless, irresponsible,
inconsiderate bollocky stunts to pull—And you!” He continued, prodding a finger at Draco’s chest.
“Have you forgotten how to send an owl, you tosser? How were we supposed to know what
happened to you? You knew where we bloody were, and you've gone and worried Hermione sick,
and what in the blazes is so funny?”

Because Draco was laughing, not unkindly. He reached out and clasped Ron’s hand with his, and
then impulsively pulled forward to bump shoulders.

“I’m glad no one’s killed you too, Weasley.”

Harry, not to be outdone, came forward for a similar greeting.

Hermione wondered if the boys realized what they were doing. She’d been in the Great Hall on
their first evening at Hogwarts, the fateful night of the Scorned Handshake, but she’d only briefly
met Harry and Ron on the train back then. She hadn’t been there to witness the beginning of their
feud. It seemed fitting, now, that the three of them had shaken hands without remembering to make
it a ceremonial occasion, and that she might be the only one of them to notice in the moment that it
was taking place at all.

She noticed that Draco’s face turned guarded when he looked at her, too, even as she put her arms
around him. She wished he would hug her more tightly. She moved to kiss his cheek, and got his
ear instead by accident.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “Come for a walk with me?”

She thought she heard a catch in his breath, but he took a half-step back, angling himself toward
the group.

“Ron and I need to go talk to Andromeda,” Harry said. “Malfoy, are Lupin and Tonks around, or
anyone from the Order?”

“Yes, they’re staying here now.”

“We’ll catch up with you in a bit?” Hermione said to Harry.

Draco lingered next to her, waiting for the others to leave, but disappointingly put his hands in his
pockets once they started walking. Hermione resisted the impulse to say something impatient.
Reassuring as it would have been to hold his hand, it was also a bit much to expect if he was in this
sort of mood. He led her behind the row of homes, where a narrow path circled a small pond.

“Will this do?” he asked with distant politeness. Hermione groaned inside. He was still feeling
stung, then, and intended to test her.

So she took a deep breath and plunged in. “I almost died. Twice, actually. I got bit by a snake that
I’m fairly sure is cursed in its own right, and then I had to jump into a fire.”

“Was it everything you hoped it would be?”

Brilliant. Time to get needled with snide little comments when she was trying to say something
important. “I mean, we did get the Sword of Gryffindor. Eventually. Although ideally that would
have happened somewhere other than some horrible shack that smelled like rotting meat.”

“Yes, excellent, I can see why you needed to dash out and do that as soon as possible.”

“Draco, please don’t do this.” She put her hand into the crook of his elbow and looked into his
face. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry. I could have died, and you’d have had no idea where I was. I
don’t even know who would have thought to tell you, if it came to the worst. That’s not fair. I
should have told you. If I’m going to do something dangerous—”

“Something stupid.”

“You know what? Sure. Yes. Okay? Sometimes I’m going to do things you think are stupid, but
that’s part of who I am. That’s not something I can change, even if you’re dismissive and
condescending and disappointed in me.”

Something softened in his face. The words slipped out quieter than Hermione had expected. She
almost would have believed she’d imagined it, except that it was too surprising.
“I want you to be brave.”

“What?”

“I’ve never been disappointed in you. You think you can change the world to suit your standards.”

Hermione threw her hands up. “Yes, and I know you don’t like that—”

“Of course I like that!” Draco said. “It’s one of my favorite things about you! I want you to be
right, even when you’re insufferable.”

“You fight me about that all the time!” Hermione said. “Honestly, Draco, you have to admit you
haven’t exactly been supportive.”

“You haven’t given me a chance! As soon as the Order got involved at Nott’s, it was you and
Potter and Weasley all over again. You keep leaving.”

He pulled her abruptly into him, hugging her for real this time. Hermione felt him holding his
breath, and she wondered if part of the reason for the closeness was to let him hide his face. This
was difficult for him, whatever he was gearing himself up to say, and Hermione felt a lurch of
dread that going to Godric’s Hollow had been a step too far after all.

“You told me things, in the woods,” he said at last. “About your parents. And about us. And
obviously I haven’t been able to go and see mine, and I thought you meant we were—I wanted—”
His fingers contracted against her lower back. He dipped his head lower, brushing his lips against
the spot where her neck met her shoulder. “How much does it take to be enough for you? Why is it
always so hard for you to consider choosing me?”

“Draco, it's not hard,” Hermione said. She put her hand on his neck, stroking her thumb through the
short hair at the nape of his neck. “Leaving is the hard part. Even in the woods, even when
everything was at its worst, the hardest thing was being away from you. That’s why I made that
spell at all. I need you. Everything’s better when I’m close to you. You’re the only one who pushes
me the way you do. You make me think harder about what I’m doing, and why, and who for.
When you’re not trying to prevent me from doing what I need to,” she couldn’t resist adding.

“As if you really believe anyone could stop you.”

“No one’s going to stop me coming back for you, either. You’re my family, and I’m yours.”

He wrapped his arms around her, fitting her body against his. His hands moved--slowly,
possessively, luxuriously--down the curving path from her shoulder to hip. Then he pulled away
and cleared his throat. “I brought the Slytherins.”

“I’m sorry, you brought who? Where?”

“Here, I brought them here,” he said, impatient. “They were going to go into hiding, so I told them
they were better off with us. With the Order. I thought you’d want that.”

“You convinced Slytherins to join up with the Order?” Hermione repeated.

“Yes, I realize it’s not as impressive as destroying a Horcrux, and Blaise has hardly joined the
Order, he’s just staying at the house, but even if I can't match you, it deserves to count for
something.”

“Draco, of course it counts!” she said. “Merlin knows I wouldn't be able to convince Slytherins I
 don't know to trust me. And I think this is the first time I’ve heard you count yourself with the
Order.”

“Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves,” he said. Then, “I love you.”

Hermione leaned into his shoulder again, feeling the warmth of him. Her fingers toyed with a
button at his chest. “What are the chances Andromeda will let us room together?”

He made a derisive sound, slipping his fingertips into her back jeans pockets to tug her closer. “Not
good. There’s a lot less space to go around than at Nott’s place. You may have to room with the
girls and hug a pillow to sleep.”

“Unacceptable. You’re a Slytherin. Work something out.”

Chapter End Notes

Next week: Details on what went down at Nott Manor (among other things)
 The Most Noble and Ancient House
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Andromeda was more amenable to letting Draco and Hermione share a room than either of them
had expected. There was a reasonable case to be made. Hermione was working through a bout of
illness, after all, not to mention fighting off the effects of an enchanted snakebite. Draco went as far
as to mention to Andromeda privately how the sight of his Dark Mark had made him a target for
stares or even attack at Nott’s. Between the Mark and even the Sectumsempra scarring, he might
understandably be self-conscious about removing his shirt around the others in the house and desire
extra privacy.

“Ah. Nepotism,” Theo said good-naturedly when he heard the rooming arrangement.

“Sounds right,” Blaise agreed without lifting his eyes from his book.

“I don’t see how you two are so willing to go along with it,” Ron grumbled.

“You wouldn’t sleep in your own bedroom if we were at your family’s place?” Blaise asked. “If
Andromeda’s going to give anyone special treatment, it’s natural to start with blood.”

“That’s not the same at all,” Ron said.

Harry, padding through the room on the way to the shower, towel slung over one shoulder, said,
“As long as I’ve got a bed, I’m not too choosy about where it is. We’ve slept enough odd places in
the last few months.”

Lupin and Tonks were staying in Tonks’ childhood room. Harry, Ron, and Seamus Finnigan (who
had come with Theo when Nott Manor was attacked) had claimed the guest room upstairs as a sort
of Gryffindor boys’ quarters. Andromeda closed off the parlor and moved some furniture around to
make room for Millicent and Ginny. Blaise and Theo were sleeping in the renovated coal cellar,
which sounded like a raw deal except that in winter months, the cellar happened to be one of the
coziest, toastiest parts of the house. That left Draco and Hermione to put together a makeshift bed
on the floor of Ted’s office (Andromeda’s actual words on the matter were, “Wherever you can
find a spot, just keep it out of the way and I don’t want to settle arguments if anyone’s upset about
it”).

Draco suspected the real reason no one put up more than a half-hearted fuss about him and Granger
was that with space as tight as it was, no one particularly wanted to squeeze another bed in where
they were sleeping.

It was immensely relieving to sleep next to Granger again, albeit a touch disappointing that sleep
was all that was happening until she was better. She was powering through as best as possible with
fever-reducing tonics and a continued regimen of dittany, but it was clear that some additional
measures would be necessary.

Even so, Draco was unprepared for what those measures turned out to be. He was sitting in the
living room (sulking was more accurate, although he’d die denying it) pretending he didn’t know
half the others in the house were tucked away in the parlor, having a very exclusive, swanky Order
meeting. He was doing a thorough enough job of appearing to be absorbed in a book that he
actually missed Potter’s entrance.
“Draco!” Harry barked.

Draco jolted halfway up, startled. “What?”

“Hermione wants you. Come on.”

Draco followed Potter into the parlor. Hermione was in an armchair, eyes round and frightened.
Her wounded arm was unwrapped, lying pale on the armrest, palm up to expose the twin gashes.
There was a dropcloth on the floor. Lupin stood over her, brandishing the Sword of Gryffindor.

“What the hell?” Draco said. “Get that away from her, what do you think you’re doing?”

“We’re going to lance it,” Lupin said.

“If that snake’s a Horcrux, that arm’s never going to heal. They’re buying time with the dittany, but
it’ll kill her sooner or later,” Moody grunted. “Better deal with it now.”

“You can’t stab her with a sword,” Draco said, bewildered that he had to say such a sentence out
loud at all. “None of you are Healers. This is completely mad.”

“The Sword of Gryffindor contains properties of basilisk fang that are effective against a Horcrux.
It’s the only remedy we have,” Lupin said.

“Just hold my hand, will you?” Hermione whispered.

Draco knelt beside the chair and leaned in close, meeting her eye. “Granger, you don’t have to do
this. There’s got to be another way to sort it out. You can get up right now if you want to and
leave.”

She closed her eyes, blowing a stream of air through her pursed lips. Her fingers found his. “I just
want to get this over with.”

Draco looked at Harry, who made an apologetic half-smile and inclined his head toward
Hermione. Draco turned his head and inched closer to Hermione, irritated with himself for treating
Potter like a leader, like his confirmation or approval mattered.

“The Sword hasn’t been tested on a person yet. We know the Horcrux-destroying properties work,
but how much venom the blade contains isn’t entirely clear,” Lupin said. “My inclination is the
venom will be drawn to the Dark magic in the wound before it spreads through your system.
Moody has a small supply of phoenix tears, just in case.”

“Slughorn’s making himself a wealthy man on this war,” Moody said sourly. “Hell of a crooked
scheme he’s running.”

Lupin placed the edge of the sword on Hermione’s arm. Draco felt her body tense.

“Wait,” Draco said. “Aren’t you going to give her a painkilling potion first?”

“We’re already taking a small gamble that the sword will interact with the wound the way we want
it to,” Lupin said. “I don’t want to introduce any other magic than absolutely necessary.”

“Just let him do it,” Hermione said.

So Draco kept his mouth shut and watched Hermione’s face because he didn’t trust himself to look
at her arm. It was clear enough anyway. Her fingers clenched his hand. Her lips parted, and she
made a sound like, “Ah-hah” that ended in a whimper. She was trying to stifle the sound she
wanted to make.

Draco glanced at Lupin and Moody. They were staring at the wound with analytical expressions.

“I don’t want to cut her too deep, but,” Lupin started.

Moody closed his real eye. The false one clicked. “Rather see you get it all out now. We’ve got
spells to treat a flesh wound. That bite needs to get cleaned out.”

“Okay. Hermione, we’re going to do a bit more. We’ll be as quick as we can about it. Alastor, do
you think you could hold her arm steady?”

Hermione let out a whine and leaned in toward Draco. Then she squirmed, eyes still screwed
closed. She made a noise that shrilled up in pitch. The arm holding Draco’s hand trembled.

Still, no one else in the room said anything, and that made Draco angrier than any of the rest of it,
that all these stinking Gryffindors seemed to take it for granted that she’d be brave enough to
handle this without break or praise.

“Merlin’s fucking balls, Granger,” he grunted. “You’re going to break my fingers.”

Hermione huffed out a short breath. “Really don’t care right now.”

“I have delicate hands,” he protested, encouraged by the response.

“Shut. Up. Pansy.” They must have started in on the other bite wound, because she writhed again
and tried to choke back a wail.

Draco put his forehead on hers. “You’re so strong. You're doing so well. Fuck,” he said, because
his hand really did hurt. “Almost done. Better be.”

She screamed again, feet pushing at the carpet, and Draco said, “Oh, love,” very softly because at
this point he barely cared if Order people caught him saying something like that, and Lupin
stepped back and said, “That’s it,” in a tone of deep relief.

“I hope you’re all pleased with yourselves,” Draco snarled.

Moody drew his wand and made businesslike strokes over Hermione’s arm with it. Hermione’s
breath was shallow. Bit by bit, her toes uncurled and she sank more easily into the chair.

“Are you going to take all day about it? Are you even healing her, or is that wand as fake as your
leg?” Draco said.

“Pipe down, you little thug, arms aren’t as simple as they look,” Moody said.

When the Order finally let Hermione go, Draco wrapped an arm around her waist to support her up
the stairs. She fell asleep quickly and he watched the way the muscle at the bridge of her nose still
twitched with the memory of pain. He thought of times when he’d accused her of enjoying flinging
herself into danger. It looked different, up close. He shifted into a more comfortable position next
to her, making sure enough of him was still in contact with her that she’d know in her sleep that
he’d stayed nearby.

Hermione improved rapidly after the lancing. The fever cleared up by the next morning. Even the
pain from the bite itself and the treatment felt blurry in her memory by the time a week had gone
by. She still had two fine white scars from the bite that no magical tonic seemed able to remove,
but there were worse things than scars.

Andromeda’s was packed tight enough to make it tricky to catch anyone one-on-one, but Hermione
noticed Theo slipping out back and hurried after him.

“Mind if I come along?”

“Hm? Oh, sure,” he said. “Draco’s setting up a round of Assassin. I’m not up to it, so I thought I’d
get out of the house until they’re down to the last few players.”

Hermione smiled. It was obvious that Draco had found a warmer reception at this house. She’d
noticed him holding court with his friends, and most days he was rounding up people to join him in
enacting some whim or another.

“Is it good for you to be around other Slytherins?”

“Yeah, it’s more balanced now, I think. Not that I minded how things were at my place.”

They turned onto the path looping around the lake.

“I tried asking Ginny,” Hermione said. “And Seamus. No one really wants to talk about what
happened at the manor.”

Theo put his hands behind his head, staring at a distant point across the pond. “Oof. Yeah, I hardly
blame them. It was a lot.”

“I’d like to know what happened. The people at the manor are my friends, too.” Hermione
hesitated. “Did something happen to Hannah?”

“Everyone made it out. It was intense, definitely. If we were going to get attacked by Death Eaters,
though, pretty ideal conditions overall.” Theo sighed. “Okay. It was sort of on me. Maybe that’s
why the others don’t want to talk about it much, besides, you know, the general trauma.”

“You don’t have to,” Hermione started, embarrassed.

“No, you’re right, you want to know. Eventually Potter’s going to poke around, too. I might as well
tell you once and be done with it. So. You know I set a ton of individual Anti-Apps, but I had to
make calls about who to put on that list and who to leave off. Shortly after the Death Eaters took
Hogwarts, Narcissa Malfoy came through the cellar.”

“The attack started with Draco’s mother?”

“She came alone first. I went to check on her, and she told me who she was right away, said she’d
defected and that You-Know-Who had confiscated her wand. You have to understand, I’ve known
her since I was a baby.”

“Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, Theo,” Hermione said.

Theo plunged in, rattling off the story like he was reading an article from the Daily Prophet. “So I
go in, and of course she has her wand, and I’m laid out immediately. The first thing she asks is
where’s Draco. She must have heard about him doing the Gringotts mission. And I said you know,
I really don’t care to tell you when you’re asking like this, and she hits me with the Legilimency.
Have you ever had someone do that? Hurts like a fucking bitch. I don’t think she’s particularly
good at it, but I’m also shit at Occlumency. So she can see he’s been here, and Potter, but she can
also tell I’m telling the truth when I say they’re not here anymore, and when she tried to find out
where they were, I thought as hard as I could about her, how she took care of me when I was little,
and I guess she either she wasn’t skilled enough to push past that or she felt guilty about hurting me
more, so she stopped.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione said.

He acted like he hadn’t heard her. “She asked me who all was actually here, and I said a bunch of
people who would prefer not to keep Death Eater company. She told me I had 15 minutes and then
she’d be back, and I had to let her in or they’d Reducto through the door and kill everyone. Then
she Disapparates. As soon as she was gone, Hannah and I got fucking busy getting Muggleborns
out. A few on brooms, but most could Apparate. I had Hannah hide in a little nook in the cellar,
and then the Death Eaters start Apparating in. Narcissa grabs me right away and puts a wand to my
throat. The other Death Eaters were in their masks, so who knows who it was. No one high
ranking. I’d blocked all of those I could think of, and the ones we saw were answering to Narcissa,
so it wasn’t anyone powerful enough to think they could push her around.”

“She threatened you?” Hermione couldn’t imagine having someone you trusted turn on you like
that. “Gods, Theo, she was practically your mother most of your life. That must have been—I don’t
even have words. You must have been terrified.”

“I mean. I didn’t really think she would hurt me? Maybe. I didn’t love it, but I felt like she was
probably bluffing. I don’t know. If Draco had been around after all, and she thought I was in the
way, that’s a tougher call,” Theo said. “The other Death Eaters pushed into the house and rounded
everyone up for inspection. Narcissa walked me around, kept her wand on me. She called out a
couple people, asking their blood status, things like that, but like I said, I think it was for
appearances. Every group they looked at, she’d shake her head and say let them go, they’re not
who we want, they’re of no consequence. That's how she phrased it. People kept their heads down,
got their stuff and got out. It got a little sticky at the very end, when I tried to go. The Death Eaters
thought a Nott family reunion was in order. I got free, booked it round to Hannah, and took us out
of there. Once I got her set up, I headed here.”

“Why didn’t Hannah come with you?”

“Think it out. Say one of the Death Eaters caught a glimpse of her. Even if they weren’t sure it was
Hannah, there’s only so many Purebloods. In most cases, there wouldn’t be much reason to comb
through a list of Hogwarts-age Pureblood girls, but what if you knew one was running a safe house,
chumming around with Undesirable #1? Suddenly, double-checking the class roster to see who that
might be rises higher on the priority list. And what do you know but the missing Hufflepuff who
meets the description has Mummy and Daddy and a sweet little 8-year-old sister at home. Pity if
anything should happen to them because someone had information about Harry Potter and wasn’t
forthcoming.”

“They’d torture the family to flush Hannah out of hiding,” Hermione said. “Of course they would.
That’s what the Death Eaters did before. I don’t understand why the Abbotts wouldn’t go straight
into hiding, though. If Hannah turns up at Hogwarts now, the timing seems too convenient. Her
family’s still in danger.”

“They’ll be all right. Hannah’s got an airtight alibi, considering she’s been on an exchange term at
Beauxbatons this whole time.”

Hermione’s lip curved. “How did you manage that? I know she’s not just going to go by her word
alone.”
Theo gave a flicker of a smile back. “You’d be right. She’s got signed paperwork from
McGonagall, of course, authorizing the exchange. She also has an acceptance letter and end-of-
term marks signed by Madame Maxime, on official Beauxbatons letterhead, which should be
compelling enough, I’d imagine. Oh, and she boarded the Hogwarts Express at the Paris station.”

“How did she get to France that fast?”

Theo waggled his fingers. “We do magic, Granger.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Cross-country Apparation was illegal, but that was hardly the most
surprising part of the story. “You’ve only just learned to Apparate last year. That’s a long way to
go, especially with a Side-along. You’d have to have a really strong connection to your destination
for that to work.”

“I’ve been to Paris,” he said. There was a different note in his voice, less facetious, more final.
Hermione decided not to push. The important thing was that Hannah was safe, at least for the
moment.

“Is Hannah going to be okay, at Hogwarts?”

Theo made a tight shrug. “Who knows? She’s Pureblood, so she shouldn’t be a natural target.” He
studied an invisible bit of grit on his sleeve. “She’s going to write. She can send letters by way of
Fred and George Weasley, and she’ll let me know she’s all right. She promised.”

“We came back by way of the manor,” Hermione said. “It must have been just after the attacks
happened, or I’m sure you or Lupin or someone would have tried to reach out to us. Draco’s mother
was there. Still there, I should say. I thought she must have arrived later and was hoping for news
of him. I didn’t realize she’d led the whole attack.”

“Have you told Draco?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Don’t.”

“Don’t you think he deserves to know?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Theo asked. “Look. You like answers. Fair enough.
Draco’s more the type where if you tell him anything, he’ll brood and sweat and let whatever’s
bothering him ruin him until he can even the score somehow. Say we tell him. The first thing he’s
going to wonder is, if his mother came looking for him, where was his father? And then he’ll get
completely intolerable about it and Blaise will eventually stab him to death over the breakfast
table, which is inexcusably rude to our host.”

“Draco hates his father,” Hermione said.

“Well spotted,” Theo scoffed. “Of course he hates his dad. I hate my dad, who doesn’t hate their
dad.”

Hermione opened her mouth, and then thought better of it.

“The problem is that sure, Draco hates his dad, but he also really fucking loves him,” Theo
continued. “That’s where things get complicated.”

“Why would that make things complicated?”

“Granger. Be serious.”

“You’re the one assuming that his dad isn’t looking for him or worrying about him. Maybe he
came later. Maybe You-Know-Who wouldn’t let him go,” Hermione said. “Draco thinks his
family’s disowned him. That’s what Snape told him. He’s already been agonizing over it, so if
you’re trying to spare his feelings, the ship has sailed. I get that I need to find the right phrasing so
he doesn’t think he brought on what happened, but he’d want to know his mum is still looking for
him.”

“You think you know him pretty well, don’t you?” Theo said. He was smiling again, but one of his
more ironic smiles that was difficult for Hermione to read. “Maybe you know him better than me
by now. Maybe not. For what it’s worth, I still say better don’t mention it. He’s made his choice.
Don’t make loyalty harder than it has to be.”

With a dozen people around, solitude was hard to come by. Hermione’s best method to snatch a
moment to recharge was to stay up late. She’d done that at Hogwarts as well, staying up into the
wee hours partly for studying, but also for reading and reflection.

She’d lingered in the living room again one night to read after the rest of the house retreated to
their rooms to chat or hang out before going to sleep. When she finally set her book down and
headed toward the stairs, though, she heard unexpected voices coming from the kitchen.

“Perhaps you’re right, but I’ve told you what I would do, in your situation. Think it over for
yourself,” Andromeda said.

“They’re meeting again in a few days, once everyone’s back,” Draco said.

“Maybe that’s good timing, then.”

Hermione peeked in. Draco sat on a barstool at the counter, his back turned to her. He was angled
just enough for Hermione to see that his fingers were laced around a mug. Andromeda sat on the
opposite side in a dressing gown, her hair combed back for the night. She was leaning in much
more than her usual formal posture at mealtimes, and even let her forearms rest on the counter. Her
head raised and shoulders pulled back when she saw Hermione.

“Hello, dear. Did you need something? I hope we didn’t wake you.”

“No, I was up,” Hermione said.

Andromeda looked over her shoulder at the kitchen clock. “At this hour? I barely remember what it
was like to have that kind of energy. I should have been in bed hours ago. Although I’ll admit I can
see why you might stay up, when the house is nice and quiet. Don’t make it too late.” She
squeezed Draco’s shoulder lightly as she passed him on her way out of the kitchen.

Draco inclined his head at Hermione. “Keep me company?”

Hermione perched on the stool next to him. Draco passed her the teapot. “It’s mostly dregs, but
you’re welcome to it.”

“I like it strong.”

“Ha. I imagine so.”

“I must have read 250 pages without a break. I feel like I’m still halfway somewhere else, it’s
wonderful,” Hermione said. “I had no idea anyone else was up. I must have really had my nose in
to miss hearing you.”

“We weren’t loud,” Draco said. “Mostly she likes to ask me things about my family, or she tells me
some things. She showed me a whole drawer of Muggle tools that look like torture instruments.”

“I feel bad that I interrupted. You looked nice and cozy. Have you and Andromeda been talking
much?”

“From time to time. You were fine. She wasn’t lying to you, that was the first time it got this late.”
Draco paused. Hermione put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.

“Theo’s been sitting in on Order meetings,” he said.

Hermione nodded and took a sip. It really was the bottom of the pot, with bits of tea leaves
spinning around in the liquid. She made a face and set the cup back down.

“He’s not running a safe house anymore,” Draco said. “Why do they want to talk to him?”

“He’s still involved with the Order. It’s not like all they cared about was his house.”

Draco’s index finger hovered over the rim of his mug, tracing the curve of it in the air. “He’s not
telling me something about what happened, at his place. I’m not an idiot, I can see that the Order’s
giving me a wide berth. Do you know anything about it?”

“Honestly?”

“If anyone here is going to be, it’ll be you.”

Hermione sat up straighter. “Your mum was there, when the Death Eaters took Nott Manor. Harry
and Ron and I saw her too, later, when we went back after Godric’s Hollow. We thought she was
after Harry, but Theo said when she first came to the manor, she was asking about you.”

Draco’s face darkened. “So that’s why no one would say. They think I’ll go running back as soon
as Mummy’s calling? Go back to being a Death Eater after all?”

“No, that’s not it at all,” Hermione said. She touched Draco’s arm. “Theo cares about you. He
blames himself for not doing enough to defend the manor. He thinks you’ll blame yourself too, or
get more worried about your parents than you already are. There’s nothing either of you could
have done, so what’s the point in telling you things that would hurt you? That’s how he thinks
about it.”

“What about Lupin, and Moody, and the rest of the Order? Did I miss the part where we all
became such devoted friends that they’re handling my feelings with Poffle gloves?”

“Well. Kind of?” Hermione said. “Tonks likes you, I’m sure you’ve noticed that. None of the
others really think badly of you, either, even Moody, certainly not after your help with Gringotts
and the King’s Cross victims. The fact that you’ve been helping the Order after everything you’ve
been through says a lot.”

“Not enough to earn me a place,” Draco said.

“You haven’t always been enthusiastic,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s not that they don’t trust you, I
don’t think. It’s more that you’ve been in a difficult position already, and it’s only getting harder if
 siding with the Order means standing directly against your parents. No one wants to ask that of
you.”

Draco was quiet. One restless foot kicked at the leg of the barstool. “I hate my family,” he
mumbled.

“You don’t. Or at least you don’t have to,” Hermione said. “Look, if you really want me to be
honest? Your mum scared me when we saw her, and your dad treated me like filth even before
You-Know-Who came back into power. I don’t want to imagine what would happen to me if I fell
into their hands. It’s hard for me to see a good side to them.”

“They’d hate you the worst of anyone in this house,” Draco said. “Even more than the blood
traitors. They don’t have any idea what kind of person you are, or how much they owe you. I can’t
believe you of all people are the only one here willing to tell me.”

“It’s not that weird,” Hermione said. “Neither of us has much of a home or family to speak of, right
now. We both want there to be something to go back to one day, though, when all of this is over.
You’re going to have that, I think. I didn’t want to keep that from you.”

When the Order met next, there was a sharp knock halfway through the meeting. Hermione looked
over to see Draco leaning in the doorframe, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His thumb worried at
the black snake twisting over his skin.

“It burns, sometimes. I never went to a meeting, officially, so I don’t know for sure if it’s his call,”
Draco said into the silence. “Thought you’d be interested.”

“I—yes. Yes, of course, that would be very helpful, if there’s anything you can tell us,” Lupin said.
“Would you mind if we asked a few questions, or even cast a spell or two to see if we can learn
anything about how the Mark works? We don’t get to see it up close very often.”

Hermione scooted her chair. Harry reached behind him to drag a chair into the gap between them.
Draco met Hermione’s eyes, and then he crossed the threshold to join them.

Chapter End Notes

I find myself intrigued by the Black sisters, and the question of what Draco's family
could have been, if his mother's side had been more stable and close. I'm not a big fan
of the "my characters talk to me" line of talking about writing, but I do like to sit still
and feel around in my brain for any intuitive sense of how my characters would
respond to each other. I was imagining out a version of Andromeda who I could
envision as both Narcissa's sister and Tonks' mother, and landed, as my beloved beta
summed up, on the "warm, imperial matriarch." And almost as soon as Andromeda
crystallized in my head, I wrote a little bit for Draco, and the gut impression I got from
him was, "I like her. She understands things. I can talk to her." I was surprised! And
then I thought about the qualities he loves so deeply in Hermione, and realized that of
course a kind woman who brooks no nonsense and assumes she runs everything will
push the right buttons for him.

We're not going to see Ted in this story. Sorry to those who might have been looking
forward to his presence! HP has so many male characters that I prefer to build in more
women. (I thought for a moment that this fic didn't even pass the Bechdel test until the
Spice Girls conversation at Nott Manor, but maybe the early chapter with Hannah and
Hermione counts, since they talk briefly about hobbies before Draco? IDK.)

The first scene, as I'm sure you've teased out, is meant to be in dialogue with the
torture scene at Malfoy Manor. I couldn't see a way through to write a true-to-canon
version and keep both characters and their relationship intact, but I absolutely had to
acknowledge that moment, even indirectly.
 Christmas and Occlumency
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco went to most Order meetings now. Lupin noted the times when Draco’s Mark twisted and
burned, and the overlaps with the times Potter felt his scar nearly threaten to split open. He and
Moody made plans based on them. Draco felt less like a spy than a sort of Death Eater barometer,
but no one could say he wasn’t aiding the Order.

He hadn’t told anyone at Andromeda’s the lies he still practiced, in case he fell into the wrong
hands. He was a loner. He was a good son. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater...

Occlumency, the way Draco imagined it, was like building a house out of your mind, or a maze.
Some passageways led where you expected (or at least, where you led someone to expect, which
wasn’t always the same thing). Lies and half-truths were smooth as marble, making it so easy to
slide along to the obvious conclusion.

A thought could be locked behind a door, and Draco could train himself to see only the door in his
mind’s eye, letting secrets and worries dwindle out of reach. Sometimes it was hard even for him
not to slide along the polished tracks in his mind. Hard to remember which were carefully crafted
lies with just enough truth to sound right, and what was really him.

Most of the time, Draco could keep to the safe places inside his head. He didn’t have enemies at
Andromeda’s, and he could relax in ways that hadn’t been possible since his parents opened their
doors to the Dark Lord.

One December afternoon, he forgot where he was entirely. He’d been having a quiet think by the
fire while most of the others were out shopping, and the next thing he knew, Hermione was
pushing his hair back gently from his face.

“You were napping,” she murmured. “Hold still, you’ve got a line just there, from the couch
cushion.” She touched the tip of her wand to his cheek.

Draco sat up. “What time is it?”

“Almost four. The others will be in any minute.”

Draco looked at the fireplace, and everything he’d been thinking about before the warmth and
quiet lulled him to sleep came flooding back in a disorienting jumble. He’d been turning over the
question of his parents, and whether his mother’s presence at Nott Manor really meant she missed
and wanted him, or whether he would have found out it was part of a larger plan to retrieve the
prodigal Death Eater and win back the favor the Malfoys had lost.

Or maybe she wouldn’t have come if she knew he’d chosen to side with Potter and the Order over
family. Or maybe she was in danger if she couldn’t bring him back, or maybe she had told Theo a
half-truth and really would have defected if Draco had been there to welcome her.

It was an exhausting line of thought to follow, and impossible to know the answer for certain.
Draco hadn’t even opened the mental door that led to his father yet. Sorting through the furtive
hopes and fears around his mother was complicated enough. He’d taken a break to clear his mind
and feel safe, and now he felt guilty for doing that when for all he knew his family was still
punished for his absence.
The house filled with its usual din as the others surged inside then, so Draco shook off the lurking
thoughts and guided himself back to the areas where he felt looked out for and accepted, both
inside and outside his mind.

So it went until Christmas came. At Malfoy Manor, Draco’s mother always surprised him
Christmas morning with enchantments that turned the whole house into a glistening wonderland,
all icy filigree. Sometimes she made it snow indoors, soft flakes turned magically warm. There was
always a towering tree laden with presents that his parents would watch him open. Draco used to
make himself peel back the paper one delicate strip at a time, prolonging the moment with both his
parents’ eyes on him.

Andromeda was gifted at household magic, too, but she favored a very different style. The house
was filled with lush greenery, clustered with gleaming red ornaments like ripe fruit, and here and
there actual ripe pomegranates. Creamy candles shone from every mantle. The one inelegant
decoration was the tree itself, a somewhat lopsided, pear-shaped thing with a bald patch carefully
angled toward a corner. Tonks, it seemed, had a longstanding habit of being moved with pity by
some unloved tree and insisting on taking it home.

Even with such a full house, there were fewer presents under the tree than Draco had sometimes
seen at Malfoy Manor. It wasn’t even that he was so disappointed not to get a pile of new robes
and books and such. It was more that Draco started the day unsure what would keep people
together to celebrate if the presents were over in a matter of minutes.

He was rather proud of his gift for Hermione. A bit of a risk, perhaps, giving her something that
already belonged to her, but it had certainly cost him a few Galleons and a good deal of work, and
he had an inkling that she’d be happier than if he’d bought the first trinket that caught his eye.
Draco handled the box with care, setting it delicately on the rug.

The box caterwauled and shifted an inch or two across the floor.

Hermione furrowed her forehead. “Draco, what did you do?” She pulled off the ribbon and opened
the flaps of the box. The noise intensified as she sank her hands into what appeared to be roughly
fourteen pounds of plushy ginger fluff with a crumpled, angry face.

“Crooksy!” she crooned, lifting the cat overhead. “Look at you, you bad stinky boy.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” Ron said. “Just watch, no one’s going to have a moment’s peace
anymore with that beast terrorizing the place.”

“Who’s a grumpy love, then? Are you excited to see me, or do I taste like kippers? Don’t chew my
fingers, greedy boy. Let’s find you a fishy.” Hermione slung the cat belly-up in her arms like a
baby and headed back to the kitchen, sing-songing nonsense.

“I have so many questions about this cat,” Harry said. “How. And why. Where were you even
keeping it?”

Theo raised a hand. “Blaise and I have been harboring the animal for the last few days, which is
why I can attest that it is a menace and a mongrel and intent on murdering any sleeping humans by
suffocation.”

“Truly the worst cat,” Blaise said, toasting his glass in the box’s direction.

“Slughorn can acquire anything,” Draco said. “Up to and including specific cats contained in a
nearly impenetrable fortress.” He did not bother to dignify the question of why with a response.
Hermione returned to the living room, beaming and kissing the cat between the ears until it
squirmed out of her arms to land with a lofty thump. She leaned over the back of the couch, put her
hand on Draco's chin to tilt his face up to hers, and kissed him. She did not, Draco was relieved to
note, taste like kippers. She’d had orange juice and waffles when they all squeezed around the
table together, and she tasted warm and homey. He tucked a bit of hair behind her ear.

She’d bought him a pair of gloves lined with faux Poffle fur that was nearly as soft as the real
thing. Draco made appreciative sounds, and some of the others had gifts to exchange, and then
Andromeda threw them all outside so she could have a quiet cuppa by the fire.

It was Millicent’s idea, of course, to splash water along the path by the lake and use their wands
surreptitiously to speed along the freezing process. The Gryffindors came up with some of the
better ideas for competition. Best One-Legged Slide, Longest Backward Slide, the Death Defying
Whirl.

After an early dinner, Tonks suggested watching a movie. Draco stretched an arm along the back
of a sofa. Hermione settled in next to him, tucking her feet up and wriggling until she’d wedged
herself precisely the way she liked against his shoulder.

Every piece of furniture in the room crammed in more people than the manufacturers had intended,
with the exception of a grand armchair, in which a beatifically round Tonks presided. Lupin
perched on the armrest, frowning in concentration, one hand on her belly.

“Was that something?”

“That was indigestion, I think,” Tonks said, shifting position. “I bubble like a cauldron these days.
Try a bit over this way. Give him a little poke.”

“I’m not going to poke the baby,” Lupin said, aghast.

“You’re not going to hurt him, you’ve got all my fat in the way. Just make him curious. Here, I’ll
do it.” She picked Lupin’s hand up and prodded her belly a few times, then quickly replaced his
hand.

Lupin looked at her, and then he let out a shout. “That was it! That must have been. Was that it?”

Tonks laughed. “Yes! I told you. There—that was another one. Did you feel it?”

Lupin nodded, a wistful smile smoothing out the lines in his face.

They were watching a Muggle film about calamitously appalling parenting and the gritty dangers
of living without even the barest household wards or charms, set incongruously against a holiday
backdrop.

“I have to hand it to them for dark comedy,” Theo remarked as the abandoned child on the screen
slapped what appeared to be a toxic potion on his face and screamed in pain. “I thought my
childhood was weird. This is pretty egregious.”

“Just you wait,” Millicent murmured near Draco’s other ear.

When all the booby traps were sprung and the boy was finally reunited with his parents, Tonks let
out a contented hum and yawned.

“That’s it for me. I’m off to bed.”

“I never watched films for Christmas as a child,” Andromeda said. “My family was more
traditional, of course. We always told ghost stories.”

“We do that, too,” Draco said.

Millicent nodded. “That’s a very Pureblood thing.”

“We could tell some now,” Hermione said. “I’ve got my book with me. There’s one story that
might work well, actually. I noticed a drawing in the margins—but anyway. Does anyone know the
Tale of the Deathly Hallows?”

Blaise laughed. “You make it sound so mysterious. Hasn’t everyone heard it a thousand times?”

Hermione pulled the book in toward her belly protectively. “I’m just making a suggestion. I don’t
claim to be an expert in ghost stories.”

“Granger killed a ghost for me once,” Draco said smugly.

“Draco, for the last time, you can’t kill a ghost. I just used an energy blast to destabilize—”

“Let me have this,” he said, cutting her off. He stretched his feet out luxuriantly onto the ottoman
and looked around, making sure he held the Slytherins’ attention. “Fighting things is a love
language for Gryffindors, you understand. It was very romantic.”

“I want to hear that story next,” Theo said.

“Are you all going to let Hermione read or not?” Ron said.

“Hm?” Theo said.

“What?” Ron said.

“Oh, I thought you meant me. Never mind,” Theo said.

“Granger, just tell the story and ignore them, they're idiots,” Millicent said.

“It was twilight,” Hermione read, “and three brothers came to an old bridge over a treacherous
river.”

Draco half-listened, half-skimmed over Hermione’s shoulder as she read. He knew the rhythm of
the story well enough. The wand, the stone, the cloak. Fairytale logic. In a few minutes,
Andromeda would snuff out the candles and put out the lights on the tree. Everyone would
separate, heading for the dark and quiet of their own rooms. Draco could almost believe the low
ache inside him was just sadness that Christmas was coming to an end.

But not, as it turned out, quite yet. Upstairs, in the dim hallway, Hermione held a small, plain
envelope out to him. It wasn’t sealed.

“I didn’t want to give you this in front of the others,” Hermione said. “Lupin and Andromeda know
about this, but don’t tell anyone else.”

Draco pulled out a simple card, barely more than a small piece of thick white paper. It wasn’t even
folded in two. The only distinguishing mark was a series of black dots scattered over the paper. He
brushed his thumb over them. They blinked into light at his touch, and the paper turned
momentarily blue-black, before the card returned to its simple appearance.
 “You know what it is?” Hermione said.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s Draco. My constellation.”

“Would your mother know it?”

Draco looked at her sharply. “You can’t be serious.”

“You can’t tell her where you are, of course. You’d know better than I would if it’s too dangerous
to write anything too personal, in case it would put her in danger, as well. But maybe there’s
something you could say, just so she’d know you were all right? Andromeda’s agreed to take it to
Diagon herself and post it through the Owl Center, so it won’t trace back here.”

A knot untwisted itself in Draco’s center. He closed his fingers tighter around the card. Then he
pressed her back against the wall and bent his head toward hers.

The house was quiet. Hermione’s fingers were on the back of his neck and her mouth was warm
and open, and he kissed her for a long time in the dark, standing by the linen closet in his aunt’s
house. It wouldn’t even matter if someone wandered out of their room and saw them, because
everyone already knew. He could kiss her with his eyes closed. And for the first time, he could
kiss her and let himself go, for a moment, to the part of himself that longed for Malfoy Manor, for
home. He could have it in his mind, the bothness. It seemed, in the last few minutes of Christmas,
upstairs there in the dark, like there was just enough overlap between the here and there to give
him hope.

Chapter End Notes

Right, the Deathly Hallows are a thing. We don't have many chapters left to go, but I
haven't lost sight of...well, the title of Book 7. I have some ideas about the Hallows.

This chapter is dedicated to all the cat owners who know all too well the dynamic of
lovingly insulting your pet.
 Narcissa
Chapter Notes

CW: Infertility

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Draco wasn’t entirely sure, in the following days, what to do with the card. He kept it in his
pocket, touching it often, wondering what he could possibly say. He wasn’t even sure where to
begin. I didn’t die in the woods after all. Well, that begged entirely more space than the card
offered. I miss you, I love you, I’m safe. Far too much to say, if the wrong person in the Manor read
it, and simultaneously not nearly as much as he needed to say. Did you really burn my things?

“I don’t know what she’d do with it,” Draco blurted out to Andromeda one night, just after New
Year’s. He had the card out, and he kept thumbing it, watching the stars blink on and off.

“You don’t have to send anything, if you don’t want to,” she said.

“I do,” he said. “I don’t want to give her the wrong idea.”

Andromeda folded her hands on the counter. “What idea would that be?”

“Granger said she saw the crest, when she went back to Nott’s.”

Andromeda looked at the wall. Two tapestries hung in the kitchen, a Slytherin banner and a
miniature version of the Black family tree. Andromeda’s portrait was intact in this one. The skull
with the ravens was displayed in the center, with the branches of the family arranged around it.

“Did Hermione know what it was?” she said.

“No, not until she got here. She thought it was the Morsmordre at first, and then she wasn’t sure.
My mother must have put it there, though.”

“Why do you think she did?”

Draco leaned into a cooler, more comfortable position. “To let me know she’d been there looking
for me. I guess to say we’re family.”

“You guess?”

He touched the stars again. “I’m assuming my father’s disowned me. Why else use the Black crest
instead of Malfoy?”

“Oh, any number of reasons,” Andromeda said. “I’d imagine the most likely is that you might
interpret the Malfoy crest as a sign to return to Malfoy Manor, which could be a deadly mistake if
the Dark Lord holds a grudge.”

“Maybe,” Draco said.

Andromeda waited. She had a good way of waiting. She didn’t stare at him. She sipped tea and
thought her own thoughts, and Draco had the sense that he could leave whenever he wanted and
she’d take it as the end of the conversation.

“There’s not enough room to tell her anything important,” he said. “She hasn’t seen me in months.
Things were different, then. If she thinks I’ve been trying to get back to her and Father, it’ll be a
nasty shock to find out who I’ve been running around with.”

“The Order, you mean?”

Draco laughed darkly to dislodge the constricting feeling in his throat. “You wouldn’t need to go
far down the list. Any one of them would do it. Potter, obviously. Granger. Weasley’d almost be
worst, since you couldn’t say I was looking for power, or sex. Even without the Order being
involved, I’m a disgrace of a Malfoy. Who’s to say she’d want to hear from me?”

“Oh, Draco,” Andromeda sighed. “You’re so much more like her than you realize. You put
yourselves through so much more than you need to. Don’t worry yourself over the company you
keep. Even that’s similar enough. Cissy used to be quite close with Molly. Who knows, by now she
might almost be pleased to see your families coming together again.”

Draco frowned. “My parents never associated with the Weasleys. They were blood traitors, and
common. All they did was muck about popping out children they couldn’t afford.”

Andromeda’s face crinkled with sympathy. “Poor Cissy,” she said. “Is that what she told you?”

“I mean—they’re poor, everyone knows that,” Draco said. “They’re not dignified. They’re a crowd
all by themselves.” He trailed off. Andromeda was shaking her head.

“It’s been years since I was in contact with them. When I married Ted, the family didn’t take it
well, as you know,” Andromeda admitted. “But your mother absolutely associated with Molly. We
both did. I mostly knew her as Molly Prewett, of course. Our Lucretia was her aunt by marriage, so
technically we were cousins of sorts. You and Ron are cousins, once removed, although you don’t
share blood. We were friendly, at Hogwarts. It was easy to be friendly with Molly. I brought Cissy
along sometimes, and I think at first she simply enjoyed being fussed over by one of the older girls,
even a Gryffindor. We made a favorite of her, let her tag along to parties. By the time Cissy was a
fifth-year, Molly was married with a little baby boy, and I think Cissy fell in love with that dream
for herself, too.

“Molly and I fell out, not long after. It wasn’t anything she did. At least, not anything she did on
purpose.” Andromeda crossed her hands over each other, making her fingers into a triangle, then
switched to put the other hand on top. “I should never have expected Narcissa to speak up for me,
when I married. I don’t know why I did. She and Lucius were engaged. If she’d defended me, he
most likely would have called off the engagement. She did what she did for love, I suppose,” she
said, and Draco could hear the doubt tinging the words even now. “All I can say is at the time, I
saw Cissy following Molly around like a little puppy dog, wanting to play with the little boy or
hold the new baby, and I felt replaced. I didn’t part on good terms with either of them. Whatever
Cissy thought about me, or if she was still focused on making sure she didn’t damage her standing
in the Malfoys’ eyes, I don’t know, but she didn’t even send an owl when Nymphadora was born.
We didn’t speak for years.”

“What happened?” Draco said.

Andromeda gave a wry smile. “It was more a matter of what didn’t. Molly could look at Arthur
and fall pregnant, from what I understand of her family. Narcissa was barely 19 when she married
Lucius, and no doubt she was eager for her own troop of little ones. There’s a Muggle story about a
girl named Wendy who runs off to be a dainty, motherly sort to a passel of lost boys, and it’s
always made me think of her. She would have done well. But the babies weren’t coming.

“She wanted you, Draco, so badly. And Molly, well.” Andromeda clucked her tongue. “She means
well, but she’s never been very refined, shall we say. Says anything on her mind and doesn’t think
much of it. She’d just had—well, you would know them, wouldn’t you? Molly’s twins?”

Draco nodded.

“Cissy came to visit me. I was shocked. I didn’t even realize she knew where I lived, or how to
find me, but she was at my doorstep one night. If she’d been in any other state when she arrived,
I’m not sure that I would have let her in, but she was like a madwoman.

I barely said anything. I touched her shoulder, maybe, or said ‘How are you’ or something
inconsequential like that, and she came apart. She was weeping so hard she could barely stand.
She’d gone to see the babies. She was telling me all of this in quite an emotional state, you
understand, so I was never entirely certain whether Cissy actually confided in Molly that she was
having difficulty getting pregnant, or if she felt that after so much time being close that Molly
should know without being told, but Cissy mentioned something, and Molly said something
foolish. That much was perfectly clear. She made some thoughtless joke about, ‘oh, help yourself
to one of mine,’ and Cissy took it as unendurable cruelty. Narcissa half-convinced herself that
Molly was doing this to her on purpose, having babies one after another like that.

By the time she managed to tell me the whole thing, she was digging at her stomach with her nails,
like she thought she could crawl inside herself and find you hiding somewhere. I was trying to calm
her down and pull her hands off of her. I had her by the wrists, and she looks me right in the face
and says ‘Why isn’t this happening?’ I’ve never heard her voice sound like that. I’ve never heard
anyone sound like that.

She had you two years later, but by then of course the damage to the friendship was long since
done. There was no missing your birth. I get the Prophet. She took out two full pages. You were
her miracle and her treasure and her world from the moment she saw you, and no choice you ever
make could change that. It’s bound into every strand of who she is.”

Draco turned the card over and over in his fingertips. “That’s why you said yes when Tonks and
Theo asked if you’d take me in, isn’t it? You want to see her again. Do you think she would, when
all of this is over, if you’re both there to see it? Do you think you have a real chance to have her
back?”

Andromeda rested her cheek in one hand. The other reached halfway across the counter toward
Draco, fingertips just brushing against the smooth surface. “I would have taken you in regardless.
But yes, I have my own hopes. We’ll see if they come to pass, but whatever happens between me
and Cissy has very little to do with what happens between you and your mother. That’s what that
card is for.”

“What do I say?”

“Draco, I’m trying to tell you it doesn’t matter. There is nothing you can say that will mean more to
her than knowing you’re alive, and there is nothing that could disappoint her enough to diminish
that.”

So he didn’t write anything. He clipped a few strands of hair to prove it was him and tucked them
 with the blank card into the envelope, and sealed it for Andromeda to post through the anonymous
parliament of owls in Diagon Alley.

He felt lighter, at least for a few days. The news came in the day after the new term began at
Hogwarts. It sounded like a rumor at first, too outlandish to be true. The Death Eaters had been
capturing Ministry officials and other dissenters for months, of course. Some had been killed or
imprisoned, or sent to St. Mungo’s following a “nervous break.” A few had simply disappeared.
Somehow no one had thought the Death Eaters would target a child. But Luna Lovegood didn’t
make it back to Hogwarts after Christmas break. Xenophilius had something the Death Eaters
wanted, and until they had it, they’d keep his girl locked behind bars, at the mercy of the
Dementors of Azkaban.

Chapter End Notes

The idea of Narcissa risking everything for Draco the way she does in the Battle of
Hogwarts, the audacity it took to lie to Voldemort's face, knowing full well he was a
murderer and a torturer and a *mind reader,* became so much more poignant to me
once I had my family.

I wrote out a timeline for when kids were born and what ages the three women were
and what was going on, and it felt easy to fill in what could have happened between
them. If you're interested, this is what I worked out:

Bill 1970 (M 20, A 18, N 15)

Charlie 1972 (N 17, so she’d be deep in a relationship with Lucius, possibly engaged.
Andromeda has just married, in scandal, and is expecting. She’s seen N cooing over
M’s babies and waver over saying anything in support of A, ultimately deciding not
to.)
Tonks born 1973 (A 21, N 18. Fuck, so Narcissa likely ignored the birth of
Andromeda’s baby outright, because acknowledging it would jeopardize her own
wedding)
Percy 1976 (A 24, N 21. The sisters aren’t in communication. N has been trying to
conceive since her wedding, and Percy’s birth is painful for her, especially if M is
making any “you next” comments)
Fred and George 1978 (N 23. This seals it for the friendship. N’s been trying to have a
baby for 4 years, possibly even says? something? about it to Molly and Molly is not
sure what to say/swimming with 5 young children, including 3 under 3, and makes
some stupid flip comment and it blows everything to hell because there’s no way N
can tolerate it.)
Late 1979: M announces at some Pureblood party that she’s expecting again (with
Ron). Timingwise, this happens the same month that Narcissa conceives, so she
doesn’t know she’s finally about to be pregnant herself. N has been trying for 6 years.
This time she’s the one who says some icy, vicious thing, and the Weasley/Malfoy
feud goes two ways now.
Draco born 1980 (N 25). Her miracle boy.
 The Raid of Azkaban
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco huddled with the rest of the Order on a high flat plain near the sea, wind whipping through
his hair and clothes, straining to hear the sound of beating wings.

The sea roiled with black waves with white foam that glowed in the moonlight whenever there was
a gap in the clouds. Far out in the midst of the water, Azkaban lurked like an enormous black
barnacle on a craggy lump of rock. Next to him, Hermione held his hand.

“Anything yet?”

“Any minute,” Draco said.

Hermione pursed her lips. “They’re ten minutes late,” she said primly. “It’s the headwind, I’d
expect. I hope they’re not too tired once they get here.”

Draco looked out toward Azkaban again. The sky was undisturbed except for the movement of
clouds there, too. He knew better than to be reassured.

Dementors had multiplied unchecked since the summer, when the Death Eaters took over the
Ministry. The Order needed any Patronus-wielding witches and wizards they could rally if they
hoped to succeed. Their numbers were meager enough. Nine of them, against an unknown army.

A cry pierced through the whistling of the wind. Then Draco saw the Thestrals, their leathery bat-
wings swinging up and back like scythes, their skeletal legs galloping on air. Their necks thrust
back and forth as they charged. Only the front Thestral had a rider. The rest followed in a close,
coordinated pack, corralled from behind by a slip of a figure with streaming red hair. They wheeled
in a wide arc around the islet where Draco and the others stood. One swooped out at a sharp angle
from the rest, jaws open, and crunched into a shearwater flying low over the water.

Hermione nudged an inch closer. “Where are they?” she whispered.

Draco lifted one finger discreetly, tracing the arc of their flight. The lead Thestral plummeted
groundward, Kingsley Shacklebolt at the reins. Draco took a step back, pulling Hermione with
him.

“There,” he murmured to her, pointing at the spot where the second Thestral touched down.
“There. There. And there.”

Ginny zipped down after the last of the Thestrals, hopping off her broom while it was still moving
and catching the handle up under her arm with an expert flip of her wrist. “Sorry we’re late,” she
said. “The herd’s frisky tonight. We flew right into a colony of bats at dusk, and so we had to take
an unscheduled break for a snack.”

Lupin grinned—it had to be said—wolfishly. The Thestral nearest to him skittered a step sideways
when he reached to catch at its bridle.

“Beautiful things by moonlight, aren’t they?”

The moon was two days away from true fullness, of course, or Lupin wouldn’t have been able to
help Apparate people near Azkaban, never mind aid the mission itself. He wasn’t quite the same
as usual, though. His face was leaner, sharper. Hungrier. Draco could hear the growl lurking under
his voice.

“I’ve waited for years to tear this hell open.”

“Good. Another ten minutes won’t kill you, then,” Moody grunted. “In forma- tion!”

The easiest plan, considering the lack of battle experience for most of the people involved, was to
treat the traveling portion of the mission as a demonically high-stakes Quidditch game. Lupin,
Shacklebolt, and Moody took the lead as Chasers. They formed a protective triangle that shielded
Harry (Seeker, even now, Draco thought with disgust) and Seamus (Beater). Harry’s job was to
maneuver his Thestral as close to Azkaban as possible to spot a weak point to use as an entrance.
Seamus would follow by broom to provide defensive cover and blow their chosen entryway open.

The Weasleys were dual Keepers, guarding the back of the group. Draco had to admit they made a
smart pair, tactically. Both had strong, dependable Patronuses. Ron was larger and stronger,
positioned to fly his broom just overhead of the rest of the group. Ginny, light and agile on her
broomstick, would dart here and there just below them to watch for incoming attack.

That left Draco and Hermione, sharing a Thestral in the middle of the team. They were Beaters,
too, there to add the power of their Patronuses to cover the group. They also carried a cargo of
broomsticks. The rescued captives would need the support of a Thestral’s back, so Order members
would fly back out by broom.

“I hate this,” Hermione whispered as they shuffled around the others to take ground formation. “I
really hate this.”

“Can’t say I’m a fan, either,” Draco muttered. “Here. This one’s ours.”

Considering Draco’s sensitive stomach for battle, and Hermione’s fear of flight, Moody and Lupin
had determined the pair were best off riding a Thestral together for mutual support.

Hermione put a hand out, feeling until she made contact with the Thestral’s shoulder. Her voice
pitched a little too high. “Okay. Okay. This is fine. I can’t see the saddle, Draco, do you know why
that would be? Probably part of the overall thaumopsychological shielding effect?”

“Save the lesson for when we get back, Granger,” Draco said. “Mind the brooms.”

“Right, of course.” She felt for the stirrup, poised her foot, and swung up. One hand closed tight on
the invisible pommel. The other ran nervously along the animal’s shoulders and the neck vertebrae
that poked through the coarse mane. “It’s so thin. Are they all this thin?”

Draco hoisted himself up behind her and took the reins. He felt strange, both finely attuned to his
surroundings and preternaturally calm at once. His fingertips registered the seam of the reins and
the sparse hair on the Thestral’s shoulders. A lock of Hermione’s hair tickling the hollow between
his collarbones. A Thestral behind him puffed a blast of air, and Draco’s ear on that side twitched
on its own, like a cat’s.

Moody cupped one hand around his mouth to shout against the wind. “Listen up, all of you! I’d
like to tell you this will work like the broom drills. Fact is, it likely won’t, and we won’t know how
it’ll go hairy until we’re in it. Constant vigilance! That’s more important than any spell you know.
Fire up your Patronuses at will and keep your bloody eyes and ears open. You on the Thestrals—
Potter, Malfoy, Granger—how’re you sitting?”
Potter flashed a thumbs-up. Hermione nodded fast when Moody looked her way. She didn’t
unwrap her fingers from the pommel.

“Malfoy, ready to fly?” Moody called.

Draco shrugged.

“Close enough,” Moody said. “All of you know who your Chaser is. You go where they go. If that
means we pull out of the mission, you pull out. No heroics. Potter, that means you.”

Potter pulled a face, but didn’t raise further objection.

Moonlight glinted off Moody’s mad eye. “You aren’t going to like me for saying it, but my job
isn’t to make you like me. So: We might not get everyone out who we’re here to get. If I say
someone’s too far gone to survive rescuing, they’re weight we can’t afford to take with us. When
Kingsley and I say we go, get on your transport and don’t look back.”

When they took to the air, the first thing Potter did was climb, urging the Thestral on with whoops
and extravagant gesturing with the reins.

“Is Potter even capable of doing anything without showing off?” Draco said.

“You’re one to talk,” Hermione said. Her voice still sounded tight, and she was leaning back into
Draco’s chest, but she’d handled takeoff well. “Remember with Buckbeak? He’s connecting with
the Thestral. He’ll be back down in a second, and he’ll be flying well enough to make you sick.”

“Careful,” Draco said, surprising himself with a teasing note in his voice. Maybe it was the number
of near-death experiences he already had under his belt, or the warmth of a pretty girl sitting
between his legs. He didn’t even feel scared yet, really. The smell of the sea was everywhere, and
the bracing cold of a winter night. Maybe this was how Gryffindors felt all the time, what they
were always chasing.

The first Dementor materialized out of nothing. A low-hanging wisp of cloud turned too dark, and
the damp chill in the air took on a rotten stench, and then a grisly hand reached for them, glistening
with soggy white sores.

Draco yanked the Thestral’s reins out of instinct and revulsion, not strategy. Hermione yelped and
clutched his thigh. She leaned her shoulder against his left arm, angling back toward their original
course, and yelled in his ear.

“Keep steady!” Her hair lashed his cheek. “Follow Harry! I’ll cover you!” The tip of her wand
began to glow as she summoned the magic for her Patronus. Her left hand still gripped his thigh.
Difficult to say whether she was steering him with the pressure of her fingers the way he controlled
the Thestral, or if she was clutching onto him for dear life.

The otter twirled in midair, gliding gracefully toward the Dementor. Where its light touched, the
edges of the Dementor’s cloak seemed to evaporate away. The Dementor hissed and changed
course, heading back toward them. Draco remembered a moment, long ago, wanting to be picked
up but Daddy was gone somewhere and Mummy was leaving again and she was crying and he
didn’t know if she was coming back and he wanted to go with her but a House Elf was holding his
arms back so he couldn’t and shushing him and the house was big and empty, and he couldn’t be
more than two years old, could he, asked the distant, rational part of his mind. His father’s hearings
happened when Draco was still toddling around in nappies, and his mother still left him —

“Hey!” Hermione’s voice cut through. “Hey! Snap out of it!” She half-turned in the saddle to face
him, putting a hand on his face. “You’re better than this, Draco. You’re smarter and stronger, so
focus. I’ve got you, I promise.”

Draco bunched the reins in one hand and raised his wand. Hermione turned forward again. She
kept one hand on him. Draco concentrated on the brightness of her Patronus, and then his dolphin
joined the fight. The otter tumbled jubilantly toward the dolphin, nuzzling up against its smooth
silver sides before racing back toward the Dementor. The dolphin rammed through the Dementor,
dimming slightly as it pushed into the black center. The Dementor sagged. The otter bit and clawed
at the hood and hands, shredding anything it could grab. The dolphin came around for another pass
while the otter clamped onto the Dementor’s neck, and the Dementor disintegrated.

“Over here!” Lupin called. Draco looked. The Chasers had sped ahead, tracking Potter, and they
were swarmed with what must be at least six or eight Dementors. Lupin’s barn owl Patronus raked
its talons and beat its wings against the figures. Moody’s Patronus didn’t have a distinct shape,
which didn’t prevent the piercing brightness from incinerating a Dementor into a wisp. Still, dark
stains kept appearing, taking shape with their sucking mouths and gray hands.

“Where’s Ron?” Hermione shouted. She twisted in the saddle again and directed her Patronus back
toward Ron and Ginny. Draco looked back in time to see the stallion Patronus rear and strike a
Dementor in the face, winking it out of being in one powerful blow.

“They’re in good shape,” Draco said. He held his breath and steered their Thestral closer to Lupin,
Moody, and Shacklebolt. The Dementors were clustering and multiplying. They almost
overlapped, one decaying robe flowing into the next. The robes weren’t truly robes, Draco thought.
They were part of the Dementor itself, an undulating piece of its body that only mimicked human
clothing.

“We need to clear a path!” Moody yelled. “The blasted things are coming in too thick for the
Seeker.”

Hermione gasped. “Draco, look down!”

“Don’t look down, Granger,” Draco said automatically, and then he looked down and realized she
wasn’t talking about the height. The Dementors were shaping themselves into a funnel, blocking
the way to the fortress below.

“He’ll pass out if he tries to fly through that, Patronus or no Patronus,” Hermione said. “We need
to break through for him.” She pushed her hair back from her face and fired her Patronus again into
the thick blackness.

The lynx, stallion, and Moody’s formless Patronus followed Granger’s into the funnel, leaving
Draco, Ron, and Lupin to cover the group. Little by little, the eye-watering darkness seeped away
into normal night.

A sound of wings, and Potter descended. He rose up out of the saddle, balancing on his heels in the
stirrups. He leaned forward, one hand caressing the Thestral’s neck, and seemed to whisper
something to the animal. The Thestral flattened its wings against its flanks and dove in a tight
spiral.

Seamus pitched his broom down to chase Potter. Draco lost sight of them in one more burst of inky
darkness as Dementors poured out of the walls of Azkaban. Then a fireball bloomed, immediately
followed by a pulse of silver light that dissipated the Dementors.

“Move!” Moody pointed. “While we’ve got an opening.”

Flight. Think of it as flight. A night ride, like so many others. Don’t think of the destination don’t
think of Father having to spend nights in this place between trial and sentencing don’t think of
what’s waiting down there just fly, and do it now.

Hermione shouted and clenched her knees against the Thestral’s sides. When they reached the
ground next to the broken wall, she wasted no time in getting solid land under her feet. She leaned
a hand against the wall.

“You could give me a warning next time, Draco Malfoy,” she said. “Gods, that was fast. I’d say
my life flashed before my eyes, but there wasn’t even time for more than half of it.” Despite her
quickened breathing, she had her wand in her hand, and her eyes surveyed the surrounding area,
looking for possible threats.

“Hermione?” came a soft voice. The top of a blonde head appeared from behind the wall, and a
pair of large eyes that shimmered silvery-gray-blue in the shifting moonlight. Luna’s eyes had deep
bags beneath them, like bruises. Her skin stretched over her cheekbones and frail chin. Her nails
were ragged. Her fingertips brushed the rough edges of broken stone like she didn’t understand
what she was seeing. “Seamus, is that your spell? It’s very effective, isn’t it?” Her eyes lifted again.
“Draco, it’s nice to see you.”

“Lovegood,” he said. He could see thready blue veins in her temples and eyelids. He didn’t know
what to say. “How are you?”

“Tolerable, I suppose,” Luna said, swaying slightly. “I would very much like to leave here. I
suppose that’s why you’ve all come?”

“For Godric’s sake, of course that’s why we’re here,” Ron said, stepping forward to wrap an arm
firmly around Luna’s waist. “I’ve got her. Move out. Find your Chaser and get the others. Harry,
you all right, mate? Can we get Luna on your Thestral?”

“Yeah,” Harry called over one shoulder. He was already moving on, Seamus at his side. “Moody
went this way. I’ve got to keep up. We need to find Ollivander, if he’s here. He’s got information
we need.”

Ron laced his fingers together to give Luna a boost onto the Thestral’s back. “Think you can
manage a Patronus for the way out?”

“They took my wand, of course,” Luna said, sounding more dazed than usual. “I don’t know where
they put it.”

“We’ll find it,” Hermione said, grabbing Draco’s hand.

“Obviously, what an excellent idea,” he drawled. “This is Azkaban, Granger. You don’t know
what’s in here.”

“We are,” she said darkly, letting her silver otter lead the way down the dank corridor.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Draco said, darting one last look over his shoulder at the starlit sky
before following her.

The air inside Azkaban stank of ammonia. There was no light beyond what seeped in through
windows or the broken section of the wall. Dementors didn’t have eyes. Why should there be
added light? The floor was slick with sea spray, smears of pasty gruel, other smears.

“Look how clean it is,” Hermione whispered.

Draco stopped walking. “Have you gone barmy? It’s filthy in here.”

“No, it’s not. It’s dark and damp and cold. Yes, there’s a spill there. It’s fresh. Someone might have
dropped it when the explosion happened. There’s no old stains anywhere. There’s not a spot of rust
on any of the metal in here. With all the damp in the air? That’s an impressive feat, even with Anti-
Ox potion.”

“It stinks of piss.”

Hermione made a noncommittal sound. “Some, most likely. Lots of Muggle cleaning solutions use
ammonia, though. You smell how sharp it is? It looks like a haunted house, but it smells like a
hospital. Stands to reason, really. The Dementors won’t get much good out of the prisoners if they
die. They need to be alive in here long enough to truly despair.”

Draco almost said something irritable back. Then he looked again at the watchfulness in her
stance, the way she licked her lips and tightened her hold on her wand before pressing forward. He
edged nearer.

“Keep close to me, will you?”

“Yes, good idea,” she said, sounding relieved. “It wouldn’t be good for either of us to get caught
without backup.”

He dug in his pocket for the foil-wrapped chocolates they all carried. He handed her a few. “Here.”

Hermione smiled. “Thanks.”

“That was a lot, up there,” Draco said. “Why didn’t they affect you? You can’t tell me you’ve
gotten into that kind of trouble with Potter and Weasley before.”

“Not with quite that many Dementors, although third year was...particularly full,” Hermione said.
“And they do affect me.”

“What do you do?”

“Other than get quick with a Patronus? Think about facts. They feed on feelings. If you focus on
something that’s true, not just something that makes you happy, the Dementors can’t get at it.”

“So that’s why you’re giving me a lecture on prison hygiene.” Draco rolled his eyes, creeping
forward with her. He thought he could hear rustling inside some of the cells, and he was trying
hard to convince himself he couldn’t. “For what it’s worth—”

“Ssh,” she said. “Listen.”

Crashing echoed from up ahead. Metal clanged and scraped against stone. Shouts.

“Keep your Patronus going,” Hermione said, picking up her pace.

Draco cast, sending the dolphin into the darkness ahead of them. When they reached a turn,
Hermione stopped and pulled a chunk of white chalk out of her pocket.

“Sounds like the noises are coming from the right,” she said. She drew a long blaze on the stone
before heading down the next corridor.

Draco looked over his shoulder at the chalk mark glowing faintly in the moonlight. “Did Moody
tell you to bring that along?”
“It’s just good sense. I’ve read the fairy tales. I’m not getting us lost in here.”

“That’s really resourceful, Granger.”

She smiled. “Gryffindors aren’t all bluster with nothing to show for it, Malfoy. Now come on.
Whoever’s making those noises is moving.”

They continued marking each turn and listening for crashing metal until they found Lupin, blasting
open doors one by one.

“No light,” he growled. “No real heat. No blankets on the bloody beds. No comfort. They don’t let
them out to bathe, they just come round and hose the prisoners down.” He reared back, kicking
repeatedly at a cell door before firing his wand at the lock, blasting it open in a shower of sparks.

“Have you found anyone?” Hermione said.

Lupin seemed to need a moment to remember before answering. “Hestia Podmore, an Unspeakable
at the Department of Mysteries, and Bill Weasley.”

“Why aren’t you with them?” Hermione pressed.

A slice of moonlight cut through the clouds, flickering over Lupin’s face. “Bill will see her out. I
showed him the way. I’ve got my own business with Azkaban.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips. “You’re supposed to be our Chaser. We’ve come looking for
Luna’s wand. If you’ve found the others we’re here to rescue, shouldn’t you be making your way
out?”

“You go on ahead,” Lupin said, and Draco heard it again, the low growl beneath the words. He
tugged at Hermione’s sleeve.

“We need to move on, Granger, this isn’t a good place for us to be.”

“Luna’s wand—”

“She’ll have to get a new one.” Draco said. “The others are already headed out. Do you really want
to risk our lives for a wand, at this point?”

“Check this stretch with me, at least, so we can tell her we tried. That looks like it might be a
supply closet.”

Draco followed her, flinching every time Lupin sent another cell door crashing open behind them.
While Hermione fiddled with unlocking enchantments for the door, Draco’s uneasy gaze landed on
a (mercifully empty) cell nearby.

The walls of the cell were marked with white scratches in the stone. The bottom few feet of the
walls all the way around were scratched with thousands of parallel lines, crisscrossing over each
other. It looked like the desperate scrabbling of a trapped animal. In various places, the prisoner
had scratched against the stone blocks enough to dislodge small chips. Draco didn’t know how
human fingernails could achieve such a thing.

Further up the wall, a horrible transformation took place. Words emerged from the mindless
scratches, scraped into the walls in rough, wobbly lettering.

Bright tonight, Moony, watch yourself

Kill the rat kill the rat kill the rat

All these years, Moony, no visit? Leave it to me why don’t you, old bastard

My soul for a map

“There’s wands in here,” Hermione said. “I’m not sure how to tell which ones belong to whom, but
we can take a handful with us and see if any match.”

“Look at this, Granger,” Draco said. “Some poor bastard went completely out of his mind. He was
trying to get to the moon.”

Hermione looked inside the cell. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“What did you find?” Lupin said. He started walking toward them.

“It’s empty,” Hermione said quickly, coming forward as though to curtail his progress, but it was
too late. Draco saw Lupin’s face change as he looked over Hermione’s shoulder and into the cell
behind her. His lips moved, shaping the words on the wall. The livid scars on his face contorted as
his face twisted into a soundless wail of despair.

Lupin sent a fiery blast roaring out of the tip of his wand, shimmering the air with heat. The
wooden cot and windowsill ignited with smoky, greenish flame.

“Reducto!” he yelled, aiming his wand at the shaky writing. The word ‘Moony’ exploded into
rubble. “Reducto! Reducto!”

He tipped his head back and howled, a wail of grief and rage and a horrible sort of triumph.

“Never again!” he shouted, over and over. He was turning his attention beyond the cell, which was
reduced almost completely by now to rubble and splintered wood. Spell after spell tore out of his
wand. Draco couldn’t even hear which incantations Lupin was shouting against the crash and
rumble of explosions.

Draco put both hands on Hermione’s shoulders, bringing his face close to hers.

“He’s going to try to bring this whole place down!” he shouted. “Granger, get us out of here!”

“We can’t just leave him!” she yelled back, twisting free of his hands. She looked down the
corridor where Lupin stalked, a prowling figure pelting the walls and pillars and ceiling with
curses.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re going to do?” Draco said. He grabbed her hand again. “He’s
not your teacher right now. Granger. Please. There isn’t anything we can say that’s going to
matter.”

Hermione looked back and forth, torn. The moment of indecision gave both of them time to look
more closely into the shadows of the other cells. Draco and Hermione realized it at the same time.

The Dementors were mostly cleared from the corridors, which meant prisoners’ minds were
clearing—if they had a mind left.

The Dark Lord hadn’t emptied Azkaban, when the Death Eaters broke into the prison. He didn’t
care about rewarding those who’d served him before, or even ending their relentless torment. He’d
wanted to recover those who were still useful to him. Those he deemed not loyal enough, or too
broken by the punishment they’d endured, he’d left behind. Now, between the damage that Seamus
had done to the exterior of Azkaban and the wreckage Lupin was creating inside, several prisoners
were testing the doors of their cells, and finding the frames loosened enough to prise bars out and
yank on weakened hinges.

In moments, the madmen of Azkaban were taking their first steps outside their cells in years.

Hermione’s shoulders squared. “Go!” she yelled, pointing.

Draco didn’t need to be told twice. He’d wanted to bolt since setting foot inside Azkaban. He ran,
trusting that she’d keep up with him, and she did, her footsteps pelting a reassuring rhythm and her
spells echoing in the corridor.

“Stupefy! Petrificus totalus! Cast a bloody Patronus, Draco, I can’t do everything at once!
Stupefy!”

Draco heard clatters. The wands Hermione had jammed into her pockets were falling free. The
commotion and the flood of emotions were drawing the Dementors back, too. Draco almost ran
into one as it sucked free from the walls.

He pivoted on his heel to get away, but the Dementor seemed to sense his plan before he knew it
and glided forward, cornering him. Draco's mind went blank as the clammy, dismal sensation crept
over him. Then the silver otter burst out from under the Dementor's hood, wriggling in front of
Draco and baring its teeth at the Dementor.

Draco darted out, reaching for Hermione's hand as he started to run again. Behind him, Draco
heard a crackle of magic as one prisoner lifted a wand and tried an experimental spell.

Just before they reached the doors to the outside, Lupin’s owl swooped overhead. Draco looked
back to see Lupin running behind them as well, face pale.

“Don’t let them get the brooms!” he yelled hoarsely.

Draco’s side pinched. Azkaban’s most insane prisoners, free and clear with a broom to take them
anywhere they wanted. “Fuck, Lupin,” he wheezed, sprinting at the door.

Shacklebolt and Moody were loading people up on Thestrals. Moody squared into fighting stance
as soon as he saw them running.

“What happened?” Then he saw the first of the escaped prisoners appear in the doorway. He put
two fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Load up and move out! Cover the Seeker! I’ll catch up!”

Hermione looked pale. She reached a limp hand, feeling for their Thestral. Draco put a hand on her
waist. She accepted his boost. When he climbed up behind her, her legs were trembling.

“You okay?” he said.

“Just get us out of here.”

The Thestral took flight. Draco looked down. The figures on the craggy strip of land surrounding
Azkaban were already small. He could see flashes of light as they fought.

Luna looked semi-conscious, astride a Thestral with Ginny. Ollivander was secured to another’s
back with long bands of cloth. He was groaning softly. Seamus was bleeding.
 Moody’s Thestral rose, but there was a shadow behind it. A skeletal man, beard matted and
twisted, clinging to a broomstick with desperate insanity. He held a wand in his hand. The other
arm was stained black with the Dark Mark.

Moody fired a curse and missed. He fired another that set the broomstick on fire, but the man
cackled and careened toward the Thestral. He came in perilously close, swiped at the reins and
missed, angled around again, burning broom smoking. The prisoner took aim at Moody with
whoever’s wand it was he held in his grasp, and shouted, “Avada Kedavra!”

Green light ripped through the darkness. The Thestral’s neck spasmed back like a dead bird, front
legs curling. Then it was spinning away, leathery wings fluttering limp.

Hermione’s shout tore Draco’s eyes back up. Moody hadn’t fallen with his Thestral. In the fight
with the prisoner, he hadn’t seen the Dementor emerging from the clouds. Now his body hung
slack, horrifically suspended in midair. The Dementor’s tattered robe ensnared Moody’s legs,
bound his arms fast to his sides. It stuck to Moody’s skin. The Dementor’s hands choked under
Moody’s jaw, forcing his head back. The opening of its hood dipped toward Moody’s face.

The Dementor emitted a long, rattling sound. Moody’s struggles became much more feeble. The
Dementor pulled back briefly to relish its meal, exposing Moody’s pallid face.

“Avada Kedavra!” Kingsley Shacklebolt shouted.

This time, the spell aimed true. Moody went rigid, then limp. The Dementor clung on for another
moment, then released its grip, sending Moody’s body plummeting into the sea.

Draco felt Hermione’s breath catch. Her hands spread on either side of the Thestral’s bristly mane.

“Oh,” she said, like the word itself was a wound. “Oh, Draco, I can see it.”

“Go!” Shacklebolt yelled. “Don’t waste his sacrifice! More Dementors will come.”

They couldn’t stop at the spot where they’d Apparated. They needed to be further out of the
Dementors’ range. They flew for miles before Shacklebolt spotted another outcropping of rock
large and stable enough to support the group.

As soon as they touched down, Hermione slid off the Thestral’s back, shuddering. She wrapped
her arms around herself. Draco climbed off. His legs felt heavy. The terror he’d felt inside Azkaban
was gone, but what was left didn’t feel like bravery, either. He mostly felt numb.

“It had begun the Kiss,” Shacklebolt was saying. “Better that he die with his soul intact.”

Draco touched Hermione’s shoulder, and she turned to him with a small cry.

That cut through the numbing clamor of voices and commotion as the other survivors landed and
started seeing to the rescued and the wounded. Hermione was a Gryffindor, but even Gryffindors
had their limits, and she was leaning hard enough into him that he knew she’d fall if he let go. So
he shut out the rest of what was happening and cupped the back of her head, swaying with her.

“It’s over,” he whispered near her ear. “Baby, it’s over. We’re out. We’re going home.”

Chapter End Notes

Bravery, especially Gryffindor bravery, is such a powerful part of the series. I really
wanted to think about both what bravery looks like pushed to its absolute limit in
Hermione, as well as how far Draco has come from the simple cowardice of his earlier
years.

The majority of the Patronuses in this chapter are canon, with the exception of Draco's
(of course) and Lupin's. Because sure, Wolfy McWolfface the werewolf whose
deepest fear is the moon would have his happiest thought and animal affinity tied to...a
fucking wolf??? JKR, I love what you made, but dear God, woman. The owl to me
suggests understated power and of course the ability to live completely free of fear of
the moon.

Finally, a housekeeping note: We are basically at the end of my chapter stash! I have
one more complete and in my beta reader's hands, and I write more evenings than not,
but the last few chapters are going to have to take a little longer to reach you. I just
wanted to let you know that when a Friday rolls around without an update, I'm not on
hiatus or abandoning the story or any such nonsense.
 The Elder Wand
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“What do you mean, they’re real?” Hermione demanded.

The rest of the Order looked back at Ollivander, who sat bundled in a shawl in the chair nearest the
fire. The wandmaker’s skin was sallow, and his eyes were sunken. The mane of hair Hermione had
seen when she met him at his shop years ago had dulled and thinned, like an end-of-season
dandelion. He had a scarf wrapped multiple times around his neck. Since Azkaban, it seemed that
no matter what Andromeda tried, it was almost impossible to make Ollivander feel warm.

“The Elder Wand, certainly,” he croaked. “An object of incredible power, even legend, but its
history is chronicled by wandmakers through the ages. It is the pinnacle of wandcraft, fascinating
to any of us who study the power of wands.”

“It’s a story,” Hermione protested.

“You thought magic was just a story, at one time in your life,” Andromeda reminded her.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean everything is true,” Hermione said. “What’s next? Is Babbity Rabbity
a real person, too, or—rabbit-person?” She felt inexplicably, irrationally furious about it.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Granger,” Draco said.

“I hardly think I’m the one being ridiculous here!” she snapped. “Do you think that You-Know-
Who was tucked up under the covers reading a bedtime story, and decided to make it part of a war?
We’ve spent more than a year going after Horcruxes. We nearly died trying to find them and
destroy them. Dumbledore’s gone because of them. And now you tell us it’s time to go searching
for something completely different?”

“The Horcruxes are important, too,” Tonks said. “It’s not like you’ve wasted efforts. Four
Horcruxes are destroyed. He feels it, we know that.”

“How?” Draco said.

“Because he appears to be changing tactics,” Tonks said. “If he felt invulnerable, why capture
Luna? Why interrogate Ollivander and Xenophilius? This is strategically important to him, so we
plan a counterstrike and cut him off.”

“I don’t much like the idea of stopping the Horcrux hunt, either,” Harry said. “Dumbledore was
pretty clear with the three of us that we had to destroy them all in order to defeat Riddle. I think we
should stick to his plans.”

“Are you that sure you were Dumbledore’s confidante, Potter? Seems to me that he kept plenty to
himself, right to the end,” said Draco.

“He did leave me the book,” Hermione said slowly. “It’s the first place where I saw the symbol for
the Deathly Hallows. Maybe he meant to tell us what to do with it at some point, but he ran out of
time.”

“The Peverell brothers really lived,” Ollivander said. “They’re recorded in Pureblood genealogy.
The male line became extinct many years ago, but some descendants are traceable even now. The
brothers were talented wizards. Several spells and potions are credited to them. It was
Dumbledore’s belief that the brothers created the Hallows themselves, and the story of the bargain
with Death.”

“What would he want with them?” Harry said.

“The Potters are descendants of the Peverells,” Lupin said. “We know You-Know-Who takes the
link between you seriously. He likely thinks if he can control the Peverell’s artifacts, he could
overpower whatever magic has kept him from defeating you all these years.”

“Do we have information about the location of the Hallows?” Andromeda asked.

Lupin and Kingsley looked at each other.

“We have theories,” Lupin said. “Nothing certain, as I’m sure you’d imagine. We’ll speak to Harry
privately, later. For now, let’s work under the assumption that the Elder Wand is the only Hallow
that we understand to be an actual magical object.”

“What happened to the wand?” Draco said.

“Dumbledore was the last Master of the Elder Wand,” Ollivander said. “He came into possession
of it after his duel with Grindelwald. It is now buried with him, out of reach of the Wizarding
World.”

“That’s why they wanted Hogwarts!” Lupin exclaimed. “Only the Headmaster or Headmistress can
access the catacombs. When sending Death Eaters in as teachers didn’t work, they had to take over
the school.”

“What do you mean, take over the school?” Ollivander said.

“There was a coup, a few months ago. McGonagall was deposed from her position as
Headmistress. Snape is Headmaster of Hogwarts now,” Lupin said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Because Ollivander was shaking his head. “It cannot be true. You told me Snape was the one to
defeat Dumbledore. He is Master of the Elder Wand, the only one for whom it will reveal its true
nature. But if Snape serves the Dark Lord, then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will seize mastery
from his servant. The Elder Wand must be protected, at all costs.”

Lupin spread his hands helplessly. “There’s nothing to be done, at this point. Snape has held
Hogwarts for months. If You-Know-Who wanted to use him to access the Elder Wand, we have to
assume that it’s already happened.”

“Then we are lost,” Olivander said. “As Master of the most powerful wand ever created, what will
stop him from claiming the other Hallows, in time? Then, if the legends are true, he will have no
need of a Horcrux any longer. If he controls the Hallows, he will be the Master of Death.”

On mornings when Andromeda Apparated out early to Diagon Alley, no one could sit still.
Potterwatch broadcasts were increasingly sparse, due to the steady increase in Death Eater raids, or
possibly Snape’s command of Hogwarts. Even Order members didn’t always know where
everyone was stationed, so Kingsley and Lupin didn’t know for certain whether Lee Jordan had
returned to Hogwarts or was in a safe house unknown to the Order.
Mail days could bring any kind of news. Not to mention the risk Andromeda assumed when she
ventured out to meet the twins at the joke shop. While they waited, Hermione, Draco, and the
others at Andromeda’s fidgeted, left the tea to over-steep and sipped the bitter liquid anyway, and
got increasingly snippy with each other.

Finally, on this particular morning, she returned, cheeks red with the cold.

“Ron and Ginny, for you,” she said, holding a thin envelope out. “Fred and George told me there
isn’t much to report, but Bill is probably with Fleur by now, assuming he hasn’t run into trouble on
the way. Letter for Seamus, message from the Westinburgh delegation for Nymphadora and
Remus. And one for—Pierre.”

A loud scrape as Theo shoved his chair back, scrambling to get up from the table. “That’s for me.
That’s from Hannah.”

“Pierre?” said Millicent.

“That’s what she calls me.”

“Ugh, Nott, we eat in here,” Blaise complained.

“Shut up.” He skimmed over the letter, one finger lifting to touch here and there on the parchment.
“Anyone have a quill handy?”

“You need to write her back right this moment? Quite the enthralling love affair.” Blaise stood
fluidly and sauntered to glance over Theo’s shoulder. “Her French is atrocious,” he commented.
“It’s bisous, not bisoux. I assume she meant to write passion, not poisson, unless she intends to
embrace you with fish. And there’s certainly no ‘A’ in coeur.”

“She means every letter she writes to me,” Theo said. “Every. Single. Letter.” He accepted a scrap
of parchment and a quill from Millicent and began rereading the letter, following Hannah’s curly
handwriting with his finger and jotting down letters on the parchment. A few times he wrote letters
above and below the main line.

“Could be either of these,” he muttered to himself. He reviewed his piece of parchment, scratched
out a few letters, and began to dash brackets, separating the string of letters into groups. “D-A-D-
A-T-W-N-S-C-R-X-O-I-O-K-D-A-O-N.”

“I smell a Nott code,” Draco said.

“Let it never be said that the admittedly somewhat pointed Malfoy nose has ever been known to
fail its owner,” Theo said. “Although in this case, it is a Nott-Abbott code. Nott-’Bott? Is it better
to shorten it?”

“The Malfoy nose is a paragon of refined dignity that only serves to elevate an already aristocratic
face,” Draco said. “And no, portmanteau nicknames are an abomination, never speak it again in my
presence.”

Theo wasn’t listening. He was frowning at the parchment. “Lupin, who’s teaching Defense Against
the Dark Arts?”

“Rumor has it Amycus and Alecto Carrow.”

“Consider it confirmed. DADA TWNS,” Theo said. “They’re torturing students. The Cruciatus
Curse. Hannah abbreviated it, but CRXO sounds an awful lot like the incantation to me.”
“Is she all right?” Hermione asked.

“She says she is. That doesn’t mean they haven’t hurt her, but it seems like at least she doesn’t
want me to worry, at this point. And DA is running, for whatever that’s worth.”

“Oh, good,” Hermione said.

“It’s worth something, Nott,” Draco said. “They look out for each other. They won’t let anything
too bad happen to her.”

“I wonder if they could help find the last Horcrux hidden in the castle,” Harry said. “Can you send
a message back?”

“Potter, what do you take me for? Of course I can write back to her. Easy,” he warned, as several
people rushed forward to add their messages. “There are only so many spelling mistakes even a
Hogwarts dropout can make.”

War, Hermione was learning, most often looked like stuffy meetings and endless talks belaboring
the same points and weighing the same strategies. When action and inaction both cost lives, the
Order was caught in an unforgiving game of measuring out the risks.

She found Harry down by the pond, tossing rocks out over the scrim of ice, seeing which ones
skidded over the surface and which cracked through into the water. He looked Hermione’s way as
she crunched through the snow to him. He looked peaked and thin. He wasn’t wearing gloves to
protect his hands from the cold of the rocks and wind.

“You missed the meeting,” she said.

“They’ll find me when they need me,” he muttered. “They always do. Whenever they think of
something I ought to do for them, they don’t have any trouble reaching me. When I actually have
to face him, that’s when they disappear.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Hermione said. “They’re still arguing in circles about whether to make a
grab at the last Horcruxes or go after the Hallows.”

Harry shoved his glasses more firmly atop his nose. “I don’t think they know what they’re doing.”

“It’s hard to get a sense of what’s going on. Potterwatch was our last reliable source of news. There
hasn’t been enough confirmed information to do a broadcast in weeks, even if we could get in
touch with Lee. We’re all trying to sort the real stories from the rumors.”

“It’s not just that. My whole life, Hermione. My entire life, I’ve had the Ministry and professors
and Aurors and Merlin knows who else telling me I’m our best shot against Riddle. There’s
prophecies about me,” he said, not without a tinge of boastfulness.

“Prophecies aren’t always true. I think they’re hardly ever true, to be honest.”

“But the longer all this drags on, the more I think they’re guessing at it, every time. Like, they
think it’s got to be me to do it, whatever it is, but they don’t really have any idea what it’s going to
take to defeat him. They’ll just keep trying, and throwing me at him with whatever theory they’ve
got this time, until he dies or I do. Now Kingsley’s telling me the invisibility cloak might be the
cloak. The one the youngest brother used.”
Hermione shoved her hands deep in her pockets and looked at the ice. “Harry, Death isn’t a person.
It’s a story. The Grim Reaper didn’t appear out of nothing and strike a bargain with a human being
over a bridge.” A thought tickled at the edge of her mind, the look of wonder and fear on Draco’s
face when he touched the cloak for the first time.

“Right, I’m not saying I think that part’s completely true either. Although Thestrals don’t make
sense, and they’re real. But say it was made by a person. Maybe even Ignotus Peverell, like
Ollivander said.” Harry looked at her sidelong, a glint of mischief in his green eyes. “He’d have to
be the most skilled invisibility cloak maker on the planet, yeah? You have to admit, the fact that
we never got caught with all the schemes we pulled at Hogwarts feels like more than luck.”

“Well, that’s the truth,” Hermione said.

“I told Ron about it, too,” Harry said. Hermione felt a twinge of jealousy, that he’d gone to Ron
first, but Harry was getting more animated. “He said he’d heard of invisibility cloaks before, but
they’re really rare, because they wear out so fast. It’s weird that mine works so well. The
enchantment is perfect, even after who knows how many years. It belonged to my dad, and he
inherited it, too. What if it really is something special? Think of everything we’ve done with that
cloak, and we never knew.”

Hermione was, in fact, thinking of what she and Draco had done under that cloak in the Slytherin
dorms, and she was hoping Harry’s usual obliviousness would make him fail to notice how red her
cheeks were. “That would be quite something, wouldn’t it?” she said faintly.

Harry sighed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Hermione,” he said. “I keep thinking about
the very beginning, when those letters kept pouring in, and Hagrid came and found me. It all
seemed...I mean, obviously it is magical, but you understand what I mean. It was like something
out of a dream. Magic was real, and dragons and unicorns were real, and I could have cake for
dinner every night, if I wanted. And people knew me, and liked me, and it was all—perfect. But
people lie here, too. They’re just the same as anyone else. They twist things around and try to make
you do what they want, and who’s to say if I was ever actually destined to face Vol— him, or if the
professors and Ministry and even Dumbledore just chose me because he randomly killed my
parents when I was a baby. What if the whole thing is a lie?”

Hermione stared at Harry. Then she grabbed his hand. “Give me one of those blasted rocks.” She
pitched it over the surface of the pond. It cracked through the ice, disappearing in a wink below the
dark water. “Lots of people will die, if you don’t do this.”

“Great,” Harry said. “Nothing I didn’t know already, Hermione. I’m under enough pressure as it is,
thanks.”

“It’s not pressure.” She met his disbelieving stare. “You know what the real difference is, between
you and Draco? You asked me, in the woods, and I know we weren’t thinking the same way then
as we are now about lots of things. But I think the reason he ended up where he did at the end of
sixth year is he was never really able to face what would happen to him and to his soul and
Hogwarts and his family and everything he cared about if he gave in to what You-Know-Who
wanted. He’s always going to have to fight the part of him that tells him to make easy choices,
instead of looking for what’s right. He’s trying. I think there’s a lot to admire about what he’s done
and who he’s turned out to be. But you’ve always known how to look for the right choice first.
You’re brave enough to face what could happen to you, and what could happen if you don’t go,
and make your own choice from there. You’re not going to end up trapped.”

*
This time, Andromeda returned from Diagon Alley with a perturbed expression on her face.

“Forgive me, Theo,” she said. “The seal was tampered with on your letter. I had to be sure all was
in order.”

“What’s that?” Lupin said. He reached for the paper Andromeda held. The parchment was
different, lighter than the paper Hannah used for her letters, and folded differently. Hermione saw
the alarm flash over his face, before he tried to hide both his expression and the paper. He was
quick, but not fast enough, not when the room was full of canny Slytherins and Gryffindors with
reflexes sharpened by actual battle. Before he could shove the paper out of sight beneath his robe,
they all caught the signature at the bottom of the page.

Code Breaker

“Someone’s cracked Nott’s code,” Ron said.

“An ally?” Ginny said.

“Doubtful,” Blaise said. “Hiding behind a nom de plume. Keeping the upper hand.”

“Are we still safe here?” Millicent had shot to her feet, fingertips poised on the table like it was a
starting block, like she was ready to run and pack.

“Andromeda gets the mail at an unassigned roost at the Diagon Owlery,” Hermione said. “It
shouldn’t trace back here.”

“‘Shouldn’t’ is a shaky word to hang lives on,” Theo said.

“Emergency Order meeting,” Lupin said. “Right now.”

In the parlor, they read the letter in full.

That which you seek is here, but lost

Find it where it is Hidden

(He will understand)

Be ready

The dragon in disgrace must rise again

“That is,” Theo said into the silence, “not the kind of reassurance I was hoping for from someone
tampering with my girlfriend’s mail.”

“What does it mean?” Harry said.

“Who could have sent it?” Tonks said, one arm curled around her belly and a feather sticking out of
her messy topknot.

“Who’s got access to the Owlery at Hogwarts?” Hermione said.

“Faculty,” Draco said. “Which essentially means professors and Filch—”

“Who is out of the question, naturally.”

“So narrow down by professor, then,” Draco said. He held up a finger. “Sprout’s out. Far too
straightforward to pen something like this. This level of cryptic feels more Trelawney’s speed—”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Hermione said. “Trelawney’s a basket case at the best of times. There’s
no way she’s got a cool enough head to put this together with Death Eaters in the school.”

“Not tactful, love. You’ll want to watch that if you’re after a career in the Ministry,” Draco said.
“Not wrong, though. McGonagall, much as it pains me to admit, is a good candidate here.”

“You really think so?” Hermione breathed in relief. “I thought so right off, but I didn’t want to be
first to say it—”

“I’m not saying she’s the only option, either. Flitwick’s sharp, for all that he likes to dance around
in Charms. And we need to at least consider the possibility of Snape.”

“Not a chance,” Harry growled.

“After what he’s done?” Ron demanded.

“Draco, honestly, I’d have thought you of all people,” Hermione started.

“Why do you say that, Draco?” Lupin asked.

“He likes riddles and mysteries,” Draco said. “The style’s a good fit. And you’ve all said how
Dumbledore kept a tight hand on information about the Horcruxes. If the beginning of the letter is
meant to allude to one, there’s only so many people who would know that he had made any, never
mind what they were and where. A Death Eater on the inside matches that description better than
Professor Flitwick.”

“Except that if Snape likes secrets so much, why tip his hand?” Hermione said. “And if he’s a
Death Eater, why send information to the Order? Whoever sent this was warning Theo, as well as
delivering their own message.”

“Because it’s a trap,” Tonks said. “If the message is from Snape, he’ll try to lure us into action with
misinformation.”

“That seems like a strange plan,” Lupin said. “Acting as double agent doesn’t work anymore once
you’ve killed your leader on one side. Snape’s chosen his side. He’d have to think we were
incredibly stupid to trust him now.”

“So it is McGonagall, then,” Hermione said. “They can remove her as Headmistress, but they
didn’t—or couldn’t—make her leave Hogwarts, and now she’s sending us information from
inside.”

Lupin clasped his hands in front of him, shoulders heavy. “We need to consider both possibilities.
This message might be encrypted information we need from an ally, or it might be a false or useless
message designed to waste our time, or lure us into a trap. We need to proceed as though either case
could be true.”

“What does that mean?” Theo said.

“It means we don’t rush into any rash decisions,” Lupin said.

Hermione groaned and threw her head back against the chair.

Tonks leaned forward to swipe at a piece of parchment on the low table in front of her, missed,
spread her legs a little more to make space for the belly, grunted as she reached forward the last
inch to get the parchment, and retrieved the quill from her hair. She settled back, using her belly as
a resting pad for the parchment. “Right,” she said. “Read the letter out again. We’ll go through it
line by line.”

It seemed, at last, that the Order had reached a dead end. The letter didn’t seem to offer helpful
information to further the search for the Horcrux inside Hogwarts, nor did it lend insight into how
to enter the castle. The wand and the cloak were located, which essentially tied the score between
Voldemort and Harry. It seemed that the Resurrection Stone might be their best avenue to give
Harry an edge, but no one knew where to start looking.

Meanwhile, Andromeda’s housed ten teenagers (since Luna’s arrival) and four adults. They needed
normalcy, and Andromeda made it clear that, as much as possible under the circumstances, a slight
degree of privacy and quiet might be helpful to recharge, so most of them ended up picking up shop
jobs here and there. Working a few shifts per week staved off a little boredom and supplied pocket
money.

Hermione was bored sometimes, naturally, but it felt less unbearable than before. At Nott Manor,
she’d felt like the Order was planning and executing missions without her. Now, if there was
nothing going on, at least she was still as close to the center of things as she could get.

An unexpected benefit was that she spent much more time than she ever had at Hogwarts with girls
outside Gryffindor. She and Ginny, Millicent, and Luna met up sometimes to split a pizza and an
order of garlic knots and enjoy a few hours’ respite from the racket at Andromeda’s.

“Did the Order ever figure out what that message was, then?” Millicent asked one night.

Hermione sighed. “They’re still working on it. It didn’t give us a whole lot to go on. Whoever the
Code Breaker is, they seem to have a lot of faith in the Order’s ability to tease out a riddle.” She
couldn’t help glancing at Luna.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked to sit in on any Order meetings.” Ginny, as usual blunter even
than Hermione was, ostensibly addressed her comment to both of the other girls, but she, too,
seemed to eye Luna more closely.

Luna shook her head. “I see lots of different answers when I look at riddles, and the Order is only
looking for one. I’d only be in the way.”

“What about you?” Hermione asked Millicent. “I’m sure they’d say yes, if you asked.”

“Nothing comes for free,” Millicent said. “If they say yes, they’ll expect to hear it back, sooner or
later. I haven’t decided on my answer yet. Besides, Draco and Theo will tell me if there’s anything
relevant to me.”

Ginny bristled. “I thought the war was relevant to everyone.”

“She doesn’t mean it like that,” Hermione said.

Millicent sat back an inch in her chair. “And you know how I mean it, Granger?”

“I think so,” Hermione said. “I used to think we all needed to join forces and fight against the
Death Eaters. I thought it meant going after You-Know-Who directly, like we worked on in DA,
and like Harry and Ron and I have done, but it’s not always like that. Look at the four of us. Ginny
and I have done some missions together, but she wasn’t at Godric’s Hollow, and I wasn’t with her
to help people escape when they needed it. And you can act aloof if you like, Millicent, but I know
you and Draco have been brewing healing potions.”

“You forgot to say something nice about Luna,” Ginny said.

“No, she didn’t,” Luna said, delicately peeling apart a garlic knot. “She thinks I haven’t been
helpful, but she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings by mentioning it.”

“Ollivander says you kept him alive in Azkaban,” Millicent said. “That’s useful enough to the
Order to do for a while. Better than Lupin, from what I hear tell. Wasn’t he the one who got Moody
killed?”

“It was more complicated than that,” Hermione said. “There wasn’t any way to prepare completely
for what it was like in there, and Lupin and Sirius were so close.”

Ginny nodded. “Even Harry had to admit there wasn’t anything we could have done differently.
And you know how he gets, when he thinks someone’s died because of him. Lupin thought Harry
would hold a grudge against him forever, but they went for a walk together and talked it out.”

“Luna, it’s not just Azkaban,” Hermione said. “You’ve been involved in DA, and you’ve always
helped when you could. You still can, of course. If you wanted to take a crack at solving the Code
Breaker’s letter, I know the Order would be thrilled to have your opinion. You’ve had it the worst
of any of us, so I didn’t want to assume you were going to jump straight back in.”

Luna smiled. She still had a more wan complexion than usual, highlighting her fragile features.
“I’m sure I’ll find my way back, when the time is right.”

“Can I talk to you?” Draco asked one afternoon in early March, an agitated edge to his voice.
“Right now?”

“Of course,” Hermione said.

Draco started pacing, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Not here.”

“Are you okay?”

“Is anybody okay? Is anyone ever going to be okay again? What kind of question is that?”

“Okay, okay, settle down,” she said. “Just—let me get my shoes? Where do you want to go? Is out
back all right?”

“Potter’s moping out back again.” Draco picked up speed, cloak brushing against the furniture
when he swiveled to pace back the length of the room. “Because of course bloody Potter is in the
way every second of my entire cursed life—”

Hermione grabbed a coat at random off the coat tree. “Out the front, then. I’m ready. Let’s get you
out of the house.”
She had to break into a trot to keep up with him outside. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’ve only been living in every safe house the Order knows about for the last seven months and I
haven’t had a second of sodding privacy.”

“Here,” Hermione said, taking a sharp left toward a small playground. It was far too chill and
blustery of a morning for any parents to subject their toddlers to time outside. The rubbery swings
were swaying by themselves in the wind. “It’s just us now. Talk to me.”

“I’m not a fighter, Hermione!” Draco burst out. His hands found their way out of his pockets, and
he starting twisting one of the swings.

“Okay,” Hermione said, waiting for more.

“I mean it,” he said. “I know I did the Gringotts thing, and there was the whole bloody mess with
Azkaban, but just because the Order drags me out by the ear every so often doesn’t mean I’m any
good at it.” The chains on the swing creaked in protest.

“Draco,” Hermione said, trying to summon tactful phrasing. “It’s, um. It’s really great that you’re
so keen to help, now. But the Order is trying to determine a way to contact Dumbledore’s Army
and see if it’s possible to locate and destroy the Horcrux, and train Harry for a duel, most likely.
The big one. That seems to be what You-Know-Who is angling for, so it’s a matter of trying to
make it happen on ground we choose. So, and again don’t take this as anything against what
you’ve done, but I don’t think they really need you right now.”

“What if we’re all wrong about Potter and it’s supposed to be me, all along?”

Almost reflexively, Hermione put her hands on her hips. “Oh for goodness’ sake, Draco, I know
you and Harry need to have your competitions, but this is really taking it a bit far, don’t you
think?”

Draco let go of the swing, sending it spinning faster and faster as the chains untwisted. “Granger,
name the conditions of defeat in a Wizarding duel. Go.”

“Death,” she said. “Or death of the second, if duellers have agreed on seconds. Forfeit by non-
magical contact. Magical incapacitation, such as Body-Binding Hex, Cobweb Jinx, et cetera, or by
rendering the other party unable to continue the duel.”

“I took his wand.” Draco sounded hoarse. “When I got to the top of the Astronomy Tower. I cast an
Expelliarmus as soon as I saw him, before he started saying all those things to me, and before the
others showed up. Snape killed the Headmaster, Hermione, but I took his wand.”

“Oh my God,” Hermione said. “You’re thinking the wand he was holding was the Elder Wand?”

“I had it,” he said. “I touched it. I disarmed Dumbledore, and the wand flew right into my hand. I
left it at the top of the tower, in the confusion of everything, after, but no one took it from me.”

“Well. Holy shit,” Hermione said. She sat down on the swing. “I’ll admit, that might change
things.”

Draco started turning her, emphasizing every sentence with a twist of the chains. “He hurt my
father. He threatened my whole family. Everyone’s looking at Potter, but don’t I have every right
to hate him, too?”

“But the prophecy,” Hermione said. “It’s not about you.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve chosen right now to start believing in prophecies.”

“No,” Hermione said. “Harry does. You-Know-Who clearly does. The Order, too. But you’re right.
It’s not like the prophecy specifically names Harry.”

“Not to mention the message. What if it’s a new prophecy? The dragon in disgrace doesn’t exactly
sound like Potter.”

Draco let go, and Hermione watched the world spin.

“I don’t understand why now, though. Why would it work out like this? You-Know-Who has been
chasing Harry, only Harry, since he returned. Harry fits the birthday in the original prophecy, not to
mention that he ended the first war when he was only a baby. It just doesn’t make sense for You-
Know-Who to change targets now.”

“What makes sense is he’s after someone to hate. I’ve been caught between both sides, just like the
wand, and it chose me. If the Elder Wand is mine, maybe that means something. Dumbledore
called me the boy who made all the wrong choices. I think he was wrong about me.”

“He was. He was wrong about everything important about you, you know that.” Hermione
hesitated. “How sure are you that you’re really the Master of the Elder Wand, though? You don’t
have it anymore. It’s good if You-Know-Who isn’t the Master, but I don’t know how much good it
does you without the wand in hand.”

“The wand chooses the wizard. That’s the first thing we learn about wands. If the Elder Wand
itself was the only thing that mattered, there wouldn’t be any difference whether the Master or
anyone else used it. It finds something in you and opens it up.” Draco took out his familiar
hawthorn wand. “Look.”

He waved the wand in a slow arc, and the playground changed. A shimmer in the air at first. Then
a cherry tree by the swingset that had been covered in tight buds burst into bloom. Crocuses sprang
out of the grass, opening yellow and purple-striped petals like surprised mouths. In seconds, tulip
stalks sliced their way out of the red mulch, budded, and bloomed. The cherry tree shed its
blossoms, petals tossing in drifts in the wind, dotting Hermione’s jacket. New green leaves were
already growing in its place.

Hermione looked at Draco. He was frowning in concentration, but not breaking a sweat. He wasn’t
even moving his lips, whispering incantations. It was sheer magic coursing through the wand in his
hand, and the cherry tree was drooping with dark fruit, and the grass was lush and thick. Draco
scooped a handful of ripe cherries just before the harvest plummeted to the ground and the leaves
blazed rich golden yellow. They cascaded next into the drying grass, and as Hermione watched,
flurries of snow whirled through the air and disappeared, and the firm little early buds reappeared
on the tree.

“It’s a good glamour,” she said.

“Not a glamour,” he said. He held his hand out to her, his fingertips stained with ripe cherry juice.
“You can eat them. They’re real.”

She tasted a cherry. It was perfect. “There must have been thousands of them,” she said. “You did a
whole tree, a whole year, in seconds. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“I can do lots of things. All the spells work the way I want them to.” Draco let out a short, bitter
laugh. “Maybe that’s why I survived in the woods. The magic got me through it.”
 “If you’re the true Master of the Elder Wand, what does that mean? What do we do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He leaned back against the metal frame of the swingset.

“Do you want to fight him?”

“No,” he said. “But the Dark Lord ruined my family, and he used me to do it. If the Elder Wand
chose me, maybe I’m supposed to use it to save them again. I may not be the Boy Who Lived, but
if he’s looking for Potter, maybe I’m the one he won’t see coming.”

He looked haunted. Something in his expression reminded Hermione of the beginning, the
moments of torment she’d seen when his guard was down, back before she knew anything about
what he was carrying. She reached for his hand, grateful that there wasn’t a question anymore
about whether he’d want her to.

“Are you telling me this because you really believe a surprise attack is our best chance to defeat
him? Or because you don’t feel like you have a choice?”

“Is there a difference?”

“You haven’t talked to anyone else about this yet, right? Okay, good. We can take some time and
think over what to do. One thing is for sure, though.” Hermione took his other hand, too, and he
laced his fingers tightly through hers. “Whether or not you want to fight him, whether or not we
find the Elder Wand, I’ll be right here with you. This time, whatever happens, we’ll do it together.”

Chapter End Notes

Happy Thanksgiving! I had another chapter ready, so I thought why wait until
tomorrow to post it?

The next chapter is coming along nicely, and I'm writing down bits and pieces of the
last two(!). I won't have one ready next week, and I'll be out of town for some holiday
travel besides, but hopefully the following week. I think I'll drop the Friday rule and
plan on posting each chapter as it's completed and reviewed by my first readers.

So I'm going to take a second and be shamelessly sentimental here, and say that this
Thanksgiving I truly am thankful for those of you who take time out to read, and
especially comment, on this story. Making anything I write publicly available was a
big deal for me, and I mostly would have guessed that the benefit of having regular
readers would be about building confidence in my writing life. And while this has
certainly been the case, I had no idea how meaningful this would be emotionally. I've
dealt with a lot of very difficult personal stuff in the last six months or so. Escaping
into this story, and reading your responses to it, has been something I could look
forward to even in the toughest weeks. I am thankful for all of you, more than I think
you know, and I wish everyone reading this a joyful, healthy, and love-filled
Thanksgiving.
 Hallow
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The news about Ted Tonks’ death reached Andromeda’s in late March. Snatchers. Andromeda was
at a loss for where even to begin inquiring whether there was a way to recover his body for a
burial. Four days later, Tonks realized midafternoon that the cramping in her abdomen was too
insistent and too regular to be muscle aches from crying.

A few hours later, when it was clear that Tonks would spend the evening laboring, Hermione and
the others packed themselves in the cellar to give her privacy. They could hear the floor creak
overhead every few minutes as she paced another slow loop through the main floor. In between the
bangs of Exploding Snap hands, they heard low moans swell to a crescendo.

“That sounded like a big one,” Hermione said eventually.

“Any idea how long this...business takes?” Theo said.

“Hours still, I’d think. We’re probably all going to have to sleep down here,” Hermione said.

“Get cozy on the floor, then. I’m not sharing,” Blaise said from his bed.

“We could sneak by her and keep to our rooms, couldn’t we?” said Seamus.

“I went upstairs earlier,” Millicent said. “Her water broke on the kitchen floor. Andromeda sent me
for towels and a painkilling potion. If you don’t want to risk ending up on your hands and knees
mopping up a mess, best stay put.”

“Is she really going to have a baby at home?” Hermione said.

Ron shrugged. “Our mum did it for all of us except the twins.”

Draco, who had fidgeted his way around the room for the past hour and a half, sneered, “Easy
enough once she’s that broken in. Don’t Weasley babies walk themselves out?”

“Shut your mouth, Malfoy,” Harry growled.

“Or what, Potter?” Draco puffed his chest out, his hands closing into fists to match the other boys.

“Or nothing,” Theo said firmly. “I sleep down here and I’d rather not see my bed blasted to bits,
thanks. Malfoy, mate, we’re all worried about Tonks, all right? Take it easy. Weasley, honestly, if
you and Potter are going to get that hot under the collar anytime Malfoy opens his mouth, you’ll
give yourselves a heart attack long before you have to deal with You-Know-Who.”

Blaise finished shuffling the deck and started dealing another hand. “Someone at a Wizarding
healing center might sell an Order member out to the Death Eaters. A Muggle hospital is not a wise
place to deliver the child of a werewolf and a shapeshifter. This is the only place she has.”

They stayed up for a while, talking and listening to Tonks groan and cry upstairs. At a certain point
they stopped being able to hear her as much, perhaps because she’d moved to her bed on the top
floor. No one mentioned leaving the cellar again. It was cramped, and stuffy with body heat, but
there was something comforting in being pressed shoulder to shoulder. Like a vigil.
Around midnight, Hermione noticed that Blaise hadn’t moved from his huddled position under the
blanket in some time. Ginny was asleep too, tucked into Harry’s shoulder. A reflection of light on
Harry’s glasses made it hard to tell if his eyes were closed or barely open, but his breathing was
regular. Draco propped up against the wall with a blanket over him, and Hermione lay on her side
with her head in his lap. Eventually she must have dozed for a while, too.

Around five-thirty in the morning, Hermione’s eyes sprang open to the sound of a soft knock.
Andromeda was in the doorway, looking worn but happy.

“He’s here,” she said. “I gave them a few hours to rest. He’s feeding again now, and I’m going to
put the kettle on and make Nymphadora something. She’ll be hungry, after all that work. She’s had
a chance to nap a little, and she said you all could come meet the baby.”

Draco stirred, nudging Hermione up off of him. The others were wiping their eyes and getting to
their feet, too.

“You’re sure it’s okay for all of us to go? Won’t it be too much?” Hermione said.

Andromeda pulled her cardigan tighter around her. “We’ve already lost too much. Nymphadora
wants the baby to have as much love around him as possible.”

Tonks was sitting back against a stack of pillows in her bed, holding the baby. Her top was loosely
buttoned. Hermione saw a tiny streak of blood on her chest. Lupin was in a chair next to her. He
smiled when he saw Hermione and Draco enter with the others close behind.

“He’s beautiful,” Lupin said. “Absolutely incredible. Dora was a superhero.”

“Oh, stop,” Tonks said, clearly pleased.

Hermione and Draco moved up by the bed to make space for the others.

“Is everyone doing all right?” Hermione asked.

“How much does he weigh?” said Ginny.

“About seven pounds with me standing with him on the bathroom scale,” Andromeda said. “I’m
afraid I don’t have the right equipment for an official measurement.”

“What matters is he’s here,” Tonks said. “And he’s perfect, and I feel wonderful. Mostly,” she
added with a wry grin. Strands of hair were still flattened against her temples and the side of her
neck, where the sweat had dried.

“What’s his name?” Harry asked.

“Teddy,” Tonks said. “For his grandfather.” She turned to Lupin. “Oh, God, we didn’t even discuss
it. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Lupin said. “Look at him. Who else could he be?”

“He’s so small,” Draco said.

“Do you want to hold him?” Tonks said. “Here, put your arms out.”

Hermione saw Draco look behind him to scoot away, but Tonks was already leaning forward to
nestle the bundle in his arms, so he sank to a stiff perch on the edge of the bed while Tonks tugged
his elbow into a cradle position. He looked down at the baby. Hermione saw the newborn’s fingers
splay out, and then the fuzz on top of Teddy’s head turned a familiar shade of white-blond.

“Oh, wow,” Draco murmured. He adjusted his arms unconsciously, tucking the baby more snugly
against him. Hermione had never seen an expression quite like that on his face. It struck her that
she wanted very much to see it again, someday.

“He’s just watching everything,” Draco said. “Hermione, look.” He leaned toward her.

She held her arms out to take the baby, with Tonks lending a steadying hand. Teddy fixed an
unblinking newborn stare on her face. It felt like he was memorizing her. With deliberate care, the
tuft of his hair darkened nut-brown and twisted into a springy coil.

“Remus, are you seeing this?” Tonks laughed. “Look at him, clever little imp.”

“Tonks, he’s beautiful,” Hermione said.

“Can I hold him, too?” asked Ginny.

Tonks nodded. “I want him to know all of you.”

When Ginny settled him against her, it only took a few seconds before the baby’s hair flared a
brilliant copper.

“For Merlin’s sake, pass him along before his hair freezes that way,” Draco said.

“Oh, shut up,” Ginny said, nudging her pinky finger into Teddy’s tiny hand.

Lupin stood to help pass Teddy gently from one set of arms to the next. Hermione looked at
Tonks. She looked so new herself, so much smaller without the familiar bulk of the belly. Her eyes
tracked Teddy’s every movement, brimming with protectiveness and love. Hermione thought she
seemed peeled open somehow, every part of her exposed and tender.

This was the point, she thought. The love was the point. Hermione had been thinking about this
war all wrong.

She’d known all along, of course, that the war affected people who couldn’t join in the fight. It
made it feel all the more important for anyone who had the strength and the stomach to handle it to
contribute their part. Times like these were what Gryffindors were made for. Brave, chivalrous.

It always got...more complicated, when it came to people who opted out for reasons besides being
too young or infirm. Hannah and Ginny hadn’t seemed as bothered by it. It was easier for
Hermione to see how quickly a Wizarding War caused Muggle casualties, too, endangering
millions of people who couldn’t even be told how vulnerable they were to an attack. To be fully
aware of the dangers of Voldemort’s regime and with magic at your disposal, and still to choose not
to fight? It was a struggle not to see it as the worst kind of cowardice.

She’d been trying to see the exceptions. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t understand why Luna
needed time, even after the obvious wounds from Azkaban had healed.

Underneath everything, it had always felt like there was a sort of order that developed naturally, in
times like these. You had the leaders and heroes and warriors, and the people who offered support
like brewing a cache of healing potions or running a safe house, and other people who would pitch
in in small ways, and a lot of people who would take care of their own families and maybe struggle
even to do that, and those were the people you fought to protect.
It wasn’t that the heroes were better, exactly.

You’d never look down on the people who were saved.

It was just a sense that the heroes were doing something worthy, and when it was time to
remember what happened, you’d think of how strong they were and how good it was that someone
had stepped up to defend the ones who couldn’t defend themselves. Remembering that you were
strong would help make you brave, when you needed to be.

Seeing Tonks with her whole heart laid out like this, exhausted and sticky and bare, was a gift.
Seeing Draco forget to guard himself was a gift. Feeling the way Hermione felt now, not just like
she could die for Teddy but that she ached with how much she loved everyone in this room, was
too beautiful and too much to carry with you all the time. You’d break.

She’d had it backwards. You didn’t fight out of some sense of noble duty to defend the weaker
ones who depended on you. You fought because you were the one who was helpless without them.
You depended on them, to show you who you were when you weren’t fighting.

“We’ve decoded what the letter means when it talks about the ‘dragon in disgrace,’” Lupin said at
the next Order meeting.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, I should hope so. It was rather obvious, isn’t it?”

Tonks nodded. “Hogwarts.”

“What?” said Hermione.

“What?” said Draco.

“‘Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.’ Never tickle a sleeping dragon,” Lupin said. “I’d say the
Death Eaters have disgraced her long enough. We’ve known for some time that one of the final
Horcruxes we need to destroy is concealed in Hogwarts somewhere. We’ll go in, send a squad to
destroy the Horcrux, and when You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters come—and they will—
Hogwarts will rise again. The Code Breaker is telling us to be ready, because our allies inside will
be prepared to stand with us and fight.”

“That’s,” Draco said, and stopped. “Are you sure?”

“It fits with the rest of the letter,” Lupin said.

“You’ve figured out the rest as well?” Hermione said.

Lupin’s knee jiggled for a second. Hermione thought of a dog, wagging its tail. “Yes, I think we’ve
worked out the whole thing, just about. We’re seeking the Horcrux, of course. The line about
finding it where it’s hidden didn’t seem helpful, until we realized that Hidden was capitalized on
purpose. The Room of Hidden Things is one of the forms the Room of Requirement can take, at
Hogwarts.”

Draco choked on air and stifled a cough behind his hand.

“I hid my copy of Advanced Potion Making there last year, Hermione,” Harry said. “The one from
the Half-Blood Prince. If the Code Breaker is Snape, he’d know that I’ve been there. That’s the bit
about He will understand.”
“Did I miss the meeting where you decided Snape was on our side after all?” Hermione said.

“There’s plenty of opportunity for us to talk outside of formal Order meetings, Hermione,” Lupin
said. Harry and Ron nodded. Hermione had noticed that Harry was keeping close to Ron lately, but
while she didn’t enjoy hearing that she was second to know, it didn’t worry her the way it might
have done at another time. Harry still talked about his fears more to her than Ron, she knew that
much. For her part, she and Draco had combed through the letter many times themselves, mulling
points on their own that she still hadn’t told Harry and Ron. They couldn’t insist on being first to
hear each other’s news all their lives. How much they valued each other’s opinion was a better sign
of the strength of their friendship.

“You’re convinced too, then?” she asked Harry.

Harry made a noncommittal face. “Maybe he’s sorry for what he’s done? Really the critical thing
is that Riddle’s as weak as I’ve ever felt him. He’s dangerous, too, because he’s scared. The Death
Eaters are getting bolder by the day. If we’re going to do something, we’ve got to act quickly.
Dumbledore’s Army and McGonagall will help us if Snape turns against us again on the inside, but
I think we have to trust him.”

“Even the fact that Harry played Seeker, and was lost for most of the beginning of the active part
of the war, fits, just about. That which you seek, here but lost,” Tonks said. “The ultimate duel will
have to happen between Harry and You-Know-Who, so it makes sense that Harry needs to arrive
and weaken the last of the Horcrux objects before facing You-Know-Who at Hogwarts, with our
allies fighting alongside us.”

Draco pushed his chair back. “I need air.”

“What’s wrong with Malfoy?” Harry asked, after the door closed behind Draco.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Hermione said. “First, though, are you all really sure? That letter wasn’t
exactly intended to be clear. Don’t you think Snape might have had another meaning in mind?”

A small, puzzled frown appeared between Harry’s eyebrows. “I think it’s what I’ve got to do.”

Draco was waiting for Hermione out back.

“It seemed so obvious,” he said. “I have the power, and I needed to be ready. I’m supposed to
redeem myself. You thought that, too! I’m not crazy.”

“No, of course not, it fits,” Hermione said.

“They want to see Potter in everything. They won’t even consider any option besides their Chosen
One being their champion in the end.” Draco waved a hand in exasperation. “I was even a bloody
Seeker, too, not that anyone remembers—”

“Okay, Draco? Sweetheart, we need to focus on the bigger issue here. We can get into Quidditch
later.”

He gave her a surly look, then sighed. “We were wrong about the letter.”

“We can go back in and explain what we’ve been talking about, if you want. If they know you’re
Master of the Elder Wand—”

“You didn’t tell them, did you?”

“No, of course not, not without you.”

“They think the letter is about Potter. You and I think it’s about me. What if everyone is only
seeing what they want to see in the message?”

“That...did actually occur to me,” Hermione admitted.

Draco paused, surprised. “Granger, we all know you’re brilliant, but how did even you piece
something like this together?”

“I had a Time-Turner, third year,” Hermione said. “One of the things McGonagall told me when
she was teaching me how to use it was that there were ways to split time off into different streams.
That’s why it’s so dangerous to go back and correct your mistakes. You have to stay consistent
with the other version of yourself, or you won’t find the right way back anymore. You sort of learn
a new way to navigate. Some choices are really obvious, like going the other direction down a
corridor so you don’t run into yourself from another timestream. Others are harder to see, at first.”

“Like the letter?”

“Like you said, everyone is reading into it whatever they were already thinking. Whatever we
come up with, this battle’s going to happen sooner or later, and afterwards the Order will point to
that letter as the thing that started it. The letter will mean whatever people decide it means, after
it’s all over.”

Draco nodded. “Yes. Exactly. I thought the letter was obvious, but if it’s not. Then it means the
dragon is only me if you and I decide I am. If we did, then that’s who I’d be to everyone. Forever.”

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. “You’ve only told me about the wand, and the power. You
told me you wanted to use the power against him. The Elder Wand chose you, there’s no denying
that. I’m not sure I’m following what’s changed. If it’s just that the Order has found another
explanation for who or what the dragon is, all we need to do is explain it to them.”

“You didn’t think I was the dragon in disgrace when you found me in the woods, or when you
came back to Andromeda’s. Tonks didn’t think I was the dragon in disgrace when she gave me her
baby,” Draco said. “I was the first one to hold him. If you don’t count family.”

Hermione heard the hesitation before the last thing he said, and then she understood. “You held
Teddy first because Tonks thinks of you as family, doesn’t she?”

He gave her a grateful smile. “They have something waiting for them on the other side of this. I
didn’t realize before that I could be a part of it. If we go back in there and try to convince the Order
that the letter’s about me, you’ll make a compelling case. You always do. You might even
convince them to put me up against him, instead of Potter. But if it means you’d have to choose to
see me as the dragon in disgrace, instead of something better than that, then I don’t want you to do
it.”

The Order chose the day for the mission to take Hogwarts. May 2, less than two weeks away.
Hermione and Draco were lying in the mattress-nest in the office. Hermione lay back against
Draco’s chest, one leg slipped between his. His top arm draped along her side so that his fingertips
brushed her hipbone. She could tell by his breathing that he wasn’t asleep. She rolled one shoulder
back just a little, to show him that she wasn’t sleeping, either. He kissed the side of her neck.

“What are you thinking about?” Hermione murmured.

“I don’t know.” He put his lips against the warm skin of her shoulder again. “The Deathly
Hallows.”

“What about them?”

“You should go back to sleep,” he said.

“No, I’m awake. I’m going to be thinking about it now, too. You may as well tell me,” she said.
No response. “Tell me?”

“All right,” Draco said. “Which would you pick, if you could?”

“Like, if Death showed up and offered me the choice?”

“Exactly.”

“The cloak, of course,” Hermione said. “That’s the whole point of the story. The other gifts were
traps.”

“Right, obviously. The story’s a crock. If the gifts all worked the way they were promised, though,
would you choose something different?”

Hermione rubbed her thumb on her breastbone, thinking. “No tricks?”

“You’re accepting a gift from a cheated Death, Granger.”

“All right. Assuming we can use the gift responsibly, at least. Maybe the wand, then.”

Even in the dark, she could tell he was smirking at her. “Why am I not surprised. You don’t think
anyone would come for your head, like they did for the first brother?”

“I’d hardly go around telling everyone I had it. I don’t want to defeat anyone, either. The most
powerful wand ever created? You could change the world. You could make magic so amazing—
the advances you could make, with a wave of a wand.” She could feel her heart quicken. “I’ve seen
what you can do.”

He slid his hand over her bare belly. “You wouldn’t even think about the other Hallows? Imagine
being able to protect the people you love, no matter what happened.”

“You’d choose the Resurrection Stone?”

“Sixth year would have been a lot easier if I’d had it. To be able to make a mistake without it
costing me everything? Not to mention that I seem to surround myself with people who plunge into
danger at the first opportunity.”

Hermione half-turned and kissed him. “Fair point.”

He kissed her back hungrily, pulling back only enough so they could look at each other without
their vision blurring. “The story lies, though. There never was a right choice. All three brothers are
haunted by Death, no matter what they chose.”

“Being the Master of the Elder Wand doesn’t mean you’re doomed to violence and death.
Dumbledore kept the Wand for nearly half a century.” Hermione paused. “I’ll admit, he did still
meet a violent death, but I think that’s something he knew and accepted.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he said. “It’s the way the Hallows warp your whole life around one
thing, and spoil it. Stories repeat, Granger. Look at my family. My Aunt Bellatrix would have
taken the wand in a heartbeat. She wanted power, and now she’s a lunatic and the Dark Lord’s top
torturer. My mother’s done everything she could think of to protect me and Father, and we keep
slipping further away from each other. And Andromeda’s out here hiding from the entire
Wizarding world. I know she seems happy enough, most of the time. You should hear how she
talks about my mother, though. Once you touch any of the Hallows, you don’t get to live life on
your terms anymore. They make it so easy to look at what you could gain if you have them, but
you don’t know what you’ll lose. I’ve been thinking about what I’ll lose, if I do this.”

Hermione pulled him on top of her, cradling his shoulder blades in her hands. “It’s okay,” she said.
“There’s still time. It’s your choice, this time. You can do whatever feels right.”

“No, I can’t.” Draco said it against her skin, so she heard it as something like a tactile echo in her
ears, like he was as close to her as her own thoughts. “Won’t I lose you, either way?”

“You’re not going to lose me. Draco. I promised you.” Had she known about all this muscle? She
must have done. He’d filled out again gradually under her hands for months. They’d spent almost
every night next to each other. So why was she struck now with an almost mournful sense that she
hadn’t touched him nearly as often as she should? Why did it feel so important, right now, to
memorize the shape of him? She could feel herself getting wet.

“Even if I have the Elder Wand, battles are about more than wandpower. You’ve seen that,” Draco
continued, still saying it into her body like that. “You’re never going to make a Gryffindor out of
me. I can’t beat him. I don’t even know if I could outduel a Death Eater who was ready to kill. If I
use the Elder Wand, I’ll die. If I don’t, you’ll never look me in the face again.”

“I don’t want you to be a Gryffindor,” Hermione whispered. She felt him huff a derisive laugh into
her shoulder. “I mean it. You’re sharp and smart and cunning. More than that. You’re thoughtful in
a way no one else I know is, and I think it’s because you’re cunning and clever and you don’t rely
on bravery to get you through hard things. It’s not only about being brave in the war, Draco. We’ve
been talking about what’s worth having on the other side.” She was going to say more, but he
closed the distance between them and nothing felt more important to say than kissing him could
ever be.

He was already hard. They still took their time. Hermione tasted the pulse in his neck with her
tongue. He touched her once between her legs and used his finger to slick her nipple wet, too,
rolling it under his touch until she squirmed. She kissed him again. Their bodies were pressed
together mouth chest belly thighs sliding back and forth together. He had his feet pressed into the
mattress outside hers, so she couldn’t open her legs for him. He rubbed against her like that, so his
cock was grinding low, aching pressure against her but couldn’t get at the sensitive skin on the
inside, where she needed it. She wriggled, but he held her still and dragged his cock up through the
tight space between her inner thighs and her cunt until the head just pushed through to her clit at
the top, and she almost came from that first direct touch.

He let her open her legs a little. Enough at least for him to feel how wet she was. Hermione was
thrusting her hips up toward him, trying to angle him back so she could catch him up inside her.
Draco got an arm under her shoulders and put the other under her hip and kept rubbing against her.
The pulse in her clit was going so fast she felt sore, and he was so hard. He picked up the pace so
every want want want beat in her clit got an answering thrum of heat and blessed friction.

She did come, then, and he got the head in while she was still coming and the way she felt herself
stretch to fit around it made her gasp. He gave her a second to let the spasm subside. Then he
pushed himself the rest of the way in, and it was like all Hermione’s bones went slack. Draco was
rocking his hips, stirring her. He went all the way inside her, paused, and then thrust deep, very
slowly. She was rubbing her clit almost on his lower belly now. She found feeling in her arms and
grabbed a fistful of his hair at the back of his head.

She could never talk, not really, when she was about to come. Her breath came in bursts and gasps,
a small sound every time he hit the deep point inside her that echoed against the higher, zinging
flashes of pleasure that piled up on each other until the whole thing went through her like a
shockwave and all she could do was hold on.

Draco’s breath was ragged. His movements were starting to hit little jitters in the rhythm, the sign
that he was on the verge. His head rocked back for a second before he shifted again into last few
fast, long strokes.

“I just want to live,” he whispered, voice rough in her ear. “I just want to live with you.”

When they were finished, Draco pulled her back into his chest. If magic had a smell, it would be
like this, heat and sweat and life.

They dozed for a little while in each other’s arms. It was maybe twenty minutes later or so when
they stirred again. Hermione still felt light and relaxed all over. The buzzy aftershocks in her mind
had receded, leaving her feeling pleasantly alert.

Draco adjusted his arm and pulled her close again.

“Potter’s going to die, if he goes through with this.”

Hermione felt a fluttering, cramping inside her. “He’s got a chance. He’s got the best chance of any
of us.”

“Hermione,” he said, almost gently. “Be honest with me.”

She couldn’t look at him and say it. “Yes. He knows it too, I think. He hasn’t said it outright to me.
But I think he knows.”

He rolled on his back and looked at the ceiling. “It’s hard to describe what it feels like, having this.
My magic feels different inside me all the time. It feels like, for the first time I can remember, I’m
—special, I suppose. Extraordinary.”

She arched an eyebrow. “For the first time?”

He touched her hand. “You know what I mean.”

She did.

Then Draco said, “What if Potter had the power? Do you think he’d win then?”

“Draco.” Hermione propped herself halfway up on her arm. “You’d let Harry defeat you?”

“That seems to be how the rules to it work.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Would you be okay with that? You showed me what this meant to you.
You wanted to restore your family name. Would you be okay with yourself if you didn’t do that?”

“All the brothers die in the end. The lucky ones were never near the bridge at all. If I let him take
this from me, maybe it means I choose my own story, instead of having the Hallows claim my life
for me.” Draco crossed a hand over his chest. “Maybe you think that makes me a coward.”
Hermione hesitated. “No.”

He looked away. “I know when you’re lying.”

“Look at me. I’m hesitating because I want to be really honest with you. I want to get this right.
This is important to me.” Hermione waited until he looked at her. Amazing to think that there ever
could have been a time that she wouldn’t recognize it as bravery, the way his clear gray eyes met
hers, expecting the worst and meeting her anyway. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I
love you right now.”

They headed out before dawn, just the four of them. Draco held Hermione’s hand, walking in front.
Harry and Ron followed. Draco wasn’t entirely sure where he was leading them. Somewhere far
enough away from the rest of the house, at least. Being willing to lose wasn’t the same as being
willing to be humiliated.

The predawn light wasn’t strong enough to have a discernible color, so it made the world look pale
and strange. They took a thin dirt path away from the main loop around the pond, through a small
glade of evergreen trees that stretched up like spears. Draco didn’t want to fight in the woods.

On the other side of the glade, there was a field with three trees standing sentry on the far side, and
a low, round hillock in the center. A fairy mound.

“Here,” Draco said.

“D’you want to tell me what this is all about?” Harry said.

“We’re going to have a duel, Potter,” Draco said. “I need you to disarm me.”

Harry looked puzzled.

“It’s important,” Hermione said.

“You brought us all the way out to the middle of nowhere to have a wizard’s duel?” Ron said.

“Draco, tell them,” said Hermione.

But he couldn’t. He’d meant to. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Potter to know, but he couldn’t bring
himself to say it. When it was just him and Hermione in their bed, Draco’d known that she
understood what he was giving up. Potter would feel entitled to the power, as always. The most
he’d offer would be an offhand, “Thanks, mate,” like Draco had done no more than lend him a
quill in class.

Draco curled his lip. “If Potter doesn’t have what it takes,” he started.

Harry gave him a haughty look back, drawing his wand with careless arrogance. “I’ve got what it
takes any day of the week, Malfoy, and you know it. I don’t know why you needed to drag us out
of bed for this, and to be honest I’ve got too much on my mind right now to bother asking for an
explanation. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Proper duel conduct meant Draco and Harry were the only ones allowed atop the mound.
Hermione stood at the base, off to Draco’s right. Ron took the opposite position, backing Harry.
They weren’t official seconds, this would be a straight duel, but the stance was traditional.
Draco bowed first. It was fitting, as the challenger. Not to mention that who could say if Harry
Potter had ever troubled himself to learn how to execute a correct wizard’s bow.

Harry bowed too, not as elegantly as Draco, but managed not to embarrass himself.

Draco waited, not entirely certain what to do now that the duel had officially begun.

Potter raised his wand, apparently not caring about trying to conceal his move. “Expelliarmus!” he
shouted, lobbing the spell Draco’s way.

Draco parried easily, indignant anger swelling inside him. Who the hell did Potter think he was?
How dare he yawn his way through this? Draco had walked the whole way out here feeling at
peace with the idea of handing over his unexpected power, but he thought Potter would understand,
even if he didn’t know every bloody detail, that he ought to treat this seriously. His insolence set
Draco’s teeth on edge.

He was Draco Malfoy, Master of the Elder Wand. He’d never entered a competition or started a
fight he didn’t mean to win. He’d give Potter a real duel, then. If the legendary Harry Potter
couldn’t defeat his schoolyard rival in a fair fight, he’d never make it a second against the Dark
Lord. If Potter couldn’t take the power of the Elder Wand from Draco by force, he had no business
wielding it at all.

Draco flicked his wand and dry leaves spun, picking up momentum and whirling higher as the air
churned itself into a funnel. He sent the cyclone racing toward Harry.

Harry ducked and rolled, hair and shirt whipping with the cyclone’s force. “What the hell?” He
pointed his wand.

The ground around Draco erupted in a series of popping explosions, like Wizard Crackers going
off.

“You plan on defeating the Dark Lord with that?” Draco traced a sinuous path in the air with his
wand. The waving grass around Harry lengthened and thickened into a nest of snakes twisting
around his legs.

Harry’s face split in an eerie grin. His mouth opened wide as he hissed a harsh, sibilant command.
The snakes peeled off of him and slithered with resolute malice toward Draco.

“No,” Harry said. “And I’m not entirely defenseless, either.”

Draco hopped around, dodging the snakes until he could fire a countercharm, leaving them limp
grasses once again. To buy himself time to do this, he cast a Quicksand Curse on the ground
beneath Potter, forcing Potter to scramble to keep from sinking inside the fairy mound.

Spells fired faster. Lightning, Body-Bind, Expelliarmus. Draco mostly concentrated his attack on
putting things in Potter’s path. Jets of purple flame, sinkholes. The spells that came to mind for a
direct attack were from his months training under his father and Bellatrix. Acid-Eating Curse. The
Gouging Hex. Draco didn’t actually want to kill Potter, just take him down a peg or two. Not to
mention that he’d struggled to send the Dark magic through his wand even without a familiar face
as a target.

Harry, meanwhile, stuck to simple, second-year jinxes. Nothing lethal. Barely even enough to
wound, mostly constant alternation between Expelliarmus and Stupefy attempts.

Draco favored a Shield spell to block, while Harry took advantage of his own agility to dart and
scramble out of the way, which let him focus on uninterrupted attack. He blasted rough magic to
pummel Draco’s Shield enchantment, weakening it so an actual jinx or hex had a better chance of
getting through. It was altogether a perplexing, inelegant way to fight, slapdash and scrappy and
difficult to predict.

Draco was gathering force for a Suspension Charm and maintaining his Shield when Potter
departed from typical dueling behavior altogether and charged halfway across the mound toward
him. Draco, startled, broke off mid-spell and went to hit Potter with a Body-Bind. Potter feinted
left, dodged right, hit the deck to duck Draco’s spell, and half-rolled to fire his wand under his
armpit, angling behind the protective barrier of the Sheild charm.

“Oscura!” he shouted, and Draco’s world went dark. Draco spun, wand pointed to where Potter had
been an instant ago, but he felt the knock of energy as Potter shouted, “Stupefy! Expelliarmus!”
again, and this time the wand whipped cleanly out of Draco’s hand as his back hit the earth.

Draco’s vision cleared, revealing the morning light and Potter standing over him, hand
outstretched. Draco took it. Potter helped him up, handed him his wand back, and said, “How’s
about now you tell me what’s going on?”

Draco lifted his wand. Harry darted back, raising his wand in a defensive stance again, but Draco
turned away from him and pointed his wand to the sky. He had a vision in his mind, a golden bird,
brilliant and powerful as sunlight, arcing through the air. He could almost hear the beauty of its
song.

It wouldn’t come. Draco could feel his own, ordinary magic struggle to build into the creature he
wanted to conjure and sputter out before it reached the end of his wand.

He was never going to get to see it. Even if he went back and practiced and read the spellbooks and
poured himself into Conjuring, his magic was never going to be good enough again to produce the
dazzling, soaring bird he could imagine in such perfect detail in his mind. A wave of helpless rage
and grief tore through him. He hadn’t thought of this in time. He should have held onto it, just for a
little longer, just until he could find the right spell and make something that he could keep with
him always, so he could remember what it was like to feel rare and wondrous.

“I can’t do it,” he said. Even he could hear how brittle his voice sounded. “It’s gone. I don’t have it
anymore.”

“What are you saying, Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly.

“Cast something, Potter. Anything. Do it, now.”

Harry made a quizzical face. “Lumos,” he said. His wand brightened. Not especially bright, just
the normal illumination charm they’d learned first year.

Draco frowned. “You might need to touch it. It might not recognize you until then, I don’t know.
Maybe it takes a while for the real power to unlock. It was like that for me.”

“Draco,” Harry growled. “What was?”

“The Elder Wand, Potter,” Draco said impatiently. “Don’t you get it? I took it from Dumbledore. It
made me stronger. Don’t ask me how it works. For all I know, having you defeat me when I don’t
even have the wand with me could make the power vanish altogether. Maybe no one’s Master of
the Elder Wand anymore. But if anyone has the power now, it’s you.” Loss ached in Draco’s chest.
He wanted to look away. He didn’t let himself. “Save the world with it.”
 Harry’s green eyes didn’t look away, either. Draco felt raw. Then Harry reached out his hand again
and caught Draco’s.

“I’ve fought for my life since I was eleven. Somehow, in all that time, I’ve never done a proper
duel before. An honorable one. I’m glad it was with you.”

When Draco came down, he saw tears in Hermione’s eyes before she embraced him.

“I’m so proud,” she whispered. “Gods, I’m so proud of you.”

Ron was coming around the side of the fairy mound to join them. Draco looked up. Harry was
standing alone, turning his wand over and over in his hands.

“Harry,” Ron called. Harry looked up and shoved his wand back in his pocket with a shiver. He
hurried down the mound toward them.

At the bottom, Harry reached for them. Ron and Hermione were ready for his embrace, already
reaching back themselves. For once, Draco didn’t fall back. Hermione’s hand was on Draco’s back,
and he was tugged into the circle with them. His hip was against Hermione’s, Harry’s arm wrapped
over his shoulders, Ron’s head was bowed forward so his hair brushed against Draco’s. All of them
breathing the same air.

“You’re my friends,” Harry said into the space between them.

And then it felt okay to let go, and make their way back to the house.

Chapter End Notes

One of many puzzles I have turned over and over in my mind for a long time as I write
this story (have I been writing this for two years?! Scarcely seems possible) is the way
that HP canon puts such a premium on a certain kind of bravery, and the problem this
poses for Draco Malfoy. He's not doomed to be a coward the way Lucius is, but
neither can I see him making it all the way into the action heroism that the Golden
Trio find so natural. I wanted to push him as far as I believed he could go while
staying true to himself, and it was important to me that Hermione could have a chance
to develop more nuance in her understanding of what it means to be brave.
 The Battle of Hogwarts, Part 1
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

They would take Hogwarts under the protection of darkness. They would come through any way
they could find. By air, by water, above and below ground.

Draco crept through the tunnel, half a pace behind Harry and Ron. Draco did not know how much
he trusted the man who claimed to be Dumbledore’s brother. Aberforth had told them the tunnel
behind the painting would lead them into Hogwarts. He had looked distrustfully at Draco’s Mark
and refused to say where they would find themselves in the castle.

At last, they reached a round door. All three of them paused before it.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco muttered.

The small smile Potter offered back held a hint of gratitude. “You wish.” He pushed open the door.

In the few seconds of silence that followed, Draco had just enough time to notice that the Room of
Requirement had taken the form of a giant treehouse, with hammocks swaying from rafters and
ladders connecting one furnished platform to the next. Bookcases were built into the pillars. House
banners hung from the walls.

Then the room erupted in cries of, “Potter?” “IT’S POTTER!”

Throngs of students rushed forward. It was only due to Ron's quick maneuver in front of Harry that
Harry wasn’t swept bodily away by an ecstatic crowd. Neville Longbottom was there, vicious cuts
marring his cheeks. Michael Corner, barely recognizable with his own scars and swollen eye,
slapped Harry and Ron on the back, grinning.

And then there was a shout of, “Draco!” and Draco had a split second to register flying braids and
that the voice was warm and delighted, not alarmed, before Hannah flung an arm around his neck.

“I’m so happy to see you!” she said.

“Hi, Hannah,” Draco said, bemused.

“I felt so awful about the way you had to leave, and then we heard the Den closed, but Theo said
you’d made it to Andromeda’s. I’ve been wondering how you were. Do you and Andromeda get
on?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “Fairly well, actually. Are you doing all right?”

“Hogwarts isn’t what she was,” Hannah admitted. She looked thinner, Draco thought. Her nails
were bitten down to the quick. The backs of her hands were crisscrossed with thin scars, except
unlike Draco’s, hers formed letters. Umbridge’s punishments overlapped, making the lines hard to
read. Draco saw “as I’m told” and “interfere.”

“Is Theo with you?” Hannah asked.

“He’s coming with some of the others by broom,” Draco said.

“Oh.” Hannah squeezed one of her hands hard with the other and managed a half-smile. “Well. I
suppose that means I might see him soon, then?” Her voice quavered.

No one was looking. Why should they, when Potter was the center of attention? Draco hugged her,
patting her back somewhat awkwardly.

“It’s just as well you missed seeing him get letters. He nearly knocked a chair over. It was
embarrassing, frankly.”

Hannah leaned closer against him briefly. Then she pulled back, blinked fast at the lights overhead,
and gave him a steadier smile.

“What’s the plan?”

“We’re looking for something,” Harry announced. “Something of Ravenclaw’s. It’s hidden in the
castle. I’ve got to find it and destroy it. The problem is, er, I don’t exactly know what it looks like,
and I don’t have anything with me that I can use to destroy it.”

“You didn’t bring the sword?” Draco hissed at Ron.

“It disappeared weeks ago. It’s goblin-made, and it’s under Merlin knows how many
enchantments. It comes for Gryffindors sometimes, and other times it just buggers off,” Ron
whispered back.

“Did you and Potter plan to follow the path into the castle and bloody wing it from there?”

Ron shrugged. “Basically. It’s generally worked out for us before.”

“For Salazar’s sake,” Draco muttered. He scanned the walls again.

“We’ve been living in here, mostly,” Neville was telling Potter. “The Carrows are the worst of it,
but Umbridge does her bit. They like to use DADA classes to make us practice Cruciatus. On each
other. Refuse, and you get held after for whatever punishment they feel like. After what they did to
Michael, I had to ask DA to stop mouthing off at them. Even if they won’t kill Pureblood kids, I
can’t ask anyone to put themselves in harm’s way just for protest. The Room still feels like the real
Hogwarts, but not much of the rest of the castle does.”

“The Grey Lady doesn’t often speak, but there’s a statue of Rowena at the stairs to our tower,” Cho
Chang said. “Maybe that could be a place to start looking?”

“Good idea,” Harry said. “Ron, you come with me and—”

“Where are the Slytherins?” Draco interrupted.

A few heads turned to look.

“Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff.” Draco pointed to the banners hanging on the walls.
“Where’s my House?”

“Ask Crabbe and Goyle. They love Cruciatus practice,” Michael said. “First thing they’ve excelled
at since they got here. Your girlfriend doesn’t seem bothered by the Carrows, either.”

“My—who the hell are you talking about, Corner?”

“Pansy Parkinson,” said Cho.

“God, Pansy.” Draco rolled his eyes.

“The Carrows and Umbridge aren’t half as hard on the Slytherins as they are the rest of us. We’ve
been living here to protect ourselves,” Neville said.

“None of the first-year Slytherins need protection, then? Or do they take it all right, when
punishments are half as hard as that?” Draco jutted his chin at Michael’s face. “Are any of you
standing up when the Carrows make a Slytherin third-year use Cruciatus on a classmate?”

“I did,” Hannah said quietly. “I interfered.”

Draco cut off from the tirade he’d been about to launch. “Thank you.”

“We’re prefects,” she said. “We have a duty.”

Draco turned back to Neville and the rest of the DA members he recognized. “You can’t call this
room the real Hogwarts if you’ve left one House to fend for themselves.”

“He’s right,” Harry said. “I could have been a Slytherin, easy. The Sorting Hat suggested it first.”
He ignored the gasps from a few of the Gryffindors. “We’ve got to fight for everything this school
means to us, not just the bits we handpick. Draco, why don’t you and Neville see if you can find
McGonagall? She’s got to know we’re here, and that it means You-Know-Who will be coming. I’ll
go with Ron and see the Grey Lady.”

Meanwhile, Hermione held her wand like a lantern before her, looking for the runes that marked
the safest path through the Forbidden Forest. Luna followed, then Millicent, and Ginny guarded
the rear.

“I’m as fond of Hagrid as anyone, but I wish he’d leave more helpful runes,” Hermione said,
squinting at a scratch in the bark of an oak. “It looks like this fork leads to, roughly translated,
‘Might bite yeh,’ or ‘Keep yer mouth shut up ahead.’ It’s not especially reassuring.”

“Are the Acromantulas still living here?” Luna said. “I’ve always been interested to see one.”

“Maybe another time, Loon,” Ginny said. “We’re on a schedule here.”

Hermione heard a branch snap. She pointed her wand at the sound. “What’s that? Who’s there?”

A large shape moved in the darkness. A five-fingered hand pushed aside another branch, but the
hand was too high from the ground to be a person. The wand’s glow caught a glossy chest and a
pair of long, slender legs that ended in sharp hooves.

“You’re a long way from your kin,” the centaur said.

“You’re Bane, aren’t you?” Hermione said, noting the black beard and the steely gray of his hide.
“We’ve met before, years ago. I’m Hermione. I was with Harry Potter before? We’re fighting
against the Dark Lord?”

“Our kind have no interest in your names, or your politics.”

“You ought to,” Ginny retorted. “You’re on Hogwarts grounds, wouldn’t you care if there’s an
attack?”

“How dare you?” Bane tossed his head. “You are trespassing on centaur domain. You are subject
to our laws here. You trample our grounds, endanger our foals with your battles—”
“What’s going on here?” Another centaur, this one chestnut roan, trotted out of the dark. He, too,
was familiar. Hermione remembered feeling sick and shameful, which was confusing. Surely the
centaur hadn’t done anything to make her feel this way.

“Ronan, these humans have invaded our land,” Bane said.

“I know you,” Ronan said to Hermione. “Why do I recognize you?”

The memory clicked. “I met you with Hagrid, the night we saw it. The slaughtered unicorn.”

Ronan’s eyes widened. “That was an evil night.”

“It bodes ill that they are here,” Bane glowered.

“We’re here because the one who killed the unicorn is returning to Hogwarts,” Hermione said.
“We’re trying to get there in time to fight, and stop him for good.” A thought occurred to her.
“Firenze is still at Hogwarts, as far as I know. Doesn’t that make it even a little bit your fight?”

“Firenze is a traitor,” Bane said.

“He’s of our herd,” Ronan said. “And you are blind if you think a war at the castle is a mere
human concern. Magorian will want to hear of this.”

“Can you help us, first?” Hermione said. “We need to get to Hogwarts. We’ve been following the
runes, but it’s a maze in here. Can you show us which way to go?”

“You are a league from the castle,” Ronan said.

Hermione bit her lip. “That’s an hour’s fast walk on even ground. In the woods, in the dark? It
might take us double that time.”

Bane shrugged, turning his back on the four girls. “Let them find their way. They should not even
have come asking for passage through our land.”

“They are foals,” Ronan protested at Bane’s retreating flanks. “If we leave little ones unprotected,
we’re no better than the humans.” He folded his arms, considering. “Your battle is yours, but what
happens to Hogwarts may soon happen to the Forest. There are some mares who have not foaled
this year. They may be strong enough to carry one. I could ask if three are willing.”

“It’s an honor,” Hermione started.

“No, it’s not,” Millicent said. She eyed the centaur shrewdly. “It’s humbling. Right? Our legs are
too weak to carry us fast enough. A ride is the kind of favor you’d never want anyone you know to
find out about. I expect a centaur would find it distasteful to carry a human around, too. You must
think we look deformed.”

Ronan puffed a blast of air through his nostrils. “Most of your kind would use us. Many a witch
and wizard in old days who’d preen for their friends on the back of a broken centaur. Rare to see a
rider who doesn’t imagine themself a master.”

“We just want to get to our friends in time,” Ginny said.

Ronan nodded. “I will speak to the mares.”

A short time later, they arrived at the edge of the forest. Hermione could see light shining through
the windows of Gryffindor Tower. She wondered who might be gathered in the Common Room,
and if anyone in the castle knew yet that they were coming tonight. Most likely so; even with the
centaurs' assistance, their difficulty navigating in the Forbidden Forest had cost them time.

The centaur Hermione had ridden, a fawn-colored mare named Nephele, had already retreated into
the darkness of the trees. Ronan reached a hand back to steady Millicent as she dismounted. He
looked somber and uncomfortable.

“We have heard rumors of giants, and worse creatures, making alliances with wizards. Humans do
not keep their wars within their own kind. It would have been better if you had not left your trail in
the forest. Now we must have a council, and there is little time to discuss what there is to be done.”

And with that, he disappeared after the mares into the shadowy woods.

Hermione, Luna, Millicent, and Ginny entered to find Hogwarts in a state of flurried activity.
Worried chatter rose and fell in the halls.

Before Hermione could choose a direction to start looking for the Order, Theo came around the
corner, a somewhat manic grin on his face.

“Where have you been?” he asked them. “McGonagall challenged Snape to a duel and he fucking
turned his cloak into bat wings and jumped out a window. Headmistress of the goddamn century. It
was incredible. I can’t believe you missed it.”

“Where’s Harry?” Hermione said.

“Doing some Chosen One quest, I guess. I haven’t seen him. I got in with Lupin just in time to
catch the transfer of power. McGonagall’s got most of the professors rallying Hogwarts defences,
and she’s called everyone else in for an emergency meeting in the Great Hall.”

They fell in with a stream of students and arrived in the Great Hall to find it mostly filled.
McGonagall stood on the dais in front of the head table, her hat rising to a crisp peak above her
lined face.

“Many of you have heard rumors that Harry Potter has returned to Hogwarts, and that battle is
imminent on these grounds. As acting Headmistress, it is incumbent upon me to inform you that
this information is correct.”

“What happened to Snape?” yelled Pansy Parkinson from the Slytherin table.

McGonagall folded her hands primly before her. “He has deserted his post. Presumably he has
gone to his master and fellow Death Eaters. The Heads of House are taking measures to defend the
school. Madam Pomfrey and I are arranging evacuation options for students.”

“We’re not going anywhere! We want to stay and fight!” Neville shouted, to a smattering of
applause.

Theo caught a passing Hufflepuff by the sleeve. “Have you seen Hannah Abbott?” he whispered.

“She went down to the greenhouses with Professor Sprout,” the Hufflepuff said. “There’s
Venomous Tentacula and Fanged Geranium, maybe even ripe Mandrake.”

“If you are of age, you may stay to fight,” McGonagall continued. “The rest of you, find a Prefect
and await further instructions—”
Before she could say more, another voice echoed through the hall.

“You prepare for battle, but you prepare in vain. You cannot overpower my Death Eaters. Choose
resistance, and you choose your own slaughter.” The cold, high voice reverberated through the
room. “I seek Harry Potter. I have great respect for Hogwarts. I respect the professors of this
school. I have no desire to waste Magical blood without need. Give me the boy. Give me Potter,
and go unharmed. Give me Potter, and be rewarded. You have until midnight.”

The voice faded away, seeming to suck all possible sound with it. Silence smothered the Great
Hall. Midnight was less than half an hour away.

If anyone in the room had questioned whether Harry really was back, Voldemort’s voice had
dispelled their doubt. Hermione saw the Gryffindor heads turning first. The motion rippled through
the Great Hall, until every eye was turned toward the dark-haired, skinny boy standing off to the
side from the platform where McGonagall stood.

“But he’s there!” Pansy yelled, pointing a shaking hand at Harry. “He’s right there! Someone grab
him!”

The other Houses rose as one, pointing their wands against the Slytherins.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson, for making an important point clear,” McGonagall said in a clipped
voice. “Hogwarts stands with Harry Potter and against Lord Voldemort.” A few students gasped,
even now, at hearing the name spoken aloud, but McGonagall continued. “You will be first to
leave, and any who share your position may go with you. The time has come for Slytherin House
to decide upon its loyalties.”

Hermione heard Millicent hiss, next to her. Any of Hermione’s Gryffindor friends would have
bellowed their disapproval, shaking their fists for emphasis. Millicent’s voice only rose enough to
carry to the head of the Great Hall. Pureblood manners coiled tight around her every word.

“Slytherin House’s loyalty is to Hogwarts, Headmistress,” Millicent said. “As ever it has been.
Slytherins’ memories are long. We remember our Founder’s friendship with Rowena, Helga, and
Godric, even if Gryffindor has forgotten it.”

“Slytherin House has always stood for real friendship,” Theo spoke up. “We are loyal to our own.
We go to any means to keep our loved ones safe. Some of you should know that well. Spinnet,
Boot, Finch-Fletchley, I hosted members of your families at the Manor. Can you really say you
don’t want Slytherin on your side?”

“If you let one voice decide for an entire House, the Gryffindors should leave with the Slytherins,”
Draco said. “The Dark Lord’s right-hand servant is a Gryffindor.”

A commotion of indignant voices swelled at the Gryffindor table at that, but McGonagall raised
her hands for silence.

“War comes to Hogwarts at midnight. I will not see it come early between students. Miss
Parkinson, Mr. Filch will see that you are taken somewhere safe. The rest of the Slytherins may
remain with their fellow students, if they choose.”

“You’re seriously going to let them stay?” called a tall Gryffindor boy with a red lash across his
face. “These are Death Eaters’ kids you’re protecting.”

“We’re not our parents,” said Draco.

McGonagall raised her eyebrows slightly. “Indeed.”

“They belong in the dungeons,” the Gryffindor grumbled.

Before Draco could retort, McGonagall cut in smoothly.

“Thank you, Mr. Coldwell, for a useful suggestion, however ill-intended it may be. If Lord
Voldemort would speak to us like this, the Death Eaters must already be waiting on Hogwarts
grounds for their signal. It is already too late to guarantee safe evacuation. Those who are underage
or do not wish to fight—of all Houses—will secure themselves in the Slytherin dorms. Any of you
who are on the Death Eaters’ Muggleborn registry, I strongly recommend you take shelter in the
Slytherin quarters as well to avoid making yourselves a target. Will a Slytherin Prefect volunteer to
escort these students?”

Draco stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

“Mister Malfoy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I meant a current Prefect should take charge of
the students. Even had you not been absent this year, I must question whether you honestly still
consider yourself a Prefect. As you may recall, grave failure of character precludes students from
the role.”

“Draco’s proven himself more times than I can count!” Hermione shouted.

“He fought alongside the Order at Azkaban, Minerva,” Lupin said.

“He robbed a bank!” Ron called.

“He’s one of us,” Tonks said.

McGonagall looked around at the Order. Hermione saw her gaze flit back to the chair in the middle
of the head table, where Dumbledore had sat for so many years, and the look of sorrow that crossed
her face. Then McGonagall raised her chin, face set in a determined expression.

“Very well,” she said. “What matters is that we get the students to safety. And hurry.”

Draco cupped his hands around his mouth. “Baby snakes!” he roared. “To me! And cubs, and baby
chicks, I guess, and hedgehogs or whatever you call yourselves.”

“We’re badgers!” shouted an indignant first-year Hufflepuff.

“Whatever,” Draco shouted back. “Dungeon field trip, let’s go!”

Hermione spotted a few second-year Slytherins perk up. Their faces looked familiar. She vaguely
remembered them tagging along after Draco sixth year, a lifetime ago. Throwing snowballs at
Christmas, sneaking around the castle before curfew to try to steal his Prefect badge, running away
shrieking and laughing at his threats. They hopped up from the table to follow him.

“Miss Bulstrode, you seem interested in House unity,” McGonagall said as Hermione made her
way toward the front of the Great Hall. “Would you care to assist Mister Malfoy?”

“Gladly,” Millicent said. Young students from some other tables were tentatively rising to their
feet, looking at Harry or Hermione or Neville or Luna first and then heading toward the door where
Draco and the Slytherins were waiting. Millicent ushered them along, bringing up the rear.

McGonagall frowned at Harry, who was watching the students file out of the Great Hall. “Mister
Potter, don’t you have a job to do?”

“Oh, yeah!” he said, and darted guiltily out of the Great Hall himself.

“Miss Granger, see if you can’t keep him from getting distracted, would you?” McGonagall
muttered.

Hermione sighed. “I’ll do my best.” Then a thought struck her. “The House Elves!” she gasped.
“Someone needs to warn them.” She pushed past a cluster of students and grabbed Ron’s sleeve.
“Ron, we need to get something Harry can use to destroy the Horcrux. Go to the second floor girls’
lavatory. I’ll meet you there. Watch out for Myrtle.”

She hurried to the kitchens and burst through the door. Dozens of house elves looked at her in
surprise.

“Hogwarts is under attack,” Hermione said. “The Death Eaters are here, or will be any moment,
and You-Know-Who himself is with them. There’s not much time, so we need to figure out a place
for you to hide.”

The house-elves inclined their heads toward one another. More of them seemed to appear from
everywhere. Behind shelves, inside cupboards, perching in the larder or atop the old clock.
Twitching ears and unblinking eyes. Hermione felt a slight prickle at the thought that she was the
only human in the room.

“Elves will not be hiding, Miss,” one of them said.

“You don’t need to put yourself in harm’s way for a fight that doesn’t have anything to do with
you,” Hermione said.

There was a change in the air in the room.

“Miss thinks Hogwarts has nothing to do with us.”

“We scrubs her.”

“We sweeps her.”

“We beats the rugs and shines the glass.”

“We bakes her bread and cooks her meat.”

“Each creature living in these walls has eaten Elven food.”

“You think we is not paid,” said one. “Not in stinging human coin. Hard cold metal. No. We is
paid in butter and cream, and the pacts are not broken.”

“Hogwarts is mother to House-elfkind, holding us close and warm. And she is child, needing our
care, our touch, our food, our love.”

“When she calls, Elves is coming to fight for her. We obeys Hogwarts-the-mother and defends
Hogwarts-the-child, and the pacts will not be broken.”

For a second, Hermione was not sure what to make of this. Then it dawned on her that a veritable
army was gathered and ready before her. She felt the triumphant grin spread over her face.

“All right,” she said. “Follow me. I’ll show you where to go to be ready for them when they
 come.”

Time seemed to bleed out between Hermione’s fingers. She hadn’t thought the detour to the
kitchens would take more than five minutes, but there was a question of how to make sure humans
and House-elves would work well together, and she ended up running to track down Arthur
Weasley and introduce him to Tag, who had agreed to represent the elves tactically.

The hallways were so long. The staircases had shifted into a pattern she mostly remembered from
second year, but she’d been Petrified for some time then and absent all this term. It took her longer
than expected to assess which route was fastest to get to the lavatory that led to the Chamber of
Secrets.

By the time she reached the lavatory, Harry was long gone (“It’s a long way to the Room of
Requirement, so we need him in position before he needs to fight his way through to get there,”
Ron said, which struck Hermione as surprisingly well thought-out, and she made a mental note to
tell him so later). Ron was hissing and gargling at the faucets, and by some miracle of luck,
managed to mimic Harry’s Parseltongue enough that the entrance creaked open.

Then there was the entire sticky business of retrieving the Basilisk fang. Actually sticky. Revolting,
to be perfectly honest. Hermione would have thought five years was plenty of time to reduce
anything to a neat skeleton. Not, as it turned out, the case. She was elbow-deep in a rotting
Basilisk’s mouth, groping for the tooth socket, her eyes watering from the stench of ichor. She had
a fleeting thought of, “Of course Harry gets to traipse along and loiter outside the Room of
Requirement while Ron and I do the dirty work,” and she realized she’d thought it in Draco’s
voice, and it made her smile despite the rankness of the task.

And then she and Ron came upstairs to a din of shouts and stamping footfall, and Hermione knew
the battle had begun.

Chapter End Notes

You guys, the BOH is so massive. After realizing that JKR split the Battle into
multiple chapters, and discussing with my beta, I decided it made more sense to split
my rendition of the BOH as well. There's so many moving parts and changes of POV
and backdrop, so this seemed like a more manageable way to organize it than sitting
on some behemoth chapter. Plus, it means you get something now!

Re: House Elves: I have resisted putting them on the page until now because they're
so, so deeply problematic. Anytime you have a slave race, you know you're in for a
bad time. Add in some speech patois and it's even more dicey. I felt like I really should
acknowledge the House Elves because they did participate in the canon battle, and
because SPEW and Hermione, etc. The only way I could see through to work it was to
go full old-magic with it, and kind of invoke a Highland Scottish brownie/Fey angle to
how they would interact with a house and its inhabitants.

Happy New Year, by the way! My resolution this year is to scale back on the work I
take on so I free more space in my life for writing and family. It feels extremely risky
and scary to step back. I am hoping it leads to lots of cool new things. What daring
things are you committed to doing in 2020?
 The Battle of Hogwarts, Part 2
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco didn’t know for sure when the fighting started. He spent the last span of time before
midnight waving dozens of students fourth-year and younger into the Slytherin dungeons. Their
faces betrayed anything from anxiety to near-panic. If one of them cracked, the whole lot could fall
into hysterics. Draco saw Millicent look his way twice as the students filed past them. She
expected him to take the lead, then. Idiot move volunteering himself, but too late to do anything
about it now. Draco stalked into the Slytherin Common Room behind the last few students. They
gathered in miserable huddles. A few were already crying.

Draco scowled at them and picked a Leapin’ Leprechaun Jumping Ball (Messrs. Weasley &
Weasley, Inc.) off a small table by the wall. He pointed at random.

“You. Nail-biting one. Do you know my name?”

The boy nodded.

“Well, I don’t know you from the ugly end of a troll,” Draco said. He swept a condescending
glance over the rest of the students in the room. “I could call you Specs, and you could be Snitch
Pajamas, but then I’d have to waste far too much of my brilliance coming up with something to call
all of you. So see if you can throw this around and say your name, your House, and one thing
you’re good at so I don’t feel like I’m stuck with a load of tossers. If you can catch this without
fumbling, I might even make an attempt to remember it.”

He watched them play long enough to suss out who the leaders were in each House. Who made
sure to pass to someone who hadn’t had a turn or who tried to show off, who might stir up trouble
and who was nervous enough that their fingers shook and they couldn’t catch the ball.

He made them team up, Gryffindors and Ravenclaws against Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, to build
the tallest tower out of Exploding Snap! cards, with the prize being first choice on what to play
next. He conferred with Millicent in low tones whether there was any chance at sending them to
bed, and had to agree that no matter how late it was, there was no way.

“It’s going to be a long night, snakes,” Draco said. “Look, you’re down here, you all get to be
snakes for the night, all right? I’m not listing off a zoo every time. If you get tired or need a break,
go to bed. The Ravenclaws got to pick what to cast on the ScryScreen, so we’re watching The
Capers of Uric the Oddball.”

Having more than a minute or two to sit still made Draco more aware of an uncomfortable
sensation in his arm. The Mark buzzed and cramped. It felt different than what he’d experienced at
the beginning, before Granger helped him control his fear and control the pain. This was still
painful, but more like a maddening itch. He kept digging his nails in, but it did nothing. The Mark
wanted something else. Then Draco realized what it was, and he pulled out his wand.

“What are you doing?” Millicent said, but Draco was already pressing the tip of his wand against
the precise spot that itched.

His head flooded with voices.

“We’re at the West Gate, beneath the Ravenclaw Tower! Yaxley, where are you?”
“Forget Yaxley, where the fuck is Snape? Greasy bastard went dark an hour ago.”

Draco took the wand off. “The Death Eaters,” he gasped. “I can hear them.”

“What are they saying?” a wide-eyed third year squeaked.

Draco put the wand back. “—the dungeons,” he heard.

“She wouldn’t dare,” someone else said. “Lemon-mouthed tabby bitch, even she wouldn’t foul
Slytherin’s quarters with Mudbloods.”

“Heard a student telling another. All the Mudbloods and Squibs in the castle are making
themselves right cozy in the Slytherin dungeons. And anyone too weak to fight. I say we raid it.
Potter hasn’t shown his face. Grab those first-years they’ve tucked away and make ‘em squeal, and
it may flush him out. It’s just the filth anyway. Even if there’s a Pure kid or two mixed in, the Dark
Lord won’t care about losing a few of the Mudlings’ friends if it gets the boy to come out.”

A grunt of assent. “Give us a moment, then. Dealing with some blood traitor riffraff and then we’ll
come purify Slytherin.”

Draco tucked his wand back into his sleeve. He’d kept his expression composed, so now he merely
wiggled his shoulders, as though he was loosening them in relief. “They haven’t found any trace of
Potter, and they’re complaining about it,” he said. “Some of them want to storm the front doors. I’d
like to see them try,” he said with a practiced scoff. “The doors are reinforced dragon bone, with
gargoyles and half the faculty defending them. Mill, have you got any Itching Salve before I
scratch my arm off?”

“There might be some in the storeroom,” she said.

“Don’t hex each other for five minutes or I’ll body-bind the lot of you when we get back,” Draco
warned over his shoulder as he and Millicent left the room.

He grabbed her elbow and steered her into the storage closet. “They’re coming,” he murmured.
“They know there’s kids in here. They don’t care. They’ll torture the blood trash to flush out
Potter.”

Millicent sucked her teeth. “Can you ask for help?”

“No, I don’t have the stupid DA coin. One of us could go for help, but I don’t know how soon the
Death Eaters will be here.”

Millicent turned away from him. She ran her finger along a shelf stacked with labeled boxes of
dried herbs and ingredients. “We can’t defend the dorms alone. We need to stall them. We need a
disguise.”

“Mill, we can’t hide fifty people.”

Millicent fixed him with her calm stare. “Draco, what do you get if you add powdered root of
asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Draco’s mind was a jumble. The words held a familiar ring, but he couldn’t place them.

“Draught of Living Death,” Millicent said. “We learned that first year. I’ve made it countless
times.”
“What are you suggesting we’d do with it?”

“The Death Eaters want to wage a battle against students. We’ll show them what that means.”

Draco started pacing the hallway outside the closet. “Okay. We make the potion. Give it to
everyone, and when the Death Eaters break through, they think someone else has already been this
way and killed everyone, and they leave us alone. Wouldn’t they check, though? If we learned this
first year, they have as well. We can’t trick them.”

“They’ll trick themselves. We don’t just give everyone the potion,” Millicent said. “We give them
the potion, and then once everyone’s knocked out, you and I cut the warding on the glass and let
the Merfolk take it from there.”

“We fill the room with full-strength Mersong,” Draco said.

Millicent nodded. “Everyone’s emotions are on edge from combat. Add in Mersong effects in a
room full of unresponsive bodies? They won’t see just any dead children. They’ll see theirs.”

They returned to the Common Room. Millicent set a cauldron on the table by the window and
began mixing ingredients. Draco ordered a first-year out of the nice armchair and took a seat to
survey the room.

“What are you brewing?” a second-year Slytherin girl named Hortensia asked suspiciously.

Millicent didn’t lift her eyes from her cauldron. “Pumpkin juice.”

Hortensia rolled her eyes. “We’re not thick,” she said. “Something’s wrong. You two aren’t telling
us.”

Millicent crushed a dried wormwood leaf between her finger and thumb and sifted the powder into
the cauldron.

“Are we being attacked?” Hortensia pressed.

“We’re trapped in here. There’s no way out,” whimpered a Hufflepuff first-year.

“You said you weren’t thick. Of course we’re being attacked,” Draco sneered. “The entire castle is
under bloody attack. Much as Millicent and I love playing slumber party games with a load of kids
who can’t tell a Doxy from a Bowtruckle, it’s also somewhat trying to be aware that there is a
battle taking place in the meantime. My deepest apologies if we haven’t provided the cheery
demeanors you expect from your Prefects.”

Hortensia cowered back in on herself.

Draco felt a pang of guilt. Keeping younger Slytherins under his thumb was easy enough during a
normal term. Harder to know what to do at a time like this. Hermione was better at knowing what
to say when people were scared like this.

“We want to set some extra protection,” he said slowly, weighing words in his mind. Maybe half-
truth could work. “It’s easier if you’re asleep. It’s late enough. If we wanted to set a Confounding
Charm, it’s easier to set the spell to exclude the two of us than work fifty exceptions into the
enchantment. Millicent will make you a little sleeping draught so we can work, and then we’ll
wake you up.”

No more students said anything. Draco focused on maintaining a cool exterior, watching the door
on one side and Millicent’s agonizingly slow progress on the other. When she finally announced
the potion was ready, Draco stood and grabbed a stack of paper cups from a shelf.

“Right. Single-file line, no pushing. There’s plenty for everyone.”

Some of the students looked uneasy, but they lined up in front of Millicent to get a small ladleful of
potion in a cup.

Draco raised an empty cup. “Cheers, then. Bottoms up.”

Even knowing that it was Draught of Living Death, Draco found the next moments unsettling. The
students sipped at the liquid in their cups. In seconds, a tiny Ravenclaw girl’s eyes rolled back, and
her body went boneless. Then a Gryffindor slumped to the floor. Faster and faster, the children fell,
collapsing on furniture or the floor, with nothing more than a sigh to fight the potion’s effects.
Their complexions went ashen. Their chests were still. Slivers of white showed where their eyelids
hadn’t managed to close all the way. Some of them had fallen over each other, making it look
almost like they’d tried to protect a fellow student from an invisible enemy. The room was silent.

Draco and Millicent hurriedly gathered the cups and shoved the cauldron under the table. Draco
pointed Millicent at a closet near the door, then cast the charm to break the warding on the glass.

The first notes of Mersong made Draco’s ears ring. The harmony hooked into him, beating into his
blood. He let out a cry of surprise and fear, and rushed to lock himself in the closet with Millicent.

She’d already stoppered up her ears with cotton. They would take turns listening and shielding
themselves from the raw power of the Mersong. Draco had barely shut the closet door behind him
when the main dormitory doors crashed open, and he heard the Death Eaters charge in.

It was almost worse than the Mersong. Years after the battle was done, Draco’s nightmares would
be filled with the two kinds of shouts he’d heard from the Death Eaters on the other side of the
door.

The first parts of his nightmares were echoes of the cruelty. “Come out, come out, Mudblood
scum!” The cries of, “Save some for me!” The vicious laughter that bled into the harsher strains of
the Mersong.

A few moments of confusion as the Death Eaters registered that the entire room had already fallen.
Then, the piercing scream that changed everything. A wordless cry of shock and horror.

“That’s Bridget! She’s meant to be at home!” the Death Eater shouted. “Put your wands down! Put
your wands down!”

“What’re you on about, Mulciber?” someone said.

Then another voice screamed, “Cadmus! Yaxley, stop! That’s my boy over there—Cadmus, speak
to me!”

The room descended into a different kind of tumult.

“Amadora! She’s only eleven, for God’s sake—”

Draco put his eye to the keyhole and saw Death Eaters ripping off their masks, dropping to their
knees, cradling children in their arms and shaking them.

“Wake up! Albert, please no, please!”

“Where’s my son?”

“Who did this?”

“She’s not breathing! Help me, she’s not breathing!”

Some of the Death Eaters were screaming a boy’s name into a girl’s face. Others didn’t look
anything like the children they held. In a few cases, it was more difficult to say whether the
Mersong was responsible for the magic, or if a Death Eater or two really had found their own child
lying lifeless among the others.

Masks littered the ground. The Death Eaters had forgotten what they were fighting for, swept away
by the strains of music. One of them was rocking a young girl whose arm dangled limply, numbly
repeating, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

A hand grasped Draco’s upper arm, and he jumped. He had almost forgotten Millicent was beside
him. She pulled him away from the keyhole.

“We need help,” she whispered. “Unless, do you think you could get the tip of your wand through
the keyhole and try taking them out?”

Draco shook his head. “I’d be casting blind. Even with Mersong, I think they’ll get suspicious if
we start picking them off one by one. Do you think we can wait them out?”

Millicent’s mouth slanted. “It’s going to be hours. They’re dangerous people. We don’t know what
they might do, over time. If they start to see each other as enemies and attack, kids will get killed in
the crossfire.”

“Okay. We could cast something down the opposite hall? Make a noise, hope they clear out for a
minute.” Draco paused. An unspoken question hung between them.

“You should go,” Millicent whispered. “You’re a Seeker, you’re faster than I am. Remember
whoever goes needs to be ready to face upstairs. I’m no good in a battle.”

The back of Draco’s neck went into gooseflesh. “Neither am I, if we’re being honest with each
other.”

“That’s not what I hear. They say you out-talked a goblin and outmaneuvered Dementors in midair.
You’ll be Slytherin’s hero, you wait and see. I’ll look out for the kids. I can keep them safe. Get
back as soon as you can.”

Draco didn’t need to wonder if his face was as pale, his eyes as round as hers were. He nodded fast,
before he had a chance to think about what it would feel like to leave the cover of the closet. He
aimed the tip of his wand through the keyhole. The wand shook. Draco worried the wood would
clatter against the metal and somehow be audible, even over the sonorous thunder of Mersong.

Millicent put her hand in his free hand and held tight. “On three,” she said. “One. Two. Three.”

Draco whispered the incantation. There was a crystal smash far down the opposite hall, where he
and Millicent had gone to talk in private when he first knew the Death Eaters were coming.

“Did you hear that?” one Death Eater said.

“Who’s there?” said another.

One by one, they followed each other out of the room. Draco was terrified that the first ones would
be back saying there was no one there before the last ones cleared out of the Common Room, but a
moment finally came when the only people in the Common Room were students.

“Quick. Now,” Millicent whispered.

Draco wedged the closet door open the barest amount possible to squeeze through and fled, waves
of Mersong chasing him with phantom echoes of stamping feet and curses hurtling at his back. He
ran and ran, then took the Slytherin dungeon steps two at a time, rushing headlong upstairs toward
the battle.

Hermione’s hair was tied back. A persistent stinging on her forehead told her she’d grazed herself
dodging a collapse of timber and stone. Not enough blood to get in her eyes and distract her,
though, so not worth checking until later. Her left shoulder hurt, probably from when Rowle’s
curse slammed her into a wall, but she’d held still in a daze and he’d gone off to the next target. It
wasn’t even her wand arm.

Ron had gone to back Harry up at the Room of Requirement. She hadn’t heard from either of the
boys in a while.

As if on cue, the DA Galleon warmed in her pocket. Hermione fired a Stinging Hex at a Death
Eater and ducked into a study room to pull out the coin. It looked a bit different than the first
Galleons she’d enchanted in fifth year. Fred and George had engraved the initials of Order
members around the surface like a clockface. When someone activated the charm, their initials
glowed, alerting other Order members as to who needed help. RL glowed now. The last Hermione
had heard, Lupin was leading a small squadron of fighters to the grounds on the Forbidden Forest
side. She headed for the gates.

She’d almost made it out of the castle when someone leaped out of the shadows behind her,
clapped a hand over her mouth, and dragged her into a barricaded classroom.

Hermione curled her foot around her assailant’s ankle to anchor herself and threw her head back as
hard as she could. She smacked against something hard, and then the grip released and she spun
into a defensive crouch to see Snape standing opposite her, rubbing his jaw.

“Protego,” Hermione said, lifting her injured arm to channel some magic into the Shield spell. She
kept her wand up.

“You should run,” Snape said.

She shook her head. “You’ll go attack someone else. I can’t let you do that.”

He took a step forward. “You are prepared to kill me?”

Hermione swallowed. “If I have to.”

Snape’s lip twisted in a sardonic smile. “I doubt it. Fortunately, the ones who would require a duel
to the death are out of reach at the moment. Dolohov and Rowle and Bellatrix Lestrange are just
outside. You should be grateful that I stopped you.”

The Galleon was warm in Hermione’s pocket. “Lupin went out to the grounds, with a few others.”

Snape blanched in dismay. “It cannot be,” he said. “There was no reason for Hogwarts’ fighters to
go there. No one was supposed to be there.”

“He called for help. If he’s taking on Dolohov, he needs it.” Hermione took a step back toward the
door.

“Immobilus!” Snape said, flashing his wand below Hermione’s Shield. Her legs went cold and
rigid. Her hip hit a desk as she fell, and she managed to land in a seated position. From her angle,
she could maintain a full Shield against Snape, but she’d have to drop it to fire a spell without
ricocheting it back on herself. Her wand hand wavered as she tried to decide whether to protect
herself or attack.

“Listen to me!” Snape said. “There is nothing you can do. The Dark Lord’s most loyal and vicious
fighters are gathered outside. I sent them to the catacombs, and they will murder anyone who
stands in their way.”

“What’s in the catacombs?” Hermione said. “You murderous, slimy, traitorous bastard, let me go!”

“Don’t you understand? There is nothing in the catacombs,” Snape spat. “They will not find what
they seek. It is not hidden there.”

The words pricked Hermione’s ears. She didn’t want to say too much, just yet. “Why would you
send them there, then?”

“I thought I would prevent loss of life. They will waste time hunting for something precious to the
Dark Lord. I did not think the Order would come out that way.” Snape looked out the window. His
face set. “Bellatrix’s bloodlust alone will overpower them. There is nothing for you or I to do.”

“Easy enough for you to write off people’s lives. You killed Dumbledore. You betrayed his trust
and all of Hogwarts. I hope you make it out of this battle alive. I hope you’re sentenced to a
Dementor’s Kiss, and that I get to see it. It’s no more than you deserve.”

“Determining what I deserve is, thankfully, not your purview, Miss Granger. Dumbledore was
cursed months before the Astronomy Tower. He confided many plans to me. I have acted
according to his instructions and according to my best ability to aid the Order’s efforts.”

“You’re a Death Eater.”

“A mask and a Mark do not always equal obedience. Or so I thought you believed. Perhaps I have
given Narcissa false reason to hope.”

“Narcissa?”

“Narcissa received a strange card, shortly after Christmas. It bore a certain pattern of stars, and a
few strands of blond hair. I did not think you and Potter would be so cruel as to taunt a mother if
you knew her son was dead. I encouraged her to take it as good news.”

“How could you leave Draco in the woods?” Hermione burst out. “You promised to protect him.
You abandoned him.”

A strange expression crossed Snape’s face, fast as a shadow. “Is he truly alive?”

“You saw his card. If you heard about Gringotts, you must have heard Draco was part of it,”
Hermione said.

“You could have had his hair on your clothes. I know what went on between you. I don’t doubt you
could do a passable imitation of a former admirer. Did Draco survive the Forest of Dean, Miss
Granger, or did you Polyjuice yourself a corpse?”

Hermione was astonished into speechlessness. The idea hadn’t even occurred to her. “Of course
he’s alive. We found each other. We took care of him. He’s here now, fighting with the Order.”

Snape closed his eyes for a moment.

“Do you expect me to believe you care what happened to him?” Hermione said.

“I...hoped.”

“Some kind of hoping. He nearly starved to death.”

“Miss Granger, I don’t know if you are aware of this, but for the past sixteen years I have taught
nearly three dozen class sessions per week, as well as graded, led my House, and fulfilled other
functions. My experience outside the classroom is...limited. I supplied Draco with provisions that
my estimates suggested would be appropriate. I only learned later how badly I had misjudged his
needs and the difficulty of the journey ahead of him. I had not intended to set him on an impossible
course. When I learned it was possible he had survived, I did my best to shield him from the Dark
Lord’s retribution. How do you think you and your companions escaped Nott Manor alive?”

Hermione caught her breath. “Who told you about Nott Manor?”

“The Dark Lord knew from the moment Nott the elder couldn’t return to his own home. He was
unconcerned about letting Nott’s mooncalf of a son play house with a few inconsequential friends.
It was not immediately clear how skilled he was at concealing Death Eater targets. When it
surfaced that Potter might be hidden there, the Dark Lord was enraged. He would have slaughtered
the entire house as an example. It was I who convinced him to let Narcissa lead, knowing she
would be merciful. It was I who persuaded her to accept the mission. I lay in wait for days,
expecting that as usual Potter would have no plan and rely on assistance if he hoped to survive.”

“Why should I believe you?” Hermione demanded.

Snape raised his wand. Hermione cringed, expecting an attack at last, but he whispered, “Expecto
Patronum,” and a silver doe rippled into view between them.

“The fire.” Hermione remembered the impossible animal emerging in the midst of Fiendfyre,
giving them the air they needed to make their escape. “You were one of the Death Eaters we were
fighting.”

“You are only realizing this now?” Snape said. “I thought our bumbling incompetence gave us
away. I thought you left Nott Manor understanding that not all of the Dark Lord’s followers were
as they appeared. Why else would the Order trust the letter I sent?”

“We didn’t have much else to go on,” Hermione admitted. “We weren’t positive who sent it, either.
It could have been McGonagall. But if you didn’t know if Draco was alive, why talk about the
dragon in disgrace?”

“Hogwarts is also a kind of dragon,” Snape said. Hermione’s heart sank for Draco, but then Snape
said, “If Draco did live. If then, and if he was with the Order, which seemed as unlikely as his
survival, I knew his help would be important. Even I cannot find Ravenclaw’s diadem where it is
hidden. Only he will understand how to reach it. If Draco was resistant, or if the Order had doubts
about him, a small signal could tip the balance. I chose a message I thought he would listen to, and
if not, then at least the Order would have some clue to come to Hogwarts.”
“He didn’t need you to tell him to join. He was already with us,” Hermione said. “What about the
Elder Wand? Did you mean for him to use it?”

Snape’s face clouded. “What do you know of the Elder Wand?”

“The Order knows You-Know-Who was seeking the Hallows,” Hermione said.

“The Elder Wand’s power died with Dumbledore. He asked me to cast the Killing Curse. It was an
agreement. He died in accordance with his own wishes and plan, and the mastery perished with
him. The power lies with no one.”

Hermione shook her head. “Draco disarmed Dumbledore before you arrived. The Wand transferred
its allegiance to him.”

Snape’s eyes flared with shock. “That’s impossible.”

“I saw with my own eyes.”

“But that would change everything.” Snape winced and clutched his left arm. When he looked up,
Hermione saw the fear in his face turn to a sort of resignation. “He is calling.” Snape lifted his
wand arm, and Hermione felt the muscles in her legs twitch to life again. “If Remus Lupin is not
already killed, he is still beyond your power to help. His presence may even have given the others
more reason to believe the Horcrux is in the catacombs. Do not waste further time. Go. Run. If you
will destroy the diadem and defeat the Dark Lord, find Draco.”

While Hermione was frozen in a classroom with Snape, Draco was on the opposite side of the
castle, ducking and weaving his way through the battle.

Everywhere he looked was chaos. Enchanted suits of armor raised swords overhead and brought
them crashing down on the arms of Giants reaching into the castle. House-elves popped in and out
of view, Apparating back and forth to share news, healing potions, and other supplies between the
human fighters.

He couldn’t find anyone from the Order. He kept seeing students. They barely knew enough to
keep themselves alive. Draco heard screams, and sometimes the measured chants and melodies of
countercharms. Once, he paused long enough next to a tearstained fifth-year to sing the other half
of a Skele-Splinter counter over the fifth-year's friend.

At last, he spotted a dark-haired figure in green robes flicking spells at Death Eaters at random.

“Nott!” Draco called.

Theo barely glanced at Draco before continuing to press onward in an agitated path, looping back
on halls and taking shortcuts through classrooms. “No one’s even seen her for the last twenty
minutes at least. This entire wing is crawling with Death Eaters. Even McGonagall said we might
have to retreat until the Ministry allies arrive, and she’s not answering the bloody coin, and I’m
starting to get seriously worried—”

He broke off. Draco saw it too, catching the reflection in the windows before his gaze swung to the
four Death Eaters firing a battery of curses at a middle-aged woman who Draco recognized as
Selene Westinburgh, an Order ally, and Hannah Abbott.

Before either Theo or Draco could move, Draco saw the jagged purple crack flash in midair where
the Death Eater’s magic broke through the Shield spell. It was all done in a few seconds. One
Death Eater fired at Selene, a burst of green light that crumpled her to the ground. Another fired at
Hannah. Draco saw Hannah’s mouth go round in shock a half-second before anything visible
happened. Then her shirt flushed a vivid, obscene red, and she clutched at her chest like someone
naked and trying to cover herself.

“Hannah!”

Draco grabbed Theo around the waist, so he felt the scream vibrate through Theo’s body. Then
Theo was struggling against Draco’s arms, trying to wrest himself free.

“Nott, you can’t!” Draco was looking at the Death Eaters stalking away, while Hannah slid down
the wall, a pool of blood forming around her. “They’ll kill you!”

Theo let out a breath. He stopped moving, and the tension released from his body.

As soon as Draco let his grip slacken, Theo twisted, fast as a snake, and punched Draco in the face.
Then he was off, sprinting across the hall to reach Hannah.

The handful of seconds Draco had held Theo back provided just enough time so that the fighters
had begun to move on, and it was clear that Theo was running for the broken-doll figure and not
charging the Death Eaters. One more reedy kid wasn’t worth their attention, as long as he didn’t
get in the way. They let him pass.

Draco bounced on his heels. Then he held his breath and ran after Nott. He skidded into place
beside the two of them, heart pounding.

Theo was already kneeling beside Hannah. His hand hovered above her chest. Her shirt was
plastered to her skin, soaked through with blood. It was impossible to see where to apply pressure.
Not that that would make a difference.

“It won’t stop bleeding,” Draco murmured. He felt disembodied, weirdly fascinated by the slicing
pattern of the wounds that were visible. “Sectumsempra.”

“No, no no no, no,” Theo said.

Another slash tore open in Hannah’s cheek. She was making quick little sobs, like “Hn, hn, hn.”
Animal noises. She reached for her face, and Theo caught her hand before she could touch it.

“Ssh, ssh. Look at me. Love? Just—” There were red smudges on their joined hands. “Malfoy, you
fucker, do something!”

The slash pulled wider. Draco could see a flash of white molar through the side of her cheek before
red pooled in her mouth. Hannah’s teeth were chattering. That and the shout clicked him out of the
paralysis.

“The counter.”

“Do it!” Theo screamed.

Draco’s lips were so dry. He was petrified that his voice would come out in a useless croak, or not
at all. He squeezed his wand hand as tight as he could to keep steady.

“Vulnera sanentur.” He touched his wand to Hannah’s chest. The magic was a buzzy drone in his
head. “Vulnera sanentur.” A tugging sensation at his magic, a lightheaded feeling. He cleared his
throat against an urge to cough. He touched the tip of his wand so, so gently to the ragged edge of
Hannah’s face, and it still wasn’t enough to keep her from flinching away. He twisted the wand
while he intoned the spell for the third time, wanting to wrench the skin and flesh back together.
“Nott, that’s it, that’s all I know how to do.”

He didn’t know if he’d kept contact, on the last one. He didn’t know if he’d channeled the magic
right. Her cheek seemed to be closing. He couldn’t see her teeth anymore, but the pool of blood
around her looked just as wide as before. Hannah was breathing in shallow pants. Her eyelids
fluttered.

“Need to go to sleep.”

“No,” Theo said. “No, you can’t.” He scooted down, lying in the hall next to her, cradling her.
Blood seeped into his shirt. He switched the hand he was using to hold Hannah’s so he could reach
over her and touch just under her jaw, turning her face toward his. His voice was a pleading
whisper. “I like you. Please stay awake. I have to tell you how much I like you.”

His nose was almost touching Hannah’s. Her free hand plucked feebly at Theo’s shirt.

A curse rebounded off a pillar down the hall with a crushing sound of stone. The battle was
surging their way again. Draco looked at his friends one more time, fixing the image in his mind of
them, curled around each other, looking almost peaceful despite the blood. He wondered if they
would still look like this whenever someone found them.

Then he heard a familiar voice shouting dueling spells. Tonks. He left Theo and Hannah and
hurried toward the sound.

“The Slytherin dorms,” he said when he caught up to her, reaching for her sleeve to tug her along
with him. “We have to be quick. We need help.”

Tonks had the DA coin in her hand. “I’m on my way out to the grounds. Can you find someone
else? Remus signaled the coin. I need to go to him.”

Draco couldn’t stand still. “Please,” he said. “I’ve already been looking. No one was anywhere. I
need you to come.”

Tonks hesitated, forehead creased with worry.

“They came for the kids,” Draco said. “Please. We need to hurry.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’m coming.”

They ran, veering away from any sound of other people. Hogwarts’ staircases and hidden doors
shifted in strange ways, now that the old magic was activated and the castle knew it was under
attack. If Draco waited too long, the path between them and the Slytherin dorms might not exist
anymore. They couldn’t stop if they heard someone calling for help. Someone else would have to
come.

Draco raced down the staircase down to the Slytherin dorms. At the bottom, Tonks staggered and
put her hand against the wall.

“Don’t stop now,” Draco said. “What’s wrong with you?”

Tonks put a trembling hand over her eyes. “Draco, I've just had a baby four weeks ago. I’m still
bleeding. I’ve been fighting for hours without water. I’m coming, okay?”

“Hurry up.”

The cramp wrenched his gut five feet away from the door to the Slytherin dorms. Draco almost lost
his footing. He stumbled through the doorway as Mersong flooded his ears, and his stomach
emptied itself. In between retches, he heard Tonks casting a quick series of Stupefy charms.

When his head stopped swimming, Draco looked up to see Tonks looking at him with frightened
eyes. The Death Eaters were all laid out on the floor.

“What was that? Are you all right?” She touched the back of her hand to his forehead.

“You didn’t feel that?”

“I didn’t feel anything.” Tonks moved her hand to his shoulder. Draco wasn’t sure whether she
meant to steady him or herself. “What in Merlin’s name happened in here?”

“It’s okay, it’s Draught of Living Death. Millicent and I tricked the Death Eaters.” Draco absently
raised one finger, rapidly ticking off a head count of the students sprawled across the room. He
stopped when he realized there was one more than he expected. Draco heard the strangeness in his
voice as he asked, “What is she doing there?”

Tonks hurried over. With an Auror’s practiced technique, she touched Millicent’s throat and shone
wandlight into her eyes. Then Tonks lowered her wand and put her hand on Millicent’s cheek.

“Oh, you poor girl.”

“No,” Draco said. “No, that’s not right. She must have had more of the potion. Check her again.”

“Draco, honey, I’m so sorry.”

He sank down next to her. “Mill, what did you do?”

Tonks was checking nearby students with the same efficient care. “It’s a good question. So far,
everyone else appears to be okay. If the Death Eaters were ready to cast a Killing Curse, why stop
at one?”

Millicent’s wand had rolled a few inches away from her hand. Draco traced his wand gently over
it. “Priori incantatem.”

A wisp of magic trailed out. The spell was nuanced, with a shifting color that defied easy
identification. The magic of a Confounding Curse coiled around an extra layer in the enchantment.

“Manduca moribundi,” Draco said.

Tonks, crouching between clusters of students, rocked her head back in understanding. “She set it
to attack the Death Eaters. The spell seeks the Dark Mark. You got hit with the aftereffects. That
explains why none of them tried to attack us when we got in. I didn’t need to stupefy them at all.
Their minds are ruined.”

“She told me to leave,” Draco said. He heard the words, but he couldn’t feel his lips moving.

“She protected you,” Tonks said softly. “The Death Eaters must have attacked her right as she cast
the spell, before it took hold.”
Draco touched Millicent with his fingertips, tugging a wrinkle in her cloak smooth. There was
something wistful in her expression. Had she felt herself getting caught up in the lure of Mersong,
and made the choice to risk casting the spell before she was lost in her own visions? Had she
imagined she heard a friend calling for her? Was there any chance that the unshielded Mersong had
swept her far enough away from battle that she imagined she saw her mother and father’s faces,
and didn’t have time to understand the flashes of green light? He looked at the other students.

“She saved all of them,” he said.

Tonks came back to him. She put her hands on Draco’s shoulders, almost holding him. “Draco,”
she said evenly, looking him in the face. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay down here,
for multiple reasons. One being that we don’t know how much residual magic from that curse
could still affect you through your Mark. Can you think of anywhere else you can go?”

He shook his head, numb.

“Okay. Look at me. You know how to get from here to the Headmaster’s office, don’t you?
There’ll be people from the Order there. They’ll look after you.”

The idea of leaving the Slytherin dorms behind, again, hardened into a painful knot in Draco’s
throat.

“Don’t leave her.”

“I won’t,” Tonks said. She did put her arms around him then, and when she let go she held his face
for a moment in both hands. “I’m going to stay right here with her, okay? I’ll be right here.”

Draco left the Slytherin dorms and made the slow climb out of the dungeons, gripping the railing.
He felt like he couldn’t take a full breath.

When he reached the top, Hermione was there, blood on her face. She reached for his hand.

“Come with me. Harry needs you.”

“Isn’t he fighting You-Know-Who?”

“No, not yet.”

Draco’s grief flashed into anger. “What is he doing?” he demanded. “People are dying!”

“It doesn’t work. The Room of Hidden Things won’t open.”

Harry was pacing when Draco and Hermione got in view, rubbing his neck, evidently embarrassed.
He called their way as soon as he saw them, when they were still thirty or forty feet apart.

“We’ve tried everything we could think of. I’ve gotten in before, I can’t understand why it’s not
working. We thought maybe we misunderstood, or the letter was lying. Ron and I have tried a
couple other places in the castle, but then Hermione ran into Snape and long story short, we were
right the first time, it’s in here.”

“You saw Snape?” Draco said.

“Yes, he’s pleased you’re alive. I’ll catch you up later, if you don’t mind,” Hermione said.

“I didn’t realize you had time for a chat, in between everything else.”
“It was intelligence gathering. He attacked me. Or, I thought he did.”

“He’s on our side, Hermione,” Harry said. “I had another vision, while you were looking for
Draco. Voldemort and Snape were talking. We went out after him, in case we could get more
information. Voldemort thought he was Master of the Elder Wand. He set the snake on him.
Snape’s dead, but he had enough time to tell us he’s been helping the Order.”

“Yes, Harry, I know,” Hermione said impatiently. “We need to get in.”

Draco touched the smooth blankness of the wall, feeling for the magic.

“Can you do it?” Harry asked.

““I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year, Potter. I know how to get in,” Draco
said. “What if it’s a trap? You said you could get inside before, so what happened?”

“I don’t know!” Harry said. “I told you, I’ve been trying and trying. If we don’t destroy that
Horcrux, this entire battle will have been for nothing.”

Draco curled his lip in frustration. The other three were tensed, leaning slightly toward the space
on the wall where the door should be, ready to rush in.

He stepped back. A strange sound escaped him, something between a gasp and a laugh and a sigh.
“You bloody idiots, all three of you,” he said. “You’re not going to open the Room in a million
years. Whatever you’re asking, all you’re thinking of is finding the Horcrux. It’s the Room of
Hidden Things—you’ve got to want to hide. Three Gryffindors, and what you need is a coward.”

“You’re not,” Hermione said, but Draco was already walking, letting the emotions he’d been
struggling to tuck behind the doors of Occlumency rush back to the surface. He wanted a Time
Turner. He wanted his mother. He wanted all of this to be over, like a bad dream. Any moment
now, Millicent should come out with a crafty smile on her face, and Hannah with her arm wrapped
around Theo’s waist, and gods, if Theo made it out of this Draco was never going to be cold to him
again, he was going to be such a better friend if he got the chance again —

The door appeared. Harry, Ron, and Hermione ran inside, and Draco followed.

It even smelled the way it did sixth year, that odd mix of damp and stone and moldering cloth. The
aisles of junk teetered high over their heads. Books piled into towers, the pages cemented together
by water and mildew. Trunks, costumes, chairs with a broken leg or a crack in the seat, jewelry,
broomsticks, owl cages. Thousands of students and professors’ treasures, stored and forgotten.

“Accio diadem!” Hermione cried, but as in the Gringotts vaults, nothing came flying toward them.

“Not much of a place to hide anything if you can find it that quick,” Draco said.

“I saw it, when I was in here before. I didn’t realize what it was,” Harry said. “It’s on a stone bust
of an old man wearing a wig.”

“The Dark Lord put a Horcrux on a statue? Wearing a wig?” Draco said, aghast.

“Probably another student who didn’t know what it was,” Ron said. “To be funny.”

Draco shut his mouth. He was not accustomed to Weasley being quicker on the uptake than he
was. He must be worse off than he thought.
Harry and Ron split off from Draco and Hermione so they could cover more ground. Hermione
went down to the far end of the aisle so she and Draco could meet in the middle. They pressed on,
deeper and deeper, tracking each other’s voices across the aisle and trying to stay oriented in a
labyrinth of objects.

“I’ve got it!” Harry’s voice rang out suddenly on the opposite side of a wall of crates, weapons,
bottles, and deflated Quaffles.

“What have we got?” rumbled a dull voice that was softer than most people expected when they
saw the face it belonged to. A voice that was embedded deeply enough into Draco’s memory that
he snapped back automatically.

“The bloody tiara thing, Crabbe, don’t you ever pay attention?”

He turned.

Crabbe and Goyle were standing shoulder to shoulder, wands pointed at Draco. Inky skulls yawned
from their left arms.

“Enough to hang back and look inside a door, when it’s open,” Crabbe said.

“We heard you was chums with Potter now. Didn’t believe it. But then we was hiding in the
corridor, and we heard you talkin’ to him.”

“As it ‘appens,” Crabbe said, smiling like he was proud of a particularly clever trick. “We know
someone else who’d like to talk to ‘im, too. To both of you, ‘smatter of fact.”

“I thought you left with Parkinson and the other Slytherins McGonagall booted out,” he said to
Crabbe and Goyle. He had his wand out, but it was still easy to fall into a casual way of talking to
them. “Came back for seconds, did you?”

“We don’t answer to her,” Goyle said. He held his arm out again meaningfully.

“Yes, I gathered as much,” Draco said peevishly. “Why did you even join up? The Dark Lord
won’t take any notice of you, until he’s ready to chew you up and spit you out. He’ll use you both
for curse fodder.”

Crabbe smiled. Not a good smile. “Real different from the way you run things, then? Who cares
what you think?”

“We don’t take your orders no more either, Draco,” Goyle said.

“We’re gonna be rewarded,” Crabbe said. “The Dark Lord’ll thank us.”

“You don’t have to fight for them,” Draco said. He knew it was stupid, even to say it. He heard
Potter call his name questioningly from behind a wall of junk. The others were coming. The
thought of either group seeing him with the other made him feel nauseous and useless and weak.
“We’ve been friends a long time. I know some other people now. I can put in a word for you.”

Crabbe shook his head. “You and your dad are finished. We got bigger ideas.”

“The two of you? That’s a laugh,” came Hermione’s voice. Draco flicked a glance to his left and
saw her marching up alongside him. She spread her free hand wide, whispering the Shield
incantation too quietly to hear.
“Get behind me, Granger,” Draco said, low and steady.

“Like hell,” Hermione said. She lifted her wand beside Draco’s, and he felt that combination of
exasperation and pride that seemed to come with the territory of dating Hermione Granger.

Goyle’s face screwed up in confusion. He’d always had the harder time keeping up. “What’s she
doing here? Where’s Potter?”

“It’s that Mudblood he’s always with,” Crabbe grunted. “Avada kedavra!”

“Protego!” Draco bellowed, flinging his spell on top of Hermione’s. One Shield wouldn’t
withstand a point-blank Killing Curse. The two together sizzled, but held.

In the same instant, an arc of red light whizzed at Crabbe and Goyle, stunning Goyle.

“Get the bloody hell away from them, you halfwit thugs!” Ron yelled. He fired another spell at
Crabbe. Crabbe leaped out of sight, surprisingly agile.

“I dropped it! It’s back this way! We can’t leave without it!” Harry shouted, already running back
down the aisle.

“We need to cover him,” Hermione gasped.

“I know how this works, Granger,” Draco grumbled, jogging along with her.

Jets of light flashed back and forth between the aisles. They didn’t know Crabbe had released
Goyle from the Stunning Hex until a Cruciatus Curse narrowly missed hitting Ron. Another Killing
Curse shot at Hermione, and Draco got another Shield up just in time. Then he heard a crackle, and
in seconds it billowed into a roar.

“Draco!” Hermione screamed. She grabbed his shoulder and dragged him around to face the
enormous flames licking up the sides of a wall of old furniture. The flames curved into malicious
hooks. Draco thought he could see talons and a tearing beak.

Crabbe stepped through a gap in the wall. “Like it hot, scum?” But he looked frightened, and he
shook his wand as if to flick off the torrent of fire pouring from the tip.

“He can’t control it!” Hermione screamed. “It’s Fiendfyre! We need to get out, now!”

Harry and Ron were pelting toward Draco and Hermione. Harry pointed wordlessly down a side
corridor. They followed him.

The Fiendfyre cracked and popped against the items it consumed, leaping higher with astonishing
speed. A forked lash of flame whipped behind them in pursuit.

Harry reached a stack of old brooms. He threw one at Ron. Draco caught another and grabbed
Hermione by the wrist. She swung a leg over the handle behind him and wrapped her arms around
him. The three brooms lifted. Draco looked out over an inferno that twisted like a nest of serpents.
The smoke was already choking thick. In another minute, it would be difficult to see the way out of
the cavernous room.

He couldn’t see any sign of Crabbe and Goyle. The air felt hot enough to cook his lungs inside him.
There was no way they could be...could they?

A thin, pitiful scream sounded from somewhere in the flames.

Harry met Draco’s eye. “We need to go back!”

“It’s too dangerous!” Ron shouted.

“We can’t just leave them!” Harry yelled.

Draco squinted against the stinging air. “There!” Two figures, clambering for space atop a
teetering pile of the accumulated belongings of generations.

Harry swerved. Draco was only inches behind him, even with Granger on board behind him. They
came down on either side of the tower, hands outstretched. Crabbe and Goyle’s hands were slick
with sweat, and they were still jostling each other for the best position. Their hands slid out of
Draco and Harry’s. As Draco pulled his broom up and away from the flame, he saw Crabbe lose
his footing and plummet into the grasping claws and jaws of the Fiendfyre.

“Goyle’s too heavy!” Harry shouted.

Ron’s face was streaked with sweat and soot. “I swear, if we die saving him, I’ll kill you!” He
swooped, wrapping one whole arm around the broom handle to brace himself while he held out his
other hand. He managed to catch Goyle just past the wrist, gripping the cloth, and swung him onto
the broom. “Now get—the—hell—out of here!”

“Draco— Harry!” Hermione shrieked. A Fiendfyre dragon blew thick black smoke into Harry’s
face. He was choking, unable to see the fiery beasts rising behind him.

Draco swerved at Potter. As he passed, Hermione caught her arm through Harry’s, pulling his
broom along with theirs. Draco ducked the brooms beneath a roving wave of fire, and then Potter
must have pulled himself together, because his broom kicked in an extra burst of speed, propelling
them toward a rectangular patch in the wall. Seconds later, they shot through into the clean air of
the hallway, colliding with the wall in the corridor beyond the Room of Requirement.

Draco rolled off the broom, coughing and retching. His throat and lungs felt scraped raw. He
pushed off his belly to his elbows and almost collapsed again. A glob of spittle and blood and sooty
slime landed on the stone floor.

“Hhh,” he choked, and tried again. “H’mione.”

“I’m all right,” she rasped.

“C-Crabbe,” he said.

“He’s dead,” Ron said soberly. “We did everything we could.”

“You okay, mate?” Potter said.

Draco nodded and forced himself into a sitting position.

There was silence for a minute or two, apart from the wheezing and panting as they coughed smoke
out of their lungs.

“Where’s Goyle?” Draco said.

“Scrambled off,” Ron said. “Think he might know how to do a Disillusion Charm.”

Harry dropped a blacked, twisted piece of metal on the ground between them with a clunk. Tar-like
liquid dribbled out of the sockets that might have held jewels before. “What d’you make of it,
Hermione?”

“Fiendfyre’s supposed to be able to destroy anything it touches,” Hermione said. “It would appear
a Horcrux is on that list.”

Proving her words, the ruined diadem broke apart into splinters.

Harry looked somber. “Then I better go find him.”

“You can’t possibly duel now,” Hermione said.

Harry pulled himself to his feet. “Any time I waste is just time for more people to get hurt, or
killed. We’re at the end now. It’s time.”

The others found their feet, too. Hermione nodded, pressing her lips together. Then she burst into
tears and threw herself into Harry. He only hugged her for a second before pulling away, eyes
damp himself.

“I’m sorry, Hermione, I just—I don’t want this to feel any harder than it already is—”

Ron’s throat worked. His arms were rigid by his sides as he held himself back. “You bloody well
keep your eyes about you. You get right back, you hear?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Harry looked at Draco, and Draco thought Harry looked from him to
Hermione and back, with a little movement of his head toward her. Hermione had her hand over her
mouth, shoulders shaking. Draco folded his arm around her. With a swirl of fabric, Harry pulled
the Invisibility Cloak over himself, and he was gone.

Hermione didn’t know what time it was. Sometime before dawn. It didn’t matter. What could
matter, anymore? Harry was dead.

It didn’t feel possible. He was the Boy Who Lived. Even when Voldemort’s amplified voice rang
out through the castle and grounds, proving his own survival, she hadn’t believed anything had
happened to Harry. Voldemort must be lying. She had come running and seen Hagrid cradling the
limp body and the agony on McGonagall’s face.

Now, everything seemed to be happening all at once. In the same moments when she was
screaming Harry’s name until she was hoarse, another uproar rose from the far reaches of the
grounds. What seemed like hundreds of people were joining the battle. There were coalitions of
allies from the Ministry and across Great Britain, a delegation of fighters with Beauxbatons
insignia on their robes, dozens of centaurs galloping out of the woods. With a dry bone rattle, the
first of the Acromantulas skittered out of the Forbidden Forest and leaped at one of the Death
Eaters’ Giants.

“For Harry!” Kingsley Shacklebolt cried, and fired a curse at Rookwood.

What remained of the Order and the Hogwarts allies roared their agreement, and the grounds
erupted in frenzied battle. A dozen House-Elves at a time mobbed a single Death Eater, biting and
wrenching anything they could grab.

If Hermione kept fighting, she wouldn’t have to think. She was dimly aware of Draco’s presence
on the periphery of the battle, glimpses of a white-blond head bent over the wounded and snatches
of his voice singing counters. The snap of anxiety in his voice, disguised as impatience or irritation.
House-Elves popped in and out of Hermione’s view, hands full of tonics and tinctures.

Hermione kept herself from flying into a million pieces by concentrating on the next thirty seconds
of fighting. Hit that one with a Leg-Lock Curse, then pivot and cast an Expulso and a Death Eater
slammed into a wall and didn’t get up. Knee-Reversal Hex, Pus-Squirting Hex. She felt ready to
hit the Death Eaters with anything she had. She wanted to.

Even so, she was still caught by surprise when Luna, who was fighting next to her, fired a
particular spell at Dolohov.

“Frangerio!” Luna said, and a needle of crisp white light shot out. Something about Dolohov’s
hands went wrong. His wand fell. He raised his dangling hands to his throat. A strangled, wheezing
sound escaped his open mouth.

“Luna, what did you do?” Hermione said.

Luna turned her wide-eyed stare on Hermione. “Oh. I’ve been using a severing spell on their vocal
cords and the tendons in their wrists. If they can’t say a spell or hold a wand, they’re fairly
harmless, really. I can teach you, if you like.”

“Jesus Christ, Luna,” Hermione said. Dolohov was still clutching at his throat with hands that
swung uselessly, no longer connected to anything that could allow them to move. “Good. They
don’t deserve our mercy.”

Luna looked at her quizzically. “I thought I was being merciful.”

Hermione turned around at a familiar voice shouting in pain. Neville Longbottom was on fire,
raising his arms to protect his face from the flames. McGonagall’s wand was faster than
Hermione’s, pointing a jet of cool water over him. Neville pulled something blackened and
crumpled off his head, and then something glittered in his hand. In one smooth movement, Neville
drew the Sword of Gryffindor out of the smoking remnants of the Sorting Hat, spun in a neat arc,
and sliced the head off of the snake that was rearing behind him.

Another movement caught her eye. Just a flicker. When she looked, she couldn’t see anything. But
that was it. The movement happened right at the spot where Harry’s body lay. Hermione was
certain of that. How could she not be? Her best friend’s body had its own gravity. Her eyes and
heart tugged towards it. No matter how much she spun and ducked during the battle, she’d been
inescapably sure of the precise spot where Harry lay dead.

And now nothing was there.

“He couldn’t,” she said. She had an impossible thought—he’d taken the Invisibility Cloak with him
—but the hope was painful because it could not possibly, logically, be true.

She grabbed Ron instead, inadvertently stopping him from walking into the path of a Killing
Curse.

“Thanks, Hermione, that was close,” he said.

“Look!” Hermione pointed. “They’ve done something. His body—they’ve moved it, or taken it.
He was there.”

Ron looked. He gaped. “You don’t think—”

“No, but if Voldemort put him there, he’d hardly want to move him again.”
“So the question is—”

“Where’s Harry?”

Near Hermione, Angelina Johnson said, “Did you ask where’s Harry?”

Hermione pointed.

“He’s gone,” Angelina said. “What happened to him?”

The tide of the battle shifted. Murmurs of “Where’s Harry?” “Did you see?” “Where’s Harry?”
spread from Order fighter to fighter. Thestrals and hippogriffs attacked the Giants. The Death
Eaters missed their marks, over and over again. The centaurs trampled fallen Death Eaters and
dragged some of Voldemort’s fighters into the Forbidden Forest. Hogwarts’ fighters were hard hit,
but the whispers were already changing to, “Something happened” “Look for Harry.”

For the first time, Hermione saw their enemy standing in the midst of the grounds where she used
to learn about Magical Beasts.

“Harry Potter is dead!” Voldemort screamed. “He died fleeing! He died turning his back on all of
you, leaving you to die for him as he has always done. He is nothing!”

“Not my daughter, you bitch!” came a ferocious scream, and Ron rushed off toward the sound of
his mother’s voice.

Then the impossible happened.

A voice shouted, “Protego!” The voice Hermione had thought she was never going to hear again.

Hagrid was bellowing, “It’s Harry! It’s Harry! He’s alive!” and even Voldemort’s amplified
screams wouldn’t drown him out.

The fighters fell silent. Even the remaining Death Eaters had to stop and turn to see if it was true.
The crowd fell back, clearing a wider circle around Voldemort, and parting for the wiry boy with
the jagged scar on his forehead.

Hermione had never before seen Harry face the foe who had haunted him his entire life. Voldemort
was overwhelming. He emanated an aura of evil power, like a riptide that threatened to suck her in.
Everything he touched, everything he looked at cowered away from the stain of him. Something
about the way he walked, the uncanny rictus of a smile on his face, flooded her system with a
primal need to get away. Unholy. Unclean.

Harry was the only one who didn’t respond to the magnetic, monstrous charm of the Dark Lord.
Harry’s stance was relaxed. He held his wand at an angle that looked almost casual.

“It doesn’t have to go like this, Tom,” he said. There was no bravado. His voice was steady.

Voldemort’s red eyes were wide in a livid face. “See even now how he pleads for his own escape
—” he began. But Hermione didn’t think Harry had sounded like he was pleading at all.

Voldemort took a step closer to Harry. He beckoned his back hand at the Death Eaters. Hermione’s
scalp and back flashed hot in an instinctive wave of revulsion as Voldemort came nearer. Harry
shook his head slightly in a mild reprimand.

“We don’t need anyone else to get involved in this. It’s just you and me.”
Voldemort’s face contorted in scorn. “Look around you, Harry Potter. Look, all of you, at your
dead. He will use every last one of you as a shield.”

“There are no more Horcruxes,” Harry said. “You’re not going to hurt anyone anymore.”

“You’ll watch everyone you’ve ever loved die screaming before you,” Voldemort said. He made
no move to lift his wand, though. Neither did any of the remaining Death Eaters.

Harry took a deliberate step closer. His green eyes didn’t hold any anger. He didn’t seem to need it.
“No, I won’t. I know lots of things you don’t know, Tom. Lots of things you never bothered to
learn. I know them. Did you know there’s two ways to make a Horcrux? You can kill for one, you
know that. You can die for one, too, though. My mother did that, a long time ago. I bet you
remember it. And now I’ve done it, too.”

“You didn’t die,” Voldemort said.

“No. I meant to, though.” Harry had a mischievous hint around the corners of his lips. “I have you
to thank, Tom. There was a bit of you buried deep inside me, from that night all those years ago.
You didn’t even know about that. You couldn’t die, so you kept me alive, too. But that part’s gone
now. I’ve got rid of it.”

“You think you know more magic than I do?” Voldemort screamed. Still, the field around them
was quiet as they circled each other.

“No,” Harry said, and again the small smile appeared on his face. “You know lots of magic I’ll
never learn in my life, even if I end up dying someday because I don’t know it. Some magic isn’t
worth knowing. You know more. But what I know is better.” Harry looked sober, then, and he
stopped circling. “That’s why I told you it doesn’t have to be like this. You’ve got to try and feel
some remorse, Tom. I’ve seen what’ll happen to you otherwise. It’s your last chance, now, so
you’ve got to try.”

“How dare you?” Voldemort shrieked. “Your miserable friends will curse the day you insulted the
most powerful wizard in the world!”

“Powerful? Even the wand in your hand won’t listen to you anymore. Not that it ever would have.
You’ve never understood power, even if you spent your life searching for it. Draco Malfoy knows
more about real power than you do. That wand you’re holding was his, first. He took it from
Dumbledore. And it turns out he loves a friend of mine. Love is more powerful than anything
you’ve hurt and killed people for your entire life. You can be defeated without being broken.
You’ll never know that kind of power. It’s too late for that.” Harry lifted his hand as the first rays
of the sun set a red-gold glow over both of them. “I am the true Master of the Elder Wand.”

Voldemort screamed, “Avada kedavra!”

In the same moment, Harry shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Hermione screamed, too, and didn’t hear her own voice in the cannon blast impact of the two spells
crashing together. The dark, knotted length of the Elder Wand spun end over end through the air
until it landed in Harry’s hand. Voldemort crumpled backward, his feeble body landing in a clumsy
heap, his blank red eyes already turning cloudy.

It was still early enough that the clouds reflected in the enchanted sky of the Great Hall were
tinged with pink and lavender. The Great Hall was full of voices. People grieving, the wounded
groaning, here and there an excited shout when someone saw Harry. Colin Creevey walked around
with his camera. Hermione was about to ask him to put it away, but he looked so solemn, not his
usual pestering self. This was history. It would mean something, decades from now, to have
photographs from this day.

People were carrying in the wounded and the dead. Some others had carried Voldemort’s body
away into a separate chamber. Hogwarts’ dead were laid side by side along one long table.
Hermione saw Snape, saw the Weasley family gathered around Fred’s body. Tonks was weeping
over Lupin, cradling his head in her lap so she could stroke the hair back from his still face.
Hermione’s throat caught when she saw Millicent laid beside them. In the midst of everything else,
Draco didn’t even have a chance to tell her.

She didn’t know where Draco was. Hermione couldn’t think back exactly to the last time she saw
him. He was just near her, wasn’t he? But then Harry was back, and in the whirl of activity she
hadn’t looked for Draco in the crowd. She turned away from the table of the dead, unwilling to
look any further. He wasn’t there. She would have known, she was sure of it.

Madam Pomfrey and McGonagall were assessing the wounded on another long table as friends and
allies carried them in. People called names, searching for their friends. The Great Hall was thick
with people shoving back and forth to find the ones they loved.

At last, through a cluster of people, Hermione spotted the top of his head. His back was to her.

“Draco!” Hermione called. She started to push her way toward him. With other people out of the
way, she could see that he was wrapped tightly in the arms of a slender woman with platinum-
blond hair.

The haughty woman Hermione had sometimes had the misfortune to encounter while shopping in
Diagon Alley was gone. Narcissa was red-eyed and red-nosed, unable to look at Draco without
sobbing harder, but also unable to repress the swift smiles that passed over her face as she held her
son. She put her hands on his face, then his shoulders, then back again. Her whole body was
shaking.

Hermione’s feet stuttered to a halt. She wanted to hold him, but this felt huge. She felt suddenly
like an intruder.

Draco looked over at the sound of her voice. He took his mother’s hands in his and kissed her
knuckles. Then he gently released her and ran to Hermione, grabbing her into his arms so hard he
had to turn halfway around in place to keep both of them from falling.

“Don’t you ever let me see you do that again,” he growled in her ear. “You never keep yourself
back from me, you understand me? You belong next to me. Always.”

He caught her mouth with his, forcing her head backward, claiming her with his lips and tongue
and teeth. One arm held fast along her spine, pinning her against him. His other hand tangled into
her hair, fingernails dragging down the back of her neck. Hermione threw herself into him, too,
scraping her teeth over his bottom lip. She’d bruise him if it meant he’d know she was never going
to let herself be apart from him again.

Draco broke off the kiss and buried his face against the side of her head. “He was looking for me.
My father,” he choked out. “He was searching for me, my mother told me, they both were, but he
didn’t—Granger, he didn’t—”

Hermione held him as tightly as she could. She wanted to fit herself into all the spaces that had
 been torn away from him. “It’s not fair,” she said.

A sharp breath in her ear. He didn’t say anything else just yet. When he finally pulled back, his
eyes were wet. Hermione’s were, too.

The light was getting stronger by the minute. Soon, the Aurors would arrive, and Ministry officials,
and reporters, and parents desperate to reunite with their children.

“I need to look after my mother,” Draco said.

Hermione nodded.

“Come with me,” he said. He took her hand.

Hogwarts would never be the same for any of them again. Hermione knew that. The entire Magical
world would never be the same, now that she’d lived through a war. Magic wasn’t the miracle
she’d thought it was when she’d first learned about it.

Draco followed her eye as Hermione took in the chaotic ruin of the Great Hall.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s over,” he said.

“No,” Hermione said. “I thought I’d feel better, once we’d beaten him.”

“That’s because it isn’t over. We lived through the battle tonight. What happens next is you and I,
and Potter and Weasley and Lovegood and whoever else is left and has anything left to give, we all
try and make something that would mean anything to the people who won’t get to see it. That’s
when you’ll feel it. And you and I have a trip to plan, as soon as possible,” he said. “Where did you
send them, after you cast the memory charm? You never told me. You can tell me now. It’s safe
now.”

“Australia,” Hermione whispered.

“Australia,” Draco repeated, testing the word. “We’re going to go to Australia.”

“You’ll come with me to get my parents?”

Draco knitted his brows, inclining his head toward her protectively. “Hermione, I’ll go anywhere
with you.”

They hadn’t won, not yet. It wasn’t fair to the dead lying on the table to call this morning a victory.
But they would win. That was as sure as the hand holding hers. Whatever it took to make magic
feel like a good thing in the world again, the two of them would meet it together.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much to everyone reading this for being patient for a month! It was such
a bittersweet experience writing this chapter. I'm proud of how it came out, but it was
definitely tough sometimes to commit certain scenes to the page.

Overall, I've always been interested in what it would mean for a redeemed Draco to
participate in the BoH on Hogwarts' side. He may not be a dueler, but I think he's
come an extremely long way.

Some moments in this chapter are lifted or adapted very closely from canon, in
particular the Fiendfyre scene and Harry's battle with Voldemort. If you think you've
heard something before, you're probably right. (I've also, as always, tried to remix and
weave in enough of my own spin that I hope it doesn't feel like a total copy/paste.)

I don't know, it's hard to capture exactly what I'm thinking/feeling loading this chapter
up for AO3! It feels so weird to think that the Book 6/7 retelling is over. I'm working
on one more chapter as a sort of epilogue and a way to tie up a few things, so maybe I
will hold off on digging deeper for notes until then. <3
 Aftermath
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Three months later — August 1998

What people remembered over and over again, as they stood in the witness stand, was the music.
That during the battle, amid the crashes and curses and screams, there were also melodies and
harmonies. They remembered being less afraid when they were wounded, because they knew help
was coming. They remembered hearing a familiar strain and running toward it, singing the
countermelody as they pulled their own wands out, or knowing which curse to be ready to deflect
when they heard a particular tune echoing down a corridor. They remembered who had taught
them the songs that saved their friends.

Draco had no choice but to submit to the Wizengamot trial, thanks to the Making All Retributions
Known Act, which passed within weeks of the Battle of Hogwarts. Under the MARK Act, anyone
with “a tangible connection to the wartime activities of Lord Voldemort, the Death Eaters, or any
associates, allies, or accomplices thereof” was subject to trial, and trial proceedings were to be
made available to the public. The law was meant to avoid the mistakes of the First Wizarding War
in letting influential former Death Eaters off with a fine and a slap on the wrist.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of very few dissenting voices when the MARK Act passed.

“They want to show a strong front. Replacing one kind of absolute rule with another isn’t the way
forward for British Wizardry. They can’t bring anyone back by taking their hard line now, and
they’ll grind nuance into sausage in the meantime.”

Kingsley’s influence could only do so much, but he could arrange for Draco to be first of the Death
Eaters to be tried. The Ministry would have to kick off their new law by deciding the case of the
Boy Who Fought for Both Sides, and (assuming all went well) once Draco was cleared legally,
he’d be free to use Wizarding-sanctioned travel channels to go to Australia.

So a disgruntled passel of Ministry lawyers, Aurors, and officials had to sit for hours in court and
listen to survivor after survivor of the Battle of Hogwarts tell stories of the moments when Draco
Malfoy’s spells, and often enough his own wand, had been there in time to save their lives.

Draco knew Hermione would testify in his favor, of course. He was similarly unsurprised to see
Harry Potter contribute his testimony, although even now it was strange to see Potter offer an
encouraging grin and thumbs-up his way.

Ginny Weasley, on the other hand, he had not expected.

The Wizengamot lawyer rattled a sheaf of papers. “I have your deposition here, Miss Weasley.
You shared a firsthand account of the skirmish on June 12, 1997, at the event commonly known as
the Astronomy Tower Assassination. The accused is clearly identified as fighting against you—”

“No, that’s wrong.” Ginny flicked her ponytail over her shoulder. “I was clear in my deposition that
I was fighting his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

The prosecuting wizard fiddled with his spectacles. “Miss Weasley, I appreciate your specificity,
but I meant that he was fighting against the collected members of the Order of the Phoenix and the
student group ‘Dumbledore’s Army,’ which opposed the Death Eaters invading Hogwarts Castle.”

“Oh,” Ginny said. “Got it. Well, that’s wrong, too then. He—Mister Malfoy, that is, for specificity
—wasn’t fighting.”

“Oh no? And how would you characterize his actions?”

“Standing around like an asshole, mostly.”

“Miss Weasley, I would remind you that this is a Wizengamot trial, not a Quidditch locker room.”

Ginny raised her hand. “Under penalty of perjury, I did not see him move a muscle until I was
injured by Bellatrix Lestrange. Then we made eye contact, and Malfoy discharged a packet of
Peruvian Darkness Powder, which directly enhanced my ability to take effective evasive action and
avoid further harm. I did not see him take any action to harm myself or other DA or Order
members, and I believe his one action before continuing to the Astronomy Tower was expressly
intended to assist me. My understanding from other accounts is that he didn’t do much of anything
at the top of the Tower, either.”

“Moving on,” the wizard said. “Miss Weasley, you seem to argue that Mister Malfoy was not, in
your estimation, truly a Death Eater. Is that an accurate summary of your opinion?”

“It is.”

“My records of Dumbledore’s Army minutes and voting show you voted against him. Witness
accounts of his period of residence at Nott Manor indicate you voiced discomfort with his presence
in the house. That doesn’t sound like someone who believed in his innocence.”

“I didn’t think much about that either way,” Ginny said, voice ringing clear in the courtroom. “My
objection was personal.”

“Can you please be more clear?”

“Absolutely. I personally dislike the accused. I think he’s a stuck-up, boastful asshole, and I did not
wish to be stuck having to interact with him socially. But being a git isn’t enough reason to get sent
to Azkaban.”

In the defendant’s stand, Draco held the wooden railing tight, trying not to laugh.

When the judge read the verdict, she informed the courtroom that, “The preponderance of evidence
appears to suggest that, although 34 lives were lost in the Battle of Hogwarts, still more may have
died without the distributed knowledge and direct action of the defendant, Draco Lucius Malfoy. In
addition, the missions he was ordered to complete in service of the Death Eaters seem to have been
ambivalently followed and inconsistently executed. The missions he participated in in connection
with the Order of the Phoenix were overwhelmingly considered successful. In short, if I may be
blunt, it seems legally complicated if not morally unscrupulous to convict him as a war criminal
without simultaneously exalting him as a war hero. Therefore, I am pleased to uphold the jury’s
decision, finding Draco Malfoy not guilty. Mister Malfoy, in the eyes of this court and under
Ministry law, you are cleared of charges and legally disentangled from the activities of the Death
Eaters in the Second Wizarding War.”
Six months later — November 1998

Sunday morning found Hermione where it often did: on her back, in bed, in the flat she shared with
Draco. They’d rented a small apartment in Hogsmeade. It was quiet, but still offered easy Floo
connection to London to visit friends at St. Mungo’s or accompany Narcissa as her own trial
hearings progressed. Hermione could walk to Hogwarts for classes and unwind in her own space.
Not that it was possible to think about classes at this precise moment. Sunday morning had found
Draco where it often did, as well: also in bed, his head positioned distinctly, exquisitely further
from the pillows than Hermione’s was.

She hugged his pillow, biting into it as she crossed one leg over his back, her curled toes digging
into his shoulder blade. He wrapped his arm around her thigh, locking it in place while he shifted
from doing the oh-god circular thing with his tongue to doing the ohshit-howareyoueven-yesthat
undulating thing.

Gods, she was lying on her back and she was still the one sweating somehow, although to be fair,
the one-legged bridge she was doing into his face had to count as some type of exercise. Her
supporting thigh was shaking. Although again, that could be due to the undulating thing.

Draco took his arm off her leg so he had a free hand to slip two fingers in, and Hermione arched
her back hard enough that she could see the headboard behind her. She curled halfway over on her
side and he moved with her, keeping the rolling rhythm steady until she shuddered one more time
and let her legs splay limp on the mattress.

“You like that?” He clearly knew the answer; a self-satisfied smile played at his lips.

Hermione flopped her head back on the pillow, panting. “Feel my heart.”

He put his hand on her chest, and the grin broadened.

“Do you even have another round in you, Miss Granger? Or are you finally going to accept
Slytherin dominance?”

“Give me just a sec.” She stretched, looking at the squares of light on the wall. Draco curled easily
next to her and kissed the underside of her breast.

“Okay,” she said. “On your back, Malfoy. I’ll show you a thing or two about dominance.”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Hermione kissed his neck, tasting his sweat in the hollow of his throat. Draco didn’t have a lot of
chest hairs to work with, but she tugged what she could and grazed her teeth over the familiar
ridges of his scars.

She licked his hipbone and saw the flutter of his breath. She drifted over an inch, sucked a pinch of
taut skin between her teeth, and bit. The tip of her tongue flicked against him, and then she released
the bite and traced up almost to his navel before guiding her tongue down—and then up again,
doodling a slow M on his lower belly. He pushed his hips up a little.

She sucked on the inside of his thigh until she could see him marked for her, and his cock bobbed
against her cheekbone on its own accord. The skin on the head was so soft, like suede. Hermione
curled two fingers around the shaft and stroked the head down her cheek, teasing it just past her
lips.
Draco groaned. “God, you’re mean.”

Hermione smiled and slipped the head into her mouth.

Sex with Draco had been enticing and appealing and good before, without a doubt. Sneaking
around at Hogwarts or Nott’s, or trying to keep quiet at Andromeda’s, didn’t hold a candle to sex in
their own space. Hermione would never have guessed that a one-bedroom flat with a stuck window
and a sputtering Floo could feel so expansively luxurious. They could make noise here, whenever
they wanted. Draco could roll over in the morning and slide a hand up Hermione’s shirt without
triple-checking that the door was locked. They could sleep naked. They could have sex in the
kitchen, Hermione perched up on the counter, knees apart, one hand grabbing a cabinet handle.
They could do it upside down in the living room with a Levitation charm, if the fancy struck them
(so far, it hadn’t, but it was an option).

Or they could stick to basics like this, taking turns on a lazy Sunday morning, making coffee
without bothering to brush the taste of each other out of their mouths, then squeezing into a shower
stall so tiny it hardly made sense not to have sex again.

It was somewhere Hermione could look forward to going back to at the end of the day. A place
that felt like new adventures and like peace, all at once. A place that told her, there is more waiting
for you.

Later the same day

Seeing Malfoy Manor always gave Hermione a queer feeling, no matter how many Sunday
afternoons found her there. Like someone walking over her grave, or the cold feeling of a long-
forgotten nightmare threatening to make its way back to the surface.

She shivered as she crossed the threshold and rubbed her arms.

“I always feel like I have ‘Mudblood’ written on me,” she murmured bitterly.

“Don’t talk like that,” Draco said.

Narcissa met them in the foyer, as usual. As long as her trial was still ongoing, she was confined to
the Manor and grounds. Better than a prison stay, even in the holding cells apart from the
Dementors (Draco, thankfully, had been exempt as well, in consideration of his contributions to the
Order). She must get lonely, though, and depend on the visits from her son. Or so Hermione
reminded herself as she watched Narcissa’s face assume its usual mask of polished greeting.

“Miss Granger. What a delightful surprise.”

“I don’t see why it would be, Mother. She comes every week,” Draco said evenly, helping
Hermione with her coat. He snapped his fingers to summon a House Elf. “We’ll need another
setting for tea. Dinner as well, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Narcissa echoed. “Really, Draco, it’s rather a rude imposition on Miss Granger’s time
to insist on demanding her Sunday afternoons, isn’t it? Poor thing, you must find it so tiresome to
sit through another simple family tea.”

“Not at all,” Hermione said, her own face fixed in a smile. “Family is so important to Draco. I
wouldn’t dream of letting him think I didn’t take it just as seriously as he does.”

She let Narcissa lead them to the parlor. Draco pulled up another chair beside his, waited for his
mother to sit down, then held Hermione’s chair for her.

“I’m perfectly capable of seating myself,” Hermione said.

“Nonsense,” he said.

Narcissa poured. Draco, as usual, added three spoonfuls of sugar. The spoon clinked when he set it
down. Hermione, as usual, added nothing, because Narcissa added nothing.

“I got your owl,” Draco said. “I’m sure I can find time this week to make a trip out to Gringotts.
We know I can access the vaults. Right, Granger?”

Hermione flashed him a tight smile. She gripped her teacup and took a gulp of steaming tea.
“Delicious,” she choked. “Is that Oolong?”

“Lavender and pennyroyal,” Narcissa replied. “Is it not to your taste? It is a rather unusual pairing.”

“It’s my favorite,” Hermione said firmly.

Narcissa looked surprised, and possibly almost annoyed, although that could simply be the
habitual expression Hermione had seen her wear years before. Hermione was beginning to wonder
if she’d somehow, already, said the wrong thing, but all Narcissa said was, “How lucky, then.”

“Anyway,” Draco said. “I think you’re right, we may not know when the trial’s going to reach a
conclusion, but we may as well have some gold on hand for whenever they settle on a reparations
sum. I know you and Father had to spend a lot already. Even if we’re low on Galleons at the
moment, though, we could always auction off a few of the paintings—”

“We can talk about it later,” Narcissa said.

“Fine,” Draco said.

Narcissa took a tiny sip of tea.

Draco said, “Granger, did you ever figure out the answer to that rune problem you were working on
the other night?”

Hermione nodded. “I was just tired and mistook Elder Futhark for Anglo-Saxon Futhorc. It was a
silly mistake.”

More silence.

Draco cleared his throat pointedly.

Narcissa folded her hands on the table. “Do forgive me, Miss Granger, I pass so many afternoons
alone that I’ve grown too accustomed to silence and my own thoughts. Please tell me, how is your
family?”

“Cinnamon pancakes,” Hermione blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hermione set the cup back in the saucer with a rattle. “We stayed with my parents Friday into
Saturday. My mother made cinnamon pancakes for breakfast. Without asking. She always makes
me those on weekends or breaks.”

“The Healers say any return to old behaviors is a good sign, even if they don’t remember why
they’re doing it,” Draco said.

“They don’t consciously remember me yet. They admitted themselves it was weirdly easy for them
to accept the idea of magic, and my dad biked himself halfway to the clinic before his sense of
direction got fuzzy, and they say I’m a lovely girl and anyone would be honored to have me as a
daughter, so they want to try—” Her throat tightened.

“It takes time,” Draco cut in. “Memory is delicate. It was an extensive spell. The Healers have
been very optimistic that the Grangers should be able to get a lot back. Actually, Mother, I’m glad
you raised the topic. We need to talk about the holidays.”

“Indeed?” Narcissa said. “What did you have in mind?”

“The Healers have made it clear that the more familiarity, the better for memory retrieval. They
said Christmas is especially important, since there are so many strong associated memories with
the holidays, and that Hermione should recreate as many traditions as possible with her parents to
help restore those connections. That’s clearly going to be hard on her at times, so I’ll be going with
her to support her.”

For once, Narcissa’s flawless composure broke. She set her cup down with a noticeable clink.

“Come, Draco, I understand you favor Miss Granger, but I hardly think it appropriate for you to
treat all of this so seriously. From the way you speak sometimes, I’d half-expect you to announce
you’re eloping at our next visit.”

“Mother, don’t be absurd,” Draco said. “I’ll marry Hermione in four years, after she’s finished her
university studies.”

Hermione got a mouthful of tea down the wrong pipe.

Draco looked at her in concern. “Granger, I’m so sorry. I just assumed. I didn’t even think to ask
you.” He took her hand and leaned in close, meeting her eyes tenderly. “Did you want to attend
university first?”

Hermione resisted the urge to swat his hand. “Yes, Draco,” she said. “I will.”

“That is enough,” Narcissa snapped. “Excuse us, Miss Granger, I must insist on speaking with my
son in private. Should you require anything, the House Elves will be happy to assist you.”

Hermione waited approximately forty-five seconds before getting up from her seat. She chose a
direction partly on hunch, partly remembering that Narcissa had a favorite salon with curated
selections from the Malfoy family library (which made the whole situation that much more
unpleasant, knowing that Narcissa had an interest in cultivating and discussing Magical literature).
She pulled an Extendable Ear out of her pocket and wedged it discreetly under the door.

Draco’s voice rose on the other side of the door. Not in anger—he wasn’t shouting at his mother,
Hermione couldn’t imagine him ever going that far—but Hermione heard frustration, and a sort of
beseeching helplessness.

“Don’t you understand? She’s never gotten in the way. For Merlin’s sake, Hermione’s been the
only person in this entire bloody war who never told me I had to turn my back on you and Father.
She wanted me to see you again. The stars on that card are her enchantment. How do you still not
see any of that?”

“She is the one who is failing to see the situation for what it is,” Narcissa said. “I’m not ungrateful.
I’m glad, for both of you, that you could have someone to be a friend and comfort in war. I
appreciate her efforts to reunite you to me. Whenever the Ministry unpleasantness ends, if they
leave us a Sickle in our vaults, I’m perfectly happy to discuss a suitable token of our gratitude.”

“Stop,” Draco said. “I thought it was just a matter of giving you some time to get used to this. This
is my home, too. I want her to like coming here. You can’t keep treating her like this. I saw what
you did with the tea. Lavender and pennyroyal, really? I’m assuming I’m the ‘devotion’ you want
to keep around, and the warding off evil part is meant for her. She doesn’t even know flower
language!”

“Of course not, she’s not Pure. She doesn’t understand our ways.”

“Maybe not. That didn’t stop her from knowing the perfect thing to say about your message,
though. If she’s pennyroyal and I’m lavender, then it’s my favorite pairing, too.” Draco sighed.
When he spoke again, his voice was resolute. “Hermione has never asked me to choose between
loving her and my family. Do not be the first one to ask me to make that choice.”

Hermione gasped. She clapped her hand over her mouth before remembering that Malfoy Manor
doors were thick and it was only the Extendable Ear that let her hear anything at all.

“I want you to get along. For me, if nothing else,” Draco said. “I’m not going to distance myself
from you again, after everything we’ve been through. I’m not leaving her, either.”

Hermione counted five long breaths in the stillness.

“I want you to be happy. I want our family to be together again,” Narcissa said.

“I do, too. It’s not going to be the same. We’re still Malfoys, though. I’m still proud of that.”

“Oh, Draco,” Narcissa said. Hermione could imagine her reaching to hug him. “You have always
been our greatest pride. I hope you know that.”

Then Draco’s voice came through again, as clear as if he were standing a foot away, sounding
equally amused and admonishing.

“Hermione, love, it’s terribly uncouth to press your ear up to the door like that. You’re not exactly
helping me make my case.”

Hermione eased the door open. “Um. Hi. Sorry.”

“Let’s sit down together and have tea like a family,” Draco said.

Hermione didn’t share Draco’s optimism. If the heat in her face was any indication, she was a
passable stand-in for a Gryffindor banner right about now. The thought of hours more of stilted
conversation and her inevitable failure to meet some standard of Pureblood propriety sounded like
one of the worst ways to spend the dwindling bit of time before the grind of the week’s classwork
started up again.

The bell sounded at the door.

“Ah,” Draco said. “A few minutes late, but just as well. Gave us time to finish talking. You can
stay here if you’re comfortable, Mother. I’ll show them in.”

“I will do nothing of the kind,” Narcissa said. “You’ve invited more—friends, I take it? I'm still
lady of this house, Draco, and I have no intention of neglecting my obligation of hospitality.”

Nevertheless, Draco was moving briskly toward the door, with a protesting Narcissa and bemused
Hermione following close behind.

“Draco, for goodness’ sake, what in the heavens do you think you’re—oh.” Narcissa stopped short
when Draco opened the door.

Draco kissed Andromeda on the cheek, ushered her and Tonks inside, reached for coats. Tonks set
the carrier on the polished floor and hugged Hermione.

“Hey, lady.”

Hermione squeezed Tonks back, grateful for a familiar, welcoming face. “I had no idea you were
coming! Draco didn’t tell me.”

“I can tell. Look at the smirk on his face. What a little ass.”

Hermione laughed. “And Teddy’s so big!”

“I know! The growth spurt wrecked his sleep cycle, I swear. I just got him down, so fingers
crossed.” She reached an arm out to hug Draco next and pecked his cheek. “Hey, you.”

“Forgive my imposition, Cissy,” Andromeda said. If she noticed a reaction in Narcissa’s face or
body at the name, she gave no sign of it. “Nymphadora and I wanted to see you, and to extend our
condolences for your loss. When Draco invited us to the Manor, I couldn’t resist accepting. I don’t
mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” Narcissa said. Hermione thought she sounded...surprisingly genuine.
Narcissa’s posture and expression were still impeccably proper. Her eyes kept darting from face to
face, and to the carrier. She seemed hesitant in a way that was new. “There’s a sitting room just off
to the left, here. Please—make yourselves comfortable.”

Even once she was seated, Narcissa was subdued, watching Draco pass out cups and saucers, while
a House Elf followed to pour and offer cream and sugar. Tonks had tucked the carrier into a far
corner so no one would accidentally bump the baby.

“I’m not sure I entirely understand,” Narcissa said. “I—it’s unexpected—I had been informed by
the Ministry that I was only allowed Draco as a visitor. And his companion—but you know Miss
Granger, of course. I’m being foolish.”

“We know her well,” Andromeda said. “I’m glad you’re able to get to know her, too. If one good
thing happened because of this war, it was that I was able to meet some of the bravest and kindest
witches and wizards I’ve had the pleasure to know. Meeting Draco was especially meaningful to
me, although it broke my heart knowing that my joy and good fortune had to come at the price of
pain for you. You must be so proud of him.”

Narcissa nodded. “Always.”

“We’re close with Kingsley Shacklebolt as well. He reviewed your case and assured me that, while
you may not currently be allowed to invite visitors, the official documents said nothing to limit
Draco’s ability to invite guests of his choosing to the Manor. He’s a partial heir, after all. So I felt I
could accept his invitation without fear of compromising your case.”

Tonks raised her eyebrows at Hermione. Hermione didn’t know how to return the questioning
look. Even after months of visits, many of Narcissa’s expressions and mannerisms remained
inscrutable to her. The formality of Pureblood etiquette certainly carried a steeper learning curve
than Hermione had expected.

“I was thinking of arranging a time to visit Bellatrix’s grave, soon?” Andromeda said. “I could
make inquiries about a leave pass for you, if you’d like to accompany me?”

“That’s so thoughtful,” Narcissa said. “As it happens, I—” She glanced at Draco. “I’d have to ask
Draco about his plans, and my trial demands a good deal of travel.”

“Do you not want to go with me, or would you rather not go at all?” Andromeda said. “Maybe
there’s somewhere else?”

Narcissa hesitated. “Is it terrible if I can’t bear the idea of spending time in another cemetery?”

Andromeda shook her head. “No, Cissy, it’s not.”

“I’m surprised you want to go.”

“I don’t. Bella and I hadn’t exactly been close for some time. I was going to go if it would mean
something for you.”

Narcissa’s shoulders relaxed. “Bella and I haven’t been close, either. She helped sometimes. It
wouldn’t be fair of me not to say so. More often than not, she’d agree to help me if it meant she’d
have a chance to threaten someone. At the minimum. She’s got—she had a very strong
personality.”

“That is certainly a way to put it! She was always a lot to handle.” Andromeda leaned closer to her
sister. “I have to say, you look astonishingly well, Cissy. You’ve been doing so much, with so little
help. I wish Bella had been better to you. We’ve all been dealt too much grief, really. What I want
is for things to start going right for this family again,” she burst out. “I’d like to attend your next
hearing, for support, if you’ll permit me.”

A wail rose from the carrier. Tonks groaned.

“If he would just sleep when he needs it,” she said. “I’ll get him.”

“Please, you’re sitting comfortably,” Narcissa said. “I’ll bring him to you, if he’ll come to me.”

“Probably. He hasn’t shown much separation anxiety yet. He’s a friendly little chap.”

Hermione watched Narcissa approach the carrier. Her posture was ramrod straight. Hermione
couldn’t see Narcissa’s face, only the pale chignon and the elegant stem of her neck. Narcissa knelt
in front of the carrier. Her hands hovered delicately for a second, and then she was undoing snaps
and buckles. Hermione didn’t see Narcissa’s face as she took Teddy into her arms, either, only the
turquoise muss of hair as the baby nuzzled his face sleepily into the crook of her neck. Narcissa
stood very still. Hermione saw Narcissa turn her head, just a little, just enough to put her nose in the
baby’s soft hair. Her eyes were closed.

When she opened them, Teddy's hair wasn't turquoise anymore. All of them heard Narcissa’s
exclamation.
“He looks a good deal like you did, at his age,” Andromeda murmured.

Draco was wide-eyed. “I’d forgotten he might do that,” he murmured back.

Narcissa didn’t turn around for another few moments. When she did, the fragile brightness in her
eyes belied the poised, gracious-hostess smile.

“With five of us dining, the garden room will be pleasanter than the parlor. I’ll send for a House
Elf directly. Nymphadora, is Teddy able to sit with a baby Levi-Charm, or do you prefer to hold
him?”

“We usually take turns passing him around, at home,” Tonks said. “If you think he won’t be too
disruptive.”

Narcissa’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around Teddy. “He’s a baby boy. That’s what he
ought to do.”

The rest of the evening went better than any of the visits Hermione had spent at Malfoy Manor
before. Teddy gummed mashed peas off Narcissa’s finger and gave her cheeky, face-scrunch grins
from across the table when he was in his mother’s or grandmother’s arms. Hermione didn’t feel as
scrutinized with three other people at the table to share conversation. She even got to have a
distinctly satisfying moment when Tonks caught her eye, raised an eyebrow, and extended her
finger at a shallow bowl next to the place settings. Hermione pantomimed dipping her fingers to
rinse between courses, and Tonks mouthed “Thank you” before she was summoned to take Teddy
for a change.

When Draco and Hermione were safely out of sight of Malfoy Manor at the end of the evening, she
smacked his arm lightly.

“I hope that wasn’t meant to be a proposal, earlier,” she said. “What you told your mother about
marrying me in four years.”

“Of course not. What do you take me for?” Draco said. “Our engagement needs to be extravagant.
After everything we’ve dealt with, a proposal needs to be devastatingly romantic.”

Hermione smiled. “Well, good.”

“I can’t wait to see what you have in mind.”

“Draco.”

“Why assume I should be the one to do it? You’re braver. You’re the Gryffindor,” he said. He
tucked her hand through his arm and leaned his cheek on top of her head. “Woo me, Granger. I
have the utmost faith in you.”

Nine months later — February 1999

Draco had barely had a chance to locate Potter and Weasley in the shadowy recesses of yet another
dingy pub they claimed to find charming, and to ease himself into a waxy, faux-leather chair at
their table, before they were laying into him. That was part of the game, of course. Take each other
out, stand a few rounds, blow off some steam. Hermione didn’t always understand that old habits
died hard, and sometimes getting along looked rather similar to old rivalries.

Last time they beat him to the first round, they’d ordered him a banana daiquiri. More fool them—
it was delicious, and he’d gotten the server’s Floo details when he accidentally caught her eye and
sucked on the twirly straw at the same time. This time, however, there were no ostentatious drinks,
and both of his companions looked decidedly stern for a night out.

“Where do you think you get off?” Ron said. “After everything Hermione’s done for you.”

Draco eyed the rim of his glass suspiciously, deemed it as clean as one could expect, and sipped
the amber liquid therein. It turned out to be a surprisingly passable whisky. “You’ll have to be more
specific, Weasley, I can’t possibly be expected to remember everything you find objectionable.”

“The damn proposal, Malfoy,” Harry barked.

Draco set down his drink. Normally there was a bit more banter and teasing about whatever
atrocity he’d allegedly committed with Granger this time. Cutting to the chase immediately might
signal that they were genuinely upset. “What about it?”

“Hermione’s in a tizzy,” Harry said. “She’s been Flooing everyone under the sun for weeks. She
has a binder.”

Draco broke into a grin, flattered. “Is it going well, then? Has she given you any hints? No,
actually, don’t tell me, I want to be surprised.”

“We don’t give a Bowtruckle’s tail what you want,” Ron said.

“Do you actually expect us to stand by while you make Hermione run around doing all the work to
figure out how to propose to you?” Harry said.

“Relax,” Draco said, demonstrating what he meant by lounging at a cockier angle in his chair.
“She’s enjoying herself. It’s all under control.”

“That’s it,” Ron said, slamming his hands on the table. “Harry, we’re taking this prick out back.
He’s not going to listen to sense, he’ll get some sense beaten into him.”

“Weasley, how long have you known Hermione, again?”

“Eight years, since our first train ride to Hogwarts.”

“Excellent. So you know her quite well.” Draco folded his hands on the table. “Let me paint you a
picture. Let’s say Hermione Granger, top student of her year, acolyte of the library, widely
regarded as the critical member of the Golden Trio to possess a sensible head—this Hermione—
let’s say she falls in love. Let’s go so far as to say she could imagine a lifetime with this person,
and that a conversation offering such an arrangement would be one she’d remember forever. Now,
do me a favor and imagine this same Hermione having no control over when, where, and how this
conversation and question take place.”

There was a short silence, and then Harry said, “Oh, bollocks, mate. He might be onto something.
She’d hate it.”

“Even I’m not so cocky as to think I can plan a way to surprise her without aggravating her so
much she pops a blood vessel.”
“What if you’ve misjudged it?” Ron said. “She’s driven herself half loony.”

“I’d be somewhat surprised if she hadn’t,” Draco said. “She’s busy designing everything so it’ll be
perfect, by her own standards.”

Ron drummed his fingers on the table before allowing a half-smile to cross his face. “You really
don’t much care what she plans, do you?”

Draco scoffed. “Of course I do. I’m not without standards myself. I might agree to meet you two
tossers in a shabby old pub, but I certainly expect better from her. I’m not asking for her hand in
some fetid puddle in the street.”

“But you are asking her,” Harry said.

Draco signaled the bartender for the next round. “What kind of monster do you take me for?”

Eleven months later — April 1999

Draco stopped before entering the restaurant to check his reflection in the window. This was it. If
the selection of the Silver Centaur, an establishment considerably out of the normal price range he
and Granger chose for most dates, wasn’t a clue, Hermione’s behavior certainly had been.

It started with an invitation. A proper, embossed dinner invitation in curly script, delivered to the
apothecary where Draco was doing a potions apprenticeship to keep his hand in and earn a few
Galleons. Reparations expenses for the Malfoy family were extensive, and the accounts were still
closely monitored. Best if he and Granger could supply their own means and learn to live within a
budget, pedestrian as it was. Granger had money from “wartime heroism” recognition that she used
to pay for her parents’ medical care, but she left most of it in her vault. He’d walked down to
Hogwarts to catch Granger on her lunch break between classes.

“You realize we live together, don’t you?” he’d said. “You don’t need to order stationery to give
me a message.”

“I can do what I like,” she’d huffed.

“Nice place. Planning anything special?” he’d asked, with an arch look.

“I can’t pick somewhere nice? Now you want to get pub food every time we go out? Maybe I felt
like a change. It’s not like we never go somewhere a little more elegant. You’re always saying you
want to eat at a place with tablecloths.”

“Granger. Relax. You’re not on trial.” Draco put his hands on her shoulders. Then he winked. “I’ll
see you there.”

Hermione swept textbooks back into her satchel. “Wear something nice,” she called over her
shoulder as she left the Great Hall.

As if he’d do anything else.

He looked especially sharp tonight, if he did say so himself. The reflection in the Silver Centaur’s
window showed a slim figure with the confident, dignified bearing of—well, not of a Pureblood,
was it? Draco had seen plenty of Purebloods sacrifice their dignity. The assuredness came from
knowing where you stood, and why, and in trusting the people who claimed you as their own. The
Malfoys had always had that, before. Draco was determined to make sure they would have it
again.

Even a combination of immaculate tailoring and actual magic couldn’t create poise and swagger if
there was none to be found, but formalwear rarely found a more natural wearer than Draco. Jet-
black fabric caressed the back of his neck, skimmed his shoulders, begged onlookers’ eyes to
follow the sleek line to his waist and then tutted them for drifting lower (although the sophisticated
drape of the robes hinted that, although the gentleman would never be so unrefined as to put it on
display, why yes, there was a magnificent ass here as well).

He’d kept the part in his hair crisp, although he let the hair itself take a more natural style than in
his Hogwarts days. As for his face, no one seemed to agree which of his parents he looked more
like. Both, he hoped.

As soon as he opened the door, a hostess witch in a neat uniform shimmered his direction,
beaming.

“Mister Malfoy, good evening and welcome to the Silver Centaur. Your table is ready for you just
through these doors.”

There was no one else in the restaurant. All the tables but one were cleared away. Hermione stood
in front of a fountain in the center of the room. She wore white. Her dress was simple the way a
calla lily is simple. It flowed in a clean, elegant sweep over her body. The neckline cut just low
enough, and short sleeves fluttered gracefully over her upper arms. She had her hair fashioned in a
style not unlike the first time he’d been caught speechless at the sight of her, at the Yule Ball years
ago.

All around her, the room was lush with flowers. Towering, luxuriant arrangements of bright pink
and rich purple hydrangeas, mixed liberally with sprays of Queen Anne’s lace. Pillowy clusters of
blooms lined the entire room, enclosing them in a garden of purple and pink and white.

“Did you do all this?” Draco asked.

Hermione nodded.

“Granger, this is stunning.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been thinking and thinking of what I want to say to you, and I didn’t
even know where to begin. But then I was up late in the library—”

Draco smiled. “Yes, of course.”

“It’s not what you think,” Hermione said. “I like to carry this with me, at school, especially if I’m
staying overnight. You gave it to me. At Nott Manor, on my birthday.” She held out a drawing of
hydrangeas, enchanted into color at the touch of her fingertips.

“Queen Anne’s lace means safe haven, in flower language,” Hermione said. “And then hydrangeas
are so intricate. They can be so many things, depending on where they’re planted and how they’re
tended. They can be cold, or mean boastfulness and vanity. But not these. Purple—that’s, I want to
understand you, deeply. Right? Or perhaps it can mean, Thank you for understanding me. Or both.
And pink hydrangea is sincerity, or heartfelt emotion. So together, it means, you understand me
better than anyone. You know me, and I know you, and that’s what home is. Feeling understood
and loved, and knowing someone’s mind and heart as closely as you know your own.”

Hermione took a step closer to him. “I thought it was a beautiful drawing. I thought that was all it
was meant to be. I didn’t realize until a few months ago, when I heard you talk about flower
language.” She held the paper tight. “Draco, you told me everything I needed to know about what
it would mean to share a life with you. I’m saying it back.”

For the second time in a single evening, Draco found himself speechless. His eyes roamed the span
of the room, taking in the meaning she’d chosen, repeating steady as a heartbeat. Love, and love
and love, brimming from every possible surface. That even if they weren’t perfect, they’d learn to
understand each other better, as often as they needed. That love could be abundant and strong
enough to circle them in its shelter for their whole lives.

Extravagant as the displays may be, Draco couldn’t look away long from this woman before him,
who contained all of this within her. That wasn’t even fair to say. Hermione wasn’t even showing
him the full reach of her love. She offered this to him as a gesture.

He put his hands on her waist. “Is this a wedding dress?”

She smiled, shy. “It’s what I’d choose. I’ve been reading about Pureblood conventions for a
wedding, and if your mother ever approves of me, she won’t let me get away with a gown this
simple, but I thought, this night is ours—”

“Marry me tonight,” Draco said. “I’ll marry you tonight, if you want to. I’ll marry you tomorrow,
or after you finish school. I nearly asked you last week when you were getting out of the shower.”

“You did not.”

“You had little beads of water on your shoulders, and one drop ran down between your breasts, and
I thought how is it possible that I haven’t asked you to let me be the one who gets to see that every
day. You’d already given me the invitation, which is the only thing that gave me the strength to
restrain myself.”

Hermione laughed. Draco smiled, then took her hands, his face serious. “It’s not the first time
you’ve given me strength I needed. I’m not the same person I was, and if any of the change is for
the better, you were behind it. You’re not the same person, either. I’ve been thinking, too, and what
it comes down to for me is, I want to know who you’re going to be next. And next after that. I
want to see you be a mother, maybe, and I certainly want the front-row seat when you become
Minister of Magic. I want to be there if who you are next means you’re scared sometimes, or sick. I
want the kind of life shaped around each of us becoming the people we need to be, and helping
each other do that.”

He took the box out of his pocket. “I feel like this is going to look so small next to what you’ve
pulled off here, but I wanted to give you this. Whoever I am next, I want it to be someone you can
love.” He opened the box to show her the ring inside.

She was smiling and crying at the same time now. “Draco, I do love you.”

He cupped her face and kissed her smile. “I love you,” he said. “Marry me.” He kissed her again.
“We’ll be so amazing.” He realized the kissing was making it harder for her to answer him, but he
could feel her arms around his neck and she was saying it anyway, her voice muffled against his
lips.

Yes.
Three years, one month later — June 2001

The wedding was out in the country, not far from Nott Manor, in a small abbey. The abbey was in
ruins, which felt all the more fitting for a generation coming out of a war. The triple lancet window
at the head of the church gave way to a view of yew trees (rebirth, regeneration after hardship,
thought Hermione when she first saw them). The roof was gone, but the walls of the nave were
mostly intact and flowing with ivy. Holy ground and open sky.

Hermione wore a blush gown with a diaphanous overlay. She carried a nosegay of sweet peas and
peonies. Because of the state of the abbey, she was tucked around the side of the church to stay out
of view until the ceremony processional began. There were two white tents set up next to the
church as well, for the bride and groom’s parties to get ready. As Hermione watched, Draco came
out from the men’s tent to join her.

Draco was in dark, classic Slytherin green. He wore a sweet pea boutonniere to match Hermione’s
flowers. He walked with his right hand in his trouser pocket, effortlessly cool as only he could be.
Draco rarely kept his left hand out of sight for an instant anymore. He wore the ring Hermione
picked out, white gold with a row of small emeralds snaking through the middle of the band. An
engagement as long as theirs seemed worth commemorating for both of them, and Hermione had
reasoned that he’d appreciate something sparkly even more than she did. Not that she had any
complaints about her diamond. It was nearly the size of a fairy egg, and flanked with opals. The
fiery stones were always changing and shifting in the light. Always something new to discover.

There was something faraway in Draco’s eyes as he came nearer.

“What is it?” she said.

“You wore pink one of the first nights I can remember feeling like—us,” he said. “At Slughorn’s
Christmas party. Do you remember?”

“Oh, God,” Hermione laughed. “There’s a reason you don’t often see me in pink. That dress was a
disaster.”

Draco’s lip twitched in a slight smile. “I think I remember it differently than you do. And
admittedly, this dress is not as pink. Anyway. It suits you. That’s all I wanted to say.” He lifted his
chin, peering back at the tent behind Hermione. “Where is she, anyway?”

“She told us to go ahead. She wanted another minute with the Hair and Glamour witch, and a
moment to be by herself.”

Draco frowned. “Is she all right?”

“I think so.”

The music started then.

Draco offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Hermione took his arm. She allowed herself a breath with her eyes closed, listening to a vibrato on
the string instruments. “Let’s do it,” she said.
They rounded the corner and entered the abbey, where Theo stood waiting at the altar. His chin
lifted when they came through the doorway, but Hermione had the impression that he didn’t really
see them at all. If this were any other possible occasion, he’d be pacing with his hands in his
pockets, all tangled nerves, and Hermione could see the effort it took for him to keep still and
dignified nearly vibrating in the air around him.

Draco clasped Theo’s hand briefly before taking his place a half-pace behind him.

Eleven-year-old Tessa Abbott had a role somewhere between maid of honor and flower girl,
scattering petals in the fresh grass.

Hermione was looking at Theo when the music changed. So she got to see him straighten in
anticipation, and then he closed his eyes for a second with a shaky, silent laugh of relief. When he
opened his eyes, his eyelashes were wet.

“There you are,” he whispered.

In the last moments before the ceremony started, Hannah had decided to forgo any of the glamours
or potions that could conceal what the Sectumsempra had done to her face. She looked worried, as
she often did, especially with the way the puckered flesh pulled at one side of her mouth. Her
signature braids were reimagined in an intricate crown with little flowers woven in, and she wore a
veil that floated down to her elbows. She was looking nervously toward Theo, and Hermione could
tell the instant she saw the look in his eyes. A glowing smile spread over Hannah’s face, and she
took her first steps toward him.

Even before she was fully down the aisle, Theo leaned to reach his hand for her. He swiped the
back of his free hand at his eyes. He reached to smooth a tiny fold in her veil that didn’t need
smoothing, right by her temple. He looked like he wanted to whisper something to her, but tears
were streaming down his face and he finally shook his head at the ground. Hannah was laughing
silently, too. She fiddled with the satin band that fastened her bouquet and produced a
handkerchief. Theo shook his head again, took her other hand instead, and set his shoulders with a
decisive breath.

Hannah looked at the officiant.

“We’re all here,” he said. “Theo, you ready? Shall we get started?”

“Get on with it, man, I’ve waited long enough,” Theo said.

The officiant clapped his hands together. “Good! You like to hear enthusiasm, in my line of work.
Dearly beloved, let’s begin.”

Hermione watched Theo and Draco’s faces while the officiant explained the solemnity of
marriage, and the place of honor that love would hold in their lives. Theo was managing to hold it
together without the aid of Hannah’s handkerchief. The dreaminess in his face told Hermione the
homily didn’t register any more to him than watching the wedding party’s procession had. He
wouldn’t remember many of the details from today, she knew. He would always remember
touching Hannah’s veil. Everything in his forehead and eyes and the tender determination in his
mouth told her so.

Draco was, as always, harder to read. She’d seen him look at Hannah’s scars before, his forehead
knit with guilt. He’d told Hermione how terrified he’d been in that moment, his clumsiness with the
spell, the way he’d twisted the wand at the end in desperation. Hermione hoped it was sinking in
for him today, of all days, what a gift his spell had been.
 “This couple has chosen to share their own words to pledge themselves to each other today. We’ll
start with the groom’s vows for the bride. Theo, if you’ll take Hannah’s left hand with yours, and
lift them.” The officiant waved his wand. A filigree of silver light wreathed around their hands, an
old Pureblood enchantment for blessing. Theo had some of the familiar wry gleam in his face,
seeming to feel surer now that he had Hannah’s fingers intertwined with his.

“The Notts, traditionally, are a Slytherin family, and I was raised to value competition and
achievement. Which puts me at a distinct disadvantage, considering how much better of a person
you are than I am in every conceivable way. You undeniably hold the moral high ground in any
possible interaction between us,” Theo said, to a low ripple of amusement from the gathered guests.
“So from this day forward, Hannah, I promise to do everything I can think of to outdo you in how
well I treat you, how much I trust you, and in my commitment to put our family above anything
else in my life. I aspire, with everything in me, to prize your happiness for as long as I live.”

Hannah smiled at him, warm and gentle as honey. “Theo, when we first met, you asked me to give
you the benefit of the doubt. I already knew, even then, that wasn’t what you deserved. You have
my whole heart,” she burst, pulling his hand against her. “Your kindness and determination, your
humor, and your capacity for hope in the darkest hours, have strengthened and inspired me. I
promise to give you the benefit of my faith, in you and in us, for the rest of our lives. My best
work, and best reward, is the life we make together. Any place we find ourselves together will be
my home.”

“Before I make the pronouncement,” the officiant said, “I think it’s important to give you all a
sense of the bride and groom’s intention. Theo and Hannah, like many of us, were closely involved
in the war efforts. They bonded in a shared mission to bring other people to safety, and when I met
with them before today, they talked often about the incredible power of language. A well-chosen
word in a message they sent could save lives. So when we talked about their life going forward as a
married couple, it became very apparent that word choice, and a certain amount of word play, was
going to be significant for them,” he added, with a meaningful look at Theo. “They gave a lot of
thought to what it means to join two lives to create a new whole. What struck me was something
Hannah shared: that it’s not always about a seamless transition. The obstacles we overcome
deserve to be remembered. There’s power in reminding ourselves of the defining moments in our
lives, both good and bad, because they shape and change us, and because we promise in marriage
to stand by each other for all of them. So it is with this recognition of the ties that hold us together
that I am pleased to introduce to you, as husband and wife, Theo and Hannah Knot.”

They kissed. Theo swept the pad of his thumb over the crumpled scar on Hannah’s cheek. When
they parted, she looked up at him for a second, veil streaming down her back, and then she darted
back in and nipped another kiss on Theo’s bottom lip. Then the couple joined hands and took their
first steps back down the aisle as newlyweds.

Draco held out his arm to Hermione, a warm, satisfied smile on his face. Hermione didn't know
how many steps they’d taken together, or how many more they had before them. That was all right
by her. She had a lifetime to find out. She slipped her hand into the crook of Draco’s arm and let
the airy music carry her forward.

The End

Chapter End Notes

OMG, you guys, it's the end of the fic! It still doesn't feel real. I barely know what to
do with myself in the evenings these last few nights.

I came up with my image for Theo and Hannah's wedding first, and then found that
this one had a lot of the elements I wanted. Check out this cool church:
https://www.onefabday.com/huntington-castle-wedding-holly-diego/

An important disclaimer: Pennyroyal is a relative of the mint family. It's also

historically used as an abortifacient, so Narcissa is sending a really strong message
here. (She'll come around, but right now she's stressed and grieving and is kind of
asking Draco if he's going to smack the cup out of Hermione's hand, like did you
knock this girl up or what). Pennyroyal also has some toxicity. A few leaves to make a
cup of tea is unlikely to cause serious ill effects (it also probably wouldn't have been
enough to end a pregnancy, had Hermione been expecting). But even small amounts of
concentrated pennyroyal, like essential oils, can be deadly. In other words, please don't
make this tea.

I hope it will surprise very few of you when I tell you that, while I chose sweet pea in
part because it is an extremely Hannah flower, it also has a flower language meaning
that seemed right for the close of this fic. It's been such a delight to share this story
here, especially with the readers who found this and kept coming back week after
week for months. I really appreciate everyone who's taken the time to read, leave
kudos, share comments, and give your time and attention. I hope I have done all right
by Draco and Hermione.
 Preview: Chef's Kiss
Chapter Notes

Over the summer, a silly thought I had about Azkaban turned into an idea I couldn't
shake -- about Dementors and prison, but also about second chances, and laughter
where you least expect it. About creatures and people who find new things they can
be. And, of course, about Draco and Hermione, in a completely new way.

If you're curious what it would feel like to cheer for a Dementor, I hope you'll take a
look. First chapter is here, and the fic is called Chef's Kiss.

Any young witch or wizard grew up on gruesome stories of Azkaban. They heard the tales at their
parents’ knee, warnings of what happened to bad little magical children who misbehaved. Ghost
stories, but real, the damp stone walls and odd drips and the silent, chilling procession of the
Dementors.

Most witches and wizards never questioned the stories their parents told. Even though, if they had
really thought it out, a dripping dungeon didn’t entirely make sense. Prisoners survived for decades
in Azkaban. If the prison was kept in squalor, in the middle of a frigid sea, one nasty cold could
wipe out the entire inmate population.

The reality of Azkaban was that it was ruled by merciless, methodical care. No human guards
could withstand the stark isolation of the fortress, so the Dementors tended to the inhabitants’
needs. Illness was a danger borne by filth, so Dementors swabbed floors and coated the cell bars in
stinging disinfectant. Hygiene was necessary. Prisoners were rinsed, forcibly if necessary, twice
per week. Food was essential of course, and there were Dementors whose role it was to prepare the
gruels and stews prisoners ate, and to bring the trays to the cells.

In return, the Dementors reaped a harvest of madness, desolation, and despair. This was another
part of the story that most witches and wizards did not fully comprehend, unless they found
themselves inside the prison. While it was of course true that Dementors drained the brightest
memories first, most Dementors had little use for the sensations of human happiness and pleasure,
however ambrosial the flavors may be. Despair was dense and glutinous to a Dementor’s taste, but
filling. Insanity was fermented, crackling over a Dementor’s taste receptors. Darkness was the
majority of what Dementors consumed, especially since most inhabitants arrived at Azkaban
already despondent. Humans entering the prison thought they’d be stripped of happiness and left
alone. They never seemed to realize the feeding would continue, year after year.

To the Dementors, Azkaban had no prisoners, only livestock.

It was the Dementor’s first day in Azkaban. The Dementor was newly-spawned, coming into being
in the midst of a swarm a matter of months ago. It had spent its existence up to this day clinging to
others of its kind. It absorbed knowledge this way, the rhythms of work and dim impressions of the
sensation of feeding. It learned, from the memory of another, the emotions that pulsed off humans
in waves and sated a Dementor’s need. It had time to feel hunger.
Dementors developed to be suited to certain tasks, guarding or cleaning or repairing. Whatever task
needed filling in the colony, new Dementors would grow to be naturally adapted to the work. This
Dementor was a feeder. It would work in the kitchens.

The Dementor’s first day in Azkaban was its first chance to feed itself, as well as its charges. This
also happened to be a day when new inhabitants were brought to the prison. Long-term prisoners
dribbled a low, steady flow of despondency or quick bursts of madness, but new prisoners were a
torrent of denial outrage shock horror fury fear terror disgust anguish. All the Dementors were
drawn to the feast.

As the new Dementor approached the frenzy, it caught a taste that was different. It turned its
cowled head, seeking the source. A young prisoner with pale hair and gray eyes. The fear disgust
terror it recognized from other Dementors’ memories was there, but there was something else
mixed in. Where the denial should be, something different from the sensations it had learned while
spawning. The Dementor had its first tastes of confidence and hope. It instinctively shielded its
prize from the others, guarding the new flavor for itself.

It was interesting. The Dementor felt curious whether the inmate would make these tastes happen
again, and this too felt interesting and new.

Draco Malfoy had been in Azkaban for 44 days, if the marks he kept on the wall of his cell were
accurate. He was no stranger to counting time. If he felt like giving matters a dramatic flair (and
why not?), he could say he’d felt his days were numbered since he was 16, charged with a mission
to murder, or else forfeit the lives of his own family. If he were, on some rare day, not inclined
toward the dramatic, he’d most likely say the same. Live dangerously enough, and pragmatism and
drama led to the same conclusions.

Count 9 months, then, from the beginning of term 6th year to the Astronomy Tower. Another 11
until the Battle of Hogwarts. Then page after calendar page as house arrest and trials and
deliberation dragged on. Even Draco lost track of how many times he sat in court listening to hand-
wringing over oh, but wasn’t he barely more than a child and no more so than the heroes rewarded
in full, as adults, and after all, a man is dead.

Finally, conviction came, and from that point it was only another 3 months for sentencing, and
Draco found himself thrown into Azkaban with the latest batch of convicts on June 5, 2001. His
21st birthday. The sentence was 50 years, symbolic of the casualties of the Battle of Hogwarts. But
only 90 days until he heard whether the Magical Court of the European Union would consider his
appeal.

Day 44 was only one day away from the halfway point, then. Draco scratched a line by the others
in the thin beam of light that entered his cell in the early morning and felt a flicker of hope.

As soon as the feeling arrived, a clammy sensation of doom chased it away. Draco knew where to
look. Most Dementors drifted at random through the halls. This one lurked in the shadows. Draco
had come to recognize it. The shroud-like cloak it wore was a lighter shade of gray, and not as
bedraggled at the hems as most others. The Dementor waited for him every morning, just out of
range, prowling closer after he scrawled his line in the wall.

Draco hugged his elbows and scowled. A minute or two — was that so much to ask? He’d lost his
fortune, his reputation, his freedom, his family (Lucius and Narcissa were both locked in here
somewhere, for war crimes committed outright or aided and abetted). Was it absolutely necessary
to drain every waking moment of any peace?
The Dementor was just outside his cell now, scabby hands nearly brushing against the bars. It
leaned in with a rattling breath. Draco wasn’t left without any tricks of his own, though. The
Dementor could sap his ability to hold onto any feeling but crushing sadness. But he could limit the
creature’s ability to feed off it. Draco methodically Occluded, shutting the mental doors one by
one, locking himself in.

Mealtime was not a joy — nothing was, in here — but it was a way for Draco to anchor himself in
time. The light that slanted in through the ventilation slivers in the walls couldn’t always be trusted,
but it seemed that meals could. Twice a day, Dementors came around with a bowl of mushy gray
pap and a crude spoon. Once a day, a watery stew with some sort of chewy protein.

The tray came in through the slot in the bottom of the cell door. Draco looked at the bowl of pap.
His face twisted in confusion.

There were...chunks of something in it. Draco had forced this shit down every day, except the first
day, and it was always the same goblins-awful bland gray mush. Now with translucent white flecks
the size of his little fingernail on top.

What’s more, the same light-gray Dementor had brought it, and it was now standing still in front of
Draco’s cell, instead of proceeding to the next. Watching him.

With a mixture of dread and deeply morbid curiosity, Draco delicately lifted one of the flecks to
his lips. It crunched.

“This,” Draco announced. “Is raw onion. There is raw bleeding onion on my...porridge, to use
a much more charitable term than this deserves.” He poked the spoon through, trying to scrape the
pile of eye-watering garnish off the top of the mush. There were stiff little flecks all through the
gruel. A surge of indignation rushed through him. The Dementor was still standing there, grisly
hands folded together in front of it. Draco sneered at it.

“Were you trying to make this Merlin-defiled mush even worse than it already is?” he demanded,
shaking his spoon at it.

The Dementor stayed where it was. Then, slowly, the cowled head swiveled from side to side.

Draco’s mouth fell open. A voice in his head that had to be the first sign of insanity was telling
him that he had just asked what was obviously a rhetorical question to an Amortal creature of
nightmares, and the creature had responded.

Draco was still brandishing his spoon at the Dementor. This was madness, but he’d been through
enough madness already not to trust his own eyes. And, gods help him, this was the first new thing
in 44 days.

“Were you trying to make it better?”

A long pause again. Then the Dementor’s head dipped and came up again.

Draco felt all the hairs on his arms stand up. Any thought of Occlumency was lost. Draco felt like
he was standing on the edge of a canyon, trying not to fall in. He wanted desperately to regain a
sense of control over the situation, so he reached for one of the earliest mannerisms he’d perfected
as the Malfoy heir.

“This is garbage,” Draco said, voice barely wavering. “If you’re attempting to make this edible, put
 some cinnamon on it next time.”

End Notes

Welcome! If you enjoy fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, and/or probing questions into the
details of HP universe magic and the nature of the human soul, you will find something you
like here! This fic updates on Fridays, so you can kick off your weekend with fresh
Dramione.

Disclaimer that the universe and characters belong to J.K. Rowling, whose world I enjoy
picking apart and reassembling to my own taste.

Works inspired by this Dodo

one Manège by 5moreminutes

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