Trust & Lies

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29789616.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M, M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Original Character(s),
Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks/Charlie Weasley,
Daphne Greengrass/Blaise Zabini
Character: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Theodore Nott, Ginny Weasley,
Harry Potter, Charlie Weasley, Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Blaise
Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Severus Snape,
Narcissa Black Malfoy, Original Characters
Additional Tags: dramione - Freeform, DracoxHermione, Dramionefanfiction, Fanfiction,
Hogwarts, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Soft Draco
Malfoy, Death Eaters, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Gryffindor, Slytherin,
Teen Angst, Romance, Travel, Ireland, Italy, Germany, Bulgaria -
Freeform, France (Country), Emotional, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut,
Theo Nott is Everything, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, Original
Character(s), Minor Character Death, Conflicted Harry Potter, Dark
Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley is a Good Friend, Best Friend Theo Nott,
Soft Theo Nott
Language: English
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Dramione, ultimate dramione rereads, dm fics i’d die for, god tier fics i
swear to god, Fics to remember, dramione favs, My very favorite
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To all the fics I've read before, Draco & Hermione (Top-Tier),
Dramione_Favs, Dramione TBR, JJ Need to Read
Stats: Published: 2021-03-02 Completed: 2021-04-16 Chapters: 63/63 Words:
200362

Trust & Lies

by macxboyle

Summary

Weeks before the beginning of their Sixth Year at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger saves
Draco Malfoy's life. Compelled to lie about it, Hermione's friendships become strained, and
she finds an unexpected companion and confidante in Draco. Increasingly becoming the
keeper of each other's secrets, they discover that truth and lies have little to do with trust.
 Years 6 + 7, with Sixth Year roughly following plot of HBP, but a complete reimagining of
Seventh Year/DH.

Notes

Mature themes/TW: sexual content, references to suicide and abuse, depictions of violence.

I've tried to hint at this in the tags, but Harry is a really unlikeable character for *most* of
this fic. If that's not your speed, this fic might not be for you. Not trying to dissuade anyone
from reading, but I know it's a trope that some folks don't love.

Otherwise, hope you enjoy!

 London

Draco Malfoy was not one to indulge in rebellious tendencies—at least not insofar as his family
was involved. But having recently taken the Dark Mark and having been tasked with slaughtering
one of the most famous wizards to ever exist, now seemed as good a time as any to start. Which is
how he found himself wandering the streets of Muggle London, accompanied, as usual, by Blaise
Zabini, Theo Nott, Vincent Crabbe, and Greg Goyle. He would have preferred if Crabbe and
Goyle had not received an invitation to tonight’s festivities. Not that he didn’t feel some level of
appreciation for the two—they had rarely left his side during their early years at Hogwarts, after
all. But they had stopped maturing around third year—if not earlier. With the pending War and
Draco’s impossible task consuming his consciousness, he no longer cared to discuss the bust size
of the women featured in Witch Weekly or bet on who could chug the most pumpkin juice in sixty
seconds. Unlike Crabbe and Goyle, Blaise and Theo seemed to get it—how fucked they probably
all were, one way or another.

Draco shook himself from his reverie and jogged a few steps to catch up with his friends.
Overconsumption was decidedly harder to get away with at Hogwarts than in Muggle London, and
the other four wizards were predictably soused (Crabbe and Goyle particularly so). Draco
supposed he was too, but mostly he was just grateful for the foggy effect the alcohol had on his
mind. His anxiety still ran rampant in the caverns of his mind, but the liquor obscured it just
enough to allow Draco some relative peace.

It was getting on in the evening (or was it morning?) when the five wizards stumbled upon the
doors of a particularly raucous nightclub. With Muggle IDs that Theo had transfigured earlier that
summer, they snaked their way through a darkened, winding hallway until they burst into an
impossibly crowded and deafening room, complete with a stage, dance floor, and multiple bars.
Lights blasted on and off. It reminded Draco of Professor Flitwick’s fireworks displays.

As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, Draco was floored by the amount of scantily clad women
dotting the landscape, many with a hazy-eyed man swaying and grinding behind them. Merlin, no
wonder Muggles had so many children if this was what they did outside the bedroom.

Several women in the group’s vicinity noticed their arrival. Their eyes fell upon Draco and Blaise,
with warm smiles blossoming across their faces. Such a reaction wasn’t unusual; towering over
most of the club patrons and bearing chiseled features that came from centuries of selective
breeding, Draco and Blaise were hard to miss. Theo might have had the same luck if he grown just
a few more inches and didn’t spend his time lounging in Draco’s and Blaise’s shadows.

“I’m going to the bar—any requests?” Theo shouted over the thundering music and chattering.

“Shhhots!” a bleary-eyed Crabbe slurred. Behind him, Goyle nodded enthusiastically. Draco and
Blaise both shrugged in agreement, and Theo ambled off toward the bar. Not thirty seconds after
Theo’s departure, a slender, young woman donning a high ponytail and strapless dress sashayed
over to Blaise, and wrapping painted fingers around his bicep, led him toward the dance floor.
Blaise shot a knowing and mischievous grin back to the remaining three, and disappeared into the
crowd. Draco smirked to himself—Blaise danced in the same circles as Death Eaters, but he
wasn’t above shagging an attractive Muggle. Perhaps it didn’t make his stomach churn as much as
it once did, but Draco still couldn’t bring himself to commit such an act of rebellion.

As if on cue, a Muggle girl with long, sleek hair and a midriff-bearing shirt approached Draco.
“Care to ask a girl to dance?” she asked, flashing him a bright smile. She was striking, with hair
almost as silver blonde as Draco’s. Draco wondered if Muggles had the equivalents of Veelas, and
if so, whether this girl possessed such genes. Not that it mattered as far as he was concerned.

Matching her grin, Draco politely responded, “Nothing would please me more, but I have a girl
back home who would have my bits in a jar if I so much as asked your name.” He gave her a slight
wink.

He briefly chuckled to himself, thinking of Pansy’s reaction if she heard him say that. Not that he
doubted that his on-again, off-again girlfriend would hex him for the slightest indiscretion. Truth
is, he didn’t really care about that. He just didn’t want to dance with a Muggle for fear that in the
haze of the alcohol and hormones he would be tempted to do more.

Pouting, but apparently satisfied with his answer, the girl turned to leave. But a swaying Goyle
grabbed her delicate forearm with a meaty hand, “I’ll dance with you though,” he said, beaming.
The girl, clearly trying to melt back into the crowd, replied sweetly, “That’s okay—thank you
though.” With that, Goyle roughly pulled her towards him, wrapping his other arm around her.

Salazar, Draco was afraid of this. Goyle’s sober antics had been driving Draco mad as of late, and
Goyle became exponentially more insufferable when he had been drinking.

“What? You’ll dance with my mate but not with me? That’s not very nice,” Goyle cooed, pulling
the waif in closer. She squirmed, and the interaction began to set Draco’s teeth on edge. His eyes
darted across the horizon, praying that Theo would break through the crowd, arms full of drinks.
Draco needed to reinforce the booze-fueled cloud coverage that was quickly retreating to the outer
most edges of his mind. He was thinking too much.

“Please,” Draco heard the girl squeak. He snapped his head back towards the situation just
moments before Goyle leaned in and planted an open-mouthed kiss on her. She appeared to be
making a squeal in dismay, but between Goyle’s sloppy kiss and the roar of the crowd, it was all
but inaudible. Wrapping her ever closer with one bulky arm, Goyle haphazardly reached his other
hand down and pressed it to her inner thigh. In a bungling motion, Goyle’s hand shot upward,
grabbing roughly under her skirt.

“Cut it out, Goyle,” Draco said, brusquely grabbing Goyle’s offending arm. Draco didn’t count
morality among his strongest traits, but he didn’t lie with rape. Briefly tearing himself from the
young woman’s face, Goyle chuckled and leaned into Draco, “I’ll obliviate her after—it’s fine.”
When Goyle turned to resume kissing her, Draco wedged a foot in between them and fully shoved
Goyle backward.

“Are you daft? I said. Cut. It. Out,” Draco seethed, punctuating each word. Goyle reeled
backwards, clumsily regaining his balance. Draco advanced, towering over his loafing comrade.
Goyle’s eyes were cast downward, but with surprising speed, he righted himself, his left fist
punching through the air, looking to connect with Draco’s face. He might’ve been successful, if
not for the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed that evening. Instead, he merely swung
through dead air. Draco took a graceful step backwards and watched as Goyle tripped on his
oversized feet and collapsed to the floor. Club patrons around them laughed, clapped, and cheered.

“Fuck this, I’m leaving,” Draco muttered, walking past the horrified Muggle girl without as much
as a glance in her direction.

“Draco—,” Crabbe started, while reaching down to help a now booze-slick Goyle to his feet.
“Tell Blaise and Theo I went home,” Draco said, not bothering to look back. But he didn’t intend
to go back home. Not yet.

Draco wasn’t sure what really set him off; whether it was Goyle’s gross and clumsy assault,
Goyle’s insubordination, or Draco’s own impending doom. Probably a combination of the three.
But he needed to be away from his friends, and he couldn’t yet stomach the idea of going back to
reality at the Manor. The tension at the Manor had reached such a pitch that simply existing there
felt like sliding your palm down the sharp end of knife.

His mother couldn’t look at him with anything but sorrow. Watching her struggle to entertain the
various Death Eaters who graced their homestead like everything was fine made him want to tear
away from his skin. Nothing was said, but that silence spoke volumes. Draco was fucked, his
family was fucked, and everyone knew it.

He floated through the streets of London, disconnectedly observing the Muggles as they too began
stumbling out of the bars. Some were laughing, some were crying. Some were clutching drinks,
some were snogging, and some were smoking. They were completely oblivious to the lithe
predator lurking amongst them. A naiveté that Draco craved.

He turned down a darkened, comparatively abandoned street, kicking along a small stone that had
freed itself from the sidewalk. A warm wind picked up, creating a pleasing ruffling noise as it
whistled through the trees that pocked the sidewalk. The different outcomes of the upcoming year
played like loops in his head, each possibility more morose than the last. He wondered if maybe
he should just take a bludger to the head and live out the rest of his days in a blissful state of
oblivion at St. Mungo’s. Too undignified, he decided. He’d have to think of something else.

“Hey,” came a gruff voice behind him. A fist connected with Draco’s left cheekbone as he turned
to address the voice. Stunned, he staggered backward a few steps until his back connected with
what felt like a brick wall. At first he thought it was Goyle, coming to finish what he started at the
club. But when Draco opened his eyes, he stared back at an unrecognizable, masked face.

What the fuck?

He reached for his wand, but disoriented as he was, he fumbled it. And it rolled out of sight.
Fuck.

Before he had the chance to accio his wand, the voice spoke again. “Your wallet.” Draco glanced
down as his masked assailant held out a greedy, dirty hand.

“What?” Draco replied. He had no sodding idea what this person was asking.

“Give me your wallet. Now.”

When Draco did nothing but return a confused stare, the man drew his fist back and punched Draco
in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping and retching. The man drew his knee up, and drove it
squarely into Draco’s chest. His lungs burned. He couldn’t breathe. He felt spasms rip through
his abdomen. Before he had a chance to plan his next move, the man grabbed a fistful of Draco’s
hair and dragged him back upright. Before Draco had a chance to plot his next move, the man
croaked again, “Money. Give me your money.”

Draco felt the man jab something heavy and metallic into his neck. Draco’s mind raced— what the
fuck is this?

The conclusion came quickly enough. It was a gun. He had learned about these ghastly devices in
Muggle Studies during his Third Year. Draco took a brief moment to enjoy the poetic irony of the
situation—the boy tasked with initiating Pureblood wizarding rule over the world murdered by a
Muggle. In spite of the dire nature of the situation, Draco briefly chuckled to himself.

Having his brain blasted to bits by a Muggle would admittedly solve a few of Draco’s problems;
even so, this was not how he envisioned his end.

He opened his mouth to accio his wand, but either due to the pressure of the gun on his windpipe
or his state of shock, he found no words came out. With a fistful of Draco’s hair still in his hand,
the man slammed Draco’s head against the building behind him and pressed the gun even further
into his neck. His ears rang and black dots obscured his vision. “Don’t make me do it, pretty
boy,” the man said through gritted teeth.

Pretty boy?

Draco began to reach for his pockets, but he knew he was fucked. Without his wand, he had no
way to transfigure his Galleons into Muggle money, and he doubted this man would be pleased
with wizarding currency.

In his trouser pocket, Draco balled his fist. Growing up in a proper Pureblood family, hand-to-
hand combat was discouraged. But his size alone gave him some advantage; he figured he was at
least six inches taller than his attacker. Steeling his strength, he prepared to slam his fist into his
attacker’s jaw. Then he heard it—a small, but resolute voice ringing out.

“Stupefy!”

A blast of light hit his assailant, flinging the man at least ten feet in the air. The attacker landed in
a crumpled mess at Draco’s feet. The disembodied voice then spat out an impressive series of
hexes, further immobilizing and disfiguring the man.

Draco took several shuddering breaths. What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK? There was a high-
pitched whining in his brain that was overriding all of his faculties.

He closed his eyes and imagined a field of heather swaying in the wind. A cottage at the crest of
the hill. A copse of tall, unwavering juniper trees. Breathtaking sea-cliffs.

The whining quieted to a low hum.

Bracing himself with his hands on his knees, he finally looked up to meet the eyes of his rescuer.

Granger.
 Granger

Draco’s blood ran cold. He said nothing. He couldn’t say anything. It was as if he lost audio, the
only sound available to him being the blood rushing through his veins and his heart pounding
against his ribcage. He felt his eyes flutter, eyelids scorching hot against his eyes. With each blink
he hoped that the image in front of him would transform into something else. Anything else. But
it didn’t.

It was Granger, wand drawn and breathing heavily. Everything else became blurry, and he sunk to
his knees. She didn’t move—not at first. But slowly she advanced toward him. She was speaking,
but he couldn’t hear her. There was no noise other than the thud of his own heart, which he could
swear had magically moved from his chest to the center of his skull.

He stared upward, studying the movement of the windblown leaves against the silky sky. He
plotted the constellations above him. He forced his eyes shut, again envisioning a thatched-hut
cottage set upon a hill of heather blowing in the wind...

“Malfoy?”

The tranquil image was sucked away. He slow-blinked; reality setting back in. His gaze was still
skyward, trained on the stars above.

He cast his stare downward until his eyes locked on her, sitting across from him on the pavement.
She had accio’ed his wand, and held it out toward him. Her arm was trembling.

Saying nothing, he slowly reached out and plucked the wand from her hand. His gaze fell upon her
face, and he realized he couldn’t decipher her emotions. He couldn’t tell if she was concerned or
angry. Determined, certainly. Her eyes burned into his, and he felt like he wanted to remember her
like this always.

He felt his head loll to the side.

“Are you okay?” he heard her ask. He didn’t respond; he just continued to stare at her. His mind
was stalling—jammed. He couldn’t do anything but just…stare.

She was in Muggle clothes. Not as risqué as the girls at the club, but more daring than anything
he’d seen her wear at Hogwarts. Her pants looked like a second skin, dagger-like heels adorned
her feet. Her slender legs splayed beneath her on the pavement, she looked like a newborn
thestral. His eyes lazed upward; her blouse was attached by only delicate straps and a thin choker
was laced around her neck. His mind drifted further into the haze.

“Malfoy,” she repeated. “You’re hurt.” And that’s when he felt it. Nimble fingers grazing his
face, his head. It felt good—gentle and comforting. A tenderness that he had not experienced in a
long time. He felt his eyes flutter and eventually close, allowing himself to become absorbed by
the warmth.

And then it hit him.

Granger.

In one swift movement, he wrenched her hands from his face and the back of his head. She gasped
and drew her arms close to her body, but still stared him down with steely eyes.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled, wrapping his long fingers around his wand. “I don’t want
your help.”

He stood, steeling himself against the building. Granger remained seated on the pavement,
motionless. But her gaze didn’t flinch. Their eyes poured into each other’s; neither one of them
blinking.

Finally, she spoke again. “If you aren’t planning on going straight home, you will need stitches, I
think. The cut on the back of your head is bad.”

Instinctively, Draco reached the back of his head. He winced as his fingers made contact with the
gash. He didn’t know what the bloody hell stitches were, but he was done having this
conversation.

Finally tearing his stare from hers, he fled further down the darkened alleyway, a new fear erupting
within him.
 Letter

Hermione was breathless. What the hell just happened? She watched his long legs carry him
farther away from her, and she failed to find the voice to call him back.

He was injured. And by the way he looked at her—with fascination and not disgust—clearly he
was in shock.

She pictured him at the Manor, quietly trying to apply healing charms to the gash in the back of his
head, unwilling to admit to his parents that he had been bested by a Muggle on the streets of
London.

And she felt sorry for him.

She picked herself off the pavement, just as the friends she had been out with began hollering her
name.

“Hermione! The pub is closing—time to go home!” She had gone out tonight with a group of girls
that she had been friends with in primary school before Hogwarts—girls she rarely saw, but still
felt an odd compulsion to visit with when she was home over holiday. She sheathed her wand and
set off back toward the group of girls, trying to push the near-murder of Draco Malfoy out of her
mind.

***

The next day, Hermione roused early and thundered down the stairs. Today was the day she
headed for the Burrow ahead of the next term at Hogwarts. It was easily her favorite day of the
year. She missed the Weasleys desperately—particularly Ron, who was not as good at writing as
his mother, Ginny, or Harry.

Neither her near deadly encounter with Draco Malfoy, nor the continuing reports of the increasing
threat from Death Eaters, could temper her excitement at the idea of wrapping her arms around her
friends after many long weeks apart.

As was tradition, her parents had made a decadent breakfast: eggs, bangers, toast, and flapjacks.
As Hermione dove into the meal, chatting and laughing with her parents, Malfoy’s attack hung
only on the edges of her mind. That was, of course, until the owl arrived.

Her throat tightened when she saw it—a great barn owl at her parent’s kitchen window, an official-
looking envelope lanced to its leg. Not recognizing the seriousness of the events that had
transpired the evening before, Hermione’s mother rose from the table, still fighting a fit of laughs
from something that her father had said. Handing the owl a piece of toast, Hermione’s mother
disentangled the letter from owl’s leg, and casually handed it to Hermione, her focus still on her
husband.

It was from the Ministry. Fingers trembling, Hermione peeled back the envelope to reveal the
parchment contained therein.

Miss Granger,

We have received intelligence that you performed a Stupefy spell and several stinging hexes on a
Muggle in a Muggle-inhabited area at twenty-three minutes past one this morning. The severity of
this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your
suspension from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry pending a disciplinary hearing at
the Ministry of Magic at 9AM on August 28, at which time official decision will be taken.

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

Improper Use of Magic Office

Ministry of Magic

For the second time in less than eight hours, Hermione found herself speechless—a rather
uncommon state for the young witch. She could feel the color drain from her face as heat flushed
up her back and neck. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

No, she reassured herself. This will be fine, just as it was for Harry. Mr. Weasley will accompany
me to the Ministry, just as he did for Harry, I will explain it was in the defense of a life, and I will
be released without issue.

But just as these soothing thoughts coated her mind, a darker reality descended. Harry had a
witness. Her mind raced, trying to envision a scenario in which Draco Malfoy would intervene on
her behalf and had to stifle a mirthless laugh. No, this was Malfoy’s fever dream: holding a
Mudblood’s wizarding fate in his loathsome, vengeful hands.

Surely Dumbledore will help, just as he helped Harry, her mind suggested. Unclear. He and Harry
had a special bond that she and the headmaster did not. Still, he wouldn’t let his top student’s
future become completely tarnished because of the recalcitrance of a creature as foul as Malfoy.

She just needed to get to the Burrow, consult with Mr. Weasley, and tell Dumbledore the truth.
She exhaled loudly.

“Everything alright, Hermione?” her mom inquired, peering worryingly into her daughter’s eyes.

“Oh yes,” Hermione said brightly. “School list.”

She tucked the letter into her rucksack and closed her eyes tightly, pushing back any intrepid tears
that dared try to escape her lids.

***

The journey to the Burrow felt unbearably long, with Hermione barely able to feign enthusiasm as
her parents peppered her with questions about the upcoming year. Yet, as they pulled up to the
Weasleys’ charmingly lopsided abode, she felt lighter.

The Weasleys rushed out of the house en masse, with Ginny reaching Hermione first and
enveloping her in a hug so fierce that the two witches nearly collapsed to the ground. Mrs.
Weasley was next, wrapping Hermione in a hug nearly as powerful but somehow more tender.
Ron was right behind his mother, giving Hermione’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze before he
too took her in his arms. Together, Fred and George bear-hugged her, as Mr. Weasley stood to the
side and kindly waved. “It’s great to have you here, Hermione,” he beamed before he set off to
talk to her parents, no doubt about some aspect of Muggle life.

Harry was there, too, giving her a similarly warm welcome. Quite surprisingly, Charlie was
present—apparently on a short holiday from Bulgaria—and fully picked Hermione up and spun her
around as he hugged her. She felt quite embarrassed—she barely knew Charlie; he was six or
seven years her senior and ruggedly handsome, but from her few interactions with him and the
stories she heard from the Weasleys, he possessed Ron’s tenderness and Fred and George’s
mischievousness. His over-the-top welcome to her sealed this impression.

After several minutes of goodbyes with her parents, Hermione hugged and kissed them both, and
set off toward the Burrow’s front entrance with the rest of the Weasley clan.

Hermione was patient through the inevitable summer catch-up conversations; Charlie was
particularly enthusiastic in telling Hermione about a new cross-breed of dragon that he was
working with, and Ron bragged about his improved Quidditch skills. Fred and George, of course,
scoffed at this and made pointed jokes at Ron’s expense.

Any talk of the concerning events unfolding in the wizarding world appeared to be shelved for a
later time, and Hermione was grateful for that. After her fraught morning, she embraced the
normalcy of the conversations and the comfort of being around her friends-turned-family. But
inevitably, the worry and anxiety started to quickly inch back in.

“Oi, ‘Mione, tell us about your summer!” Ron piped in, reaching across the table for a treacle.

“Um, well, it was fairly normal I suppose—I asked Professor McGonagall if I could get a book list
ahead of time so I could start my reading, which she of course obliged.” Hermione said, tucking a
piece of hair behind her ear while gazing down at her lap. “And, um, well, this morning I was
suspended from Hogwarts.”

Hermione didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes, remaining focused on her hands in her lap as she knotted
her fingers together. The silence was deafening, until finally laughter erupted from the table.

“Oh gosh, that’s quite good, Hermione,” Ginny quipped while taking a sip of her pumpkin juice.
Harry, seated next to Hermione, chuckled and clapped her on the back.

“No, no, I’m quite serious,” Hermione stuttered, finally looking up from her lap. “Last night—or I
suppose rather quite early this morning, I used magic. And then I received this letter from the
Ministry…” she paused to fish the letter out of her rucksack, reading it to the Weasleys verbatim.

The looks on their faces would’ve been funny, had the scenario been different.

Ron spoke first. “Blimey, ‘Mione, why in the bloody hell were you hexing and Stupefying a
Muggle at one in the morning?” She couldn’t tell if he was impressed or terrified.

“Well, the Muggle was mugging…” Seeing the confused expressions, she amended her
phraseology. “A Muggle was stealing from a wizard, using a lethal weapon. I thought the Muggle
was going to kill him.”

Relief washed over Mr. Weasley’s face. “Oh, goodness, Hermione. You have nothing to worry
about then, dear. Such use of magic is permitted! Why, as you know, just last year Harry dealt
with a similar situation and came out completely absolved!”

“Yeah,” Harry chimed in, looking at Hermione straight on. “Going before the Ministry is scary as
hell, but once the wizard testifies and corroborates that you were defending him…”

Hermione took a deep breath and shook her head. “That’s the thing. I don’t—I don’t think this
wizard will.”
“My word,” Arthur said, “why not?”

“Give me his name,” Charlie chimed in, popping open a bottle of firewhiskey. “I’ll have him
sorted.” He raised the bottle in a faux cheers, and took a swig. Mrs. Weasley smacked the back of
his head, muttering something about it only being 3PM.

Despite her situation, Hermione chuckled at Charlie’s input. Sighing, she looked at him “As much
as I would like to see that, Charlie, I don’t think even that would help.”

“Who is this wizard?” Mrs. Weasley asked, looking particularly combative.

Hermione stared down at her lap for several seconds before steeling herself and meeting the
Weasleys’ eyes. “Draco Malfoy.”
 Urgency

Draco languished in bed the morning after his night in London. He felt right awful, with the
healing charms he cast last night not doing much besides healing the cut in the back of his head and
the bruising on his cheek. His real issue was his hangover, and of course—Granger.

Why had she been there?

…why did she help me?

A cautious house elf entered the room, platter delicately balanced on his withered arms. “Master
Malfoy, your breakfast,” the house elf squeaked, as he bowed his head slightly. Draco
absentmindedly took the platter from the elf’s wrinkled hands, uttering only a barely audible gruff
in recognition. Minding his queasy stomach, he had requested only dry toast and tea.

His mum had once told him that tea could cure most ails, and without further proof, Draco still
reached for it whenever something felt awry. Although he knew better than to think it could really
help what truly troubled him this morning.

After finishing his breakfast, Draco returned the platter to the elf’s docile hands, and the elf
quickly apparated from the room. Draco strode to the floor-to-ceiling window on the far side of
his room. Gazing across the vast expanse of the Manor’s estate, his eyes quickly located his
mother, who was delicately tending to a rose garden that his father had planted for her years before
Draco was even born. It was the one part of the estate that his mother tended to personally—no
one else was allowed to care for it. For years, she had kept the hundreds of roses alive and
thriving, even through winter. But in recent months, many of the roses had started to wither.
Draco couldn’t figure out if this was just a metaphorical twist of fate, or if his mother was
intentionally poisoning the flowers.

To most, Lucius Malfoy was an intimidating man. But Narcissa possessed a level of maternal
viciousness that her husband was never able to match. His mother still loved his father deeply—
that much Draco could tell—but the emotion that most carried Narcissa these days was
resentment.

A loud knock at Draco’s bedroom door shattered his trance. Merlin, don’t let it be Bellatrix, he
thought as he trudged to the heavy, pine door. He didn’t have to reach the door handle before his
prayers were answered. “Princess, you still sleeping?” cooed an artificially high voice, followed by
sniggering.

Blaise and Theo.

He jerked the door open, greeting his exuberant friends with nothing but an abrupt wave and a
grunt as he turned around and shuffled back toward his bed.

“Salazar, mate, you look like shite,” Blaise commented, draping himself over one of the plush arm
chairs in Draco’s room. “I didn’t realize you were so sloshed last night.”

“Yeah well,” Draco shrugged, collapsing back onto his bed. He hadn’t felt that drunk, but he had
consumed considerably more alcohol last night than he had in quite some time. He also suspected
he suffered a concussion when the Muggle smashed the back of his head into the brick, which
probably wasn’t helping his case.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” Theo inquired, poking a hand into a terrarium that housed
Draco’s green tree snake. Draco realized that his half-drunk healing charms the night before
obviously didn’t completely absolve him of his physical injuries.

“Fucking Goyle,” he lied, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his eyes. “He was acting like
a fucking tosser and clipped me with one of his gargoyle claws when I told him off.”

“Is that why you left?” Theo asked absently, as the snake crawled from the terrarium up his arms.

“Yeah.”

“Could’ve told us,” Blaise commented smoothly, his eyes fixed on Draco. “We thought you
finally went home with a Muggle.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, and his lips twitched into a
slight smile.

“Come off it,” Draco retorted.

“Might as well experience it while you still can,” Blaise replied dismissively.

Draco’s throat tightened.

***

Many miles away, a particularly haggard-looking Professor Snape strode into Dumbledore’s
office. “We have a matter that requires urgent discussion.”

“Yes, Severus, it appears we do,” Dumbledore replied plainly.

 Lioness

Given Hermione’s admission in the afternoon, all normal conversation ceased. Nor was there
discussion of the advancements of the Death Eaters or the events that transpired immediately
following the melee at the Ministry. The Weasleys and Harry could not stop chattering about
Hermione’s evening in Muggle London, peppering her with all kinds of questions she simply did
not have the answers to.

The shocking nature of what had transpired the previous night also meant that no one at the
Burrow was surprised to see Dumbledore appear in their fireplace that evening. They were,
however, surprised to discover that he was accompanied by Severus Snape.

“Weasleys,” Dumbledore greeted warmly, his arms spread wide. “How wonderful to see you all.”
He gave a polite nod. “And Harry and Hermione, as well.”

“Arthur, Molly,” Snape stated curtly.

Relief washed over Hermione at the sight of Dumbledore—he was going to help her after all. Next
to her, Ron gave her an encouraging nod and draped an arm loosely over her shoulders. She turned
to Harry, but his focus was squarely on Snape, his hackles raised.

Despite his jovial attitude in the hours following Hermione’s arrival at the Burrow, something in
Harry had shifted after Sirius’s death. She couldn’t blame him—Sirius was, of course, the closest
thing that Harry would have had to a father. But she worried that his grief had turned into
something paranoid and ugly. His temper was short, and he was convinced that Snape was not in
fact a member of the Order, but was rather a double agent for Voldemort. Ron was somewhat
more sympathetic to Harry’s suspicions than Hermione, and she couldn’t help but feel that it was
causing tension in their friendship.

After several moments of pleasantries between Dumbledore and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, the room
quieted and Hermione could feel a silent focus fall on her. “Miss Granger,” Dumbledore began,
“Professor Snape and I would like to have a conversation with you in private, please.”

Despite the overwhelming feeling that Dumbledore was there to help her, Hermione could sense
her pulse start to race and her skin begin to prickle under her clothes.

“Of course, Headmaster,” she replied, ducking her head slightly and sliding out from under Ron’s
languid arm.

“If you would feel more comfortable, Mr. or Mrs. Weasley is welcome to join you, as your own
parents are not here.”

Panic rose in Hermione’s throat and heat flushed across her face. “Um, well.” She wasn’t sure
what the right answer was, but she felt her eyes drawn to Mr. Weasley.

Observantly, Mr. Weasley spoke up immediately, “Yes, of course, I would like to accompany
Hermione.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Arthur, please lead us to a room where we can all discuss
comfortably.”

Mr. Weasley took the lead, Hermione falling in line behind Professor Snape. She glanced behind
her. All eyes were on her, save Mrs. Weasley who was herding the peering eyes of her children
further into the kitchen.

***

Mr. Weasley had led them to a cramped yet cozy bedroom that Hermione believed to be the one
he shared with Mrs. Weasley. He transfigured the bed into additional chairs, as all four wizards
proceeded to sit in a circle facing each other.

As Hermione began to launch into an explanation of the events that led to her suspension letter
from the Ministry, Dumbledore held up his hand.

“Miss Granger, Professor Snape and I are aware of the actions you took last night. You do not owe
us further explanation.”

Hermione felt herself go slack-jawed. “How—.”

Again, Dumbledore held up his hand. “Before we proceed,” he stated, eyeing both Hermione and
Mr. Weasley intensely, “we must all agree that everything in this room remains strictly
confidential. This is of the utmost importance.”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione and Mr. Weasley said in near unison. Dumbledore nodded once and
turned slowly to Snape, who took long sigh before speaking.

“For reasons that you are not entitled to knowledge of, I have been given the honorable task of
keeping tabs on young Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said dryly. “I am aware that he and several of his
Slytherin cohorts spent yesterday evening in Muggle London engaging in unadvisable activities. I
am further aware that when Mr. Malfoy strayed from this group, he was attacked by a Muggle who
threatened him with a weapon capable of inflicting great bodily harm, if not death.”

A pause.

“And I am aware that you discovered him in that alley, and cast a series of spells and hexes in an
attempt to save his life,” Snape concluded matter-of-factly, one eyebrow slightly raised. “And that
attempt was ultimately successful.”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, once again feeling relieved. “That is correct.”

Mr. Weasley audibly exhaled. “Wonderful. Then there is no issue—Draco will be testifying on
her behalf at the Ministry hearing.”

For the third time, Dumbledore raised his hand. “I’m afraid we cannot let that happen, Arthur.
Nor can Hermione testify to the true series of events that occurred last night.”

Hermione shot up from her chair instantly. “What? Headmaster, you must be joking. I saved the
life of the boy who has done nothing but brutalize me since my first year at Hogwarts, and I am to
be punished for it?” Her audacity shocked her even in the moment, but she could not bring herself
to accept the fate that Dumbledore was imposing on her. Tears began to spring to her eyes. “No,
no, I absolutely will not take the fall for Draco Malfoy.”

Dumbledore rose calmly. He was not intentionally intimidating, but Hermione felt herself shrink
back regardless. “Settle, Miss Granger,” he soothed. “Trust me when I tell you that you will not
suffer any negative repercussions from your valiant and honorable actions last night.”

“But—.”
Dumbledore continued, “We are simply removing any reference of Mr. Malfoy from the story.
Professor Snape will testify on your behalf, and he will assure the Ministry that while on a trip to
Muggle London, he witnessed you deftly intervene in a Muggle-on-Muggle attack, in defense of a
life.” Dumbledore, his expression serene, folded back into his chair.

Her eyes still slick with tears, Hermione turned to Snape in disbelief. “But why?” she choked out,
stumbling back into her chair.

Snape made no attempt at an answer, and Dumbledore remained silent for several long seconds.
“If you have told the rest of the Weasley family and Harry of last night’s events, which I imagine
you have, you are to tell them that you were mistaken and you merely saved a Muggle resembling
Mr. Malfoy.”

Hermione let out an exasperated laugh. “They’re never going to believe me. They’re going to
know I’m lying. And Harry—Harry’s already been through so much, I can’t do that to him…”

“You can,” Dumbledore said pointedly, “and you will.”

“Why?” Hermione pleaded.

There was a long silence before Mr. Weasley interjected. “She deserves to know, Albus.
Whatever it is, you can trust Hermione and me to hold it in the utmost confidence. But perhaps it
would help if she knew. I know it will certainly help me, as I will also have to lie to my family,
my wife,” he said respectfully.

Dumbledore and Snape both looked at each other for several drawn seconds before an unspoken
understanding seemed to be reached.

“Very well,” Dumbledore replied thoughtfully. He paused briefly before continuing. “Mr. Malfoy
has taken the Dark Mark. He is now a Death Eater.”

Hermione gasped and Mr. Weasley’s eyes bulged. Draco was a bully, yes, and his father had
fought for Voldemort in the last War, but Draco taking the Mark…

He’s younger than I am, Hermione thought.

“He’s just a boy,” Mr. Weasley gasped.

“Yes,” Snape responded calmly. “Following the events earlier this summer at the Ministry, Lucius
Malfoy has fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord. And it would appear young Draco was forced
to take the Mark prematurely…as punishment for his father’s failures.”

Hermione felt something inside of her crack. She was simultaneously brokenhearted and seething.
She hated Voldemort for what he did to Harry’s parents, to Neville’s parents, and to countless other
wizards and Muggles. But to know that such blatant cruelty extended to even his followers…the
rush of anger that accompanied the thought rendered her extremities cold and numb.

“All of that to say,” Snape continued, “the Dark Lord is very interested in Draco’s activities. If He
were to discover that Draco was gallivanting about in Muggle London—perhaps fraternizing with
Muggles—and that he was nearly grievously injured by one…” Snape’s attention drifted for a
moment. “Let’s just say the Dark Lord might decide that He has no use for such a foolhardy
follower.”

“Which is why it is so important,” Dumbledore picked up, “that we conceal Mr. Malfoy’s
involvement in these events.” Dumbledore reached across the space between the group, and
placed a crooked finger under Hermione’s chin. It was only then that Hermione realized that she
was nearly doubled over in her chair, clutching her sides. She was crying.

“Hermione?” Dumbledore asked quietly. She brought her eyes up to meet his, which were mixed
with concern and determination. “I trust you will keep this to yourself and testify at the Ministry as
I have instructed?”

“Ye—yes, of course,” she stuttered. There was no controlling it now, thick tears cascaded down
her cheeks in rapid succession. And for reasons that she didn’t understand at the time, she turned
to Snape and sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Your sentiments are noted,” Snape replied plainly. His expression was controlled, but Hermione
was sure she saw a fleeting moment of humanity in his eyes.

Kneeling beside her now, Dumbledore gave Hermione a reassuring brush on her back. “You have
the heart of a lioness,” he whispered to her. Hermione smiled weakly.

Arthur made a series of stuttering noises before apparently summoning the courage to challenge
Dumbledore. “Albus, if Draco Malfoy has really taken the Mark—I mean, the War has begun.
Should Hermione really be intervening for a wizard who we know to be fighting for the other
side? A side that would surely kill us all, but especially…” his voice drifted, not wanting to finish
his sentence in Hermione’s presence.

Dumbledore stood and gingerly rested a hand on Mr. Weasley’s shoulder. Hermione noticed then
that his other hand was discolored and withered. It looked dead. She tried to file this away to
address later, but her mind was reeling.

“Arthur,” he said softly. “As you said before, Draco Malfoy is a boy. Barely sixteen. He has been
given no more choice in this matter than you or I choose to breathe air.” The old wizard sighed, his
eyes distant. “I can’t say I approve of the choices Mr. Malfoy has made and I find his father
reproachful, but I will not stand idly by as one of my students is sentenced to death if there is
something I can do to help.”

Despite her efforts to stifle it, Hermione felt a small sob escape her throat.

Dumbledore again addressed Arthur Weasley, “Allow Miss Granger some time to process and
collect herself, and then please do your best to convince your family that Miss Granger’s earlier
recollection of events was inaccurate. I apologize for putting you both in such an uncomfortable
position, but please take solace in knowing that you are likely saving a life in doing so.” He smiled
down at Hermione, “Twice, for Miss Granger.”

Snape stood to join Dumbledore. “Please give your family our best. Tell Molly I shall like to stay
for longer next time.” They both stepped into the fireplace in the bedroom. And in a flash of
green, they were gone.

***

“The Malfoys will be forever in your debt,” Snape said to Dumbledore upon their return to
Hogwarts.

“And Miss Granger’s,” Dumbledore quickly supplied.

“Indeed,” Snape agreed, his tone reluctant. “The irony of it being, of course, that by helping spare
young Mr. Malfoy’s life, you and Miss Granger put both of your lives at greater risk.”
Dumbledore chuckled, removing his half-moon spectacles before sitting down behind his desk.
“Tom will see me dead one way or another, Severus. Saving Mr. Malfoy’s life does not change the
equation for me.” He sighed, his gaze fluttering around the room. “But I am hopeful that Miss
Granger’s act of grace might be what truly saves Mr. Malfoy. And perhaps in so doing, she will
save herself too.”

“You think Miss Granger could alter Mr. Malfoy’s fate?” Snape asked skeptically.

Dumbledore sighed and smiled at his friend. “He would not be the first Death Eater saved by the
grace of a Muggle-born witch.”
 Visit

Two days before the Ministry hearing, Snape arrived at Malfoy Manor. He found Narcissa Malfoy
curled on a window seat in the sitting room, absently gazing out the window and over the estate.
As always, she was swathed in an elegant robe with not a hair out of place. But those who knew
Narcissa knew she looked terrible. Frail, with her skin the same shade of silver blonde as her hair
save for the blue rings under her eyes.

“Severus,” Narcissa greeted him warmly as he strode into the sitting room. “How are you?”

“Fine, Narcissa,” he responded amicably. “And you?”

Narcissa’s breath shuddered for a moment, as a wistful smile spread across her cheeks. “Oh, you
know,” she replied. Taking a sharp inhale, she continued, “I was surprised to hear that you
intended to visit today. What can I help you with?”

“Actually, I am here to speak with young Draco,” Snape stated evenly.

Panic quickly filled Narcissa’s eyes. “Draco? Why?”

“Don’t fuss, Narcissa,” Snape said, gripping both her shoulders. “This is purely academic. I intend
to continue his occlumency lessons, although I understand his aunt’s assistance has assisted him
immeasurably over the summer.” He exhaled. “But I would also like to supply him with some
more general advice about how to handle school this year given the circumstances…”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Narcissa said, chuckling artificially. She straightened out the skirt of her
dress. “Thank you, Severus. For everything.” Her eyes met his, but they were lifeless. “Draco is
in the library, I believe.”

Snape offered Narcissa a half-hearted smile as he retreated from the sitting room and toward the
library.

***

Just as Narcissa had advised, Snape found Draco in the Malfoys’ vast and ornate library. Clad in
his traditional black button-down and black trousers, Draco sat propped up on a window seat, deep
into an aged book and absentmindedly stirring a cup of tea.

“Draco.”

His professor’s flat tone jolted Draco out of his literary daydream.

“Severus,” Draco blurted out, quickly standing. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Snape skipped the pleasantries. “Miss Granger will be facing a disciplinary hearing before the
Ministry of Magic the day after tomorrow for the use of unauthorized magic during the early
morning hours of August 20. She has stated that she did so in defense of the life of another,” Snape
said flatly.

Draco went numb, sensing nothing other than a faint whooshing sound that hammered throughout
his skull. His knees buckled a bit, and he reflexively resumed his sitting position on the window
seat. “What?” he choked out.
“Don’t feign ignorance,” Snape replied, bored. “It’s beneath you.”

Draco took a shuddering breath. Fuck.

“It will please you to know that Miss Granger has agreed to leave your presence out of her entire
testimony, and instead inform the Ministry that the individual she saved using magic was himself a
Muggle.”

Draco struggled to catch his breath. He was still trying to figure out why Granger defended him in
the first place, let alone why she was willing to lie to the Ministry of Magic to save him from the
wrath of his parents—and more importantly, the Dark Lord.

“Why?” Draco asked, trying to keep the panic in his voice from rising to a noticeable level.

“I don’t presume to know what goes on inside Miss Granger’s overly active brain.” Snape
responded lazily.

Suddenly it struck Draco, and he scoffed. “Just one more thing the Mudblood Princess of
Gryffindor can use to bolster her baseless superiority complex. She probably just wants to hold it
over my head until the Dark Lord finally kills me.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape began, his voice uncharacteristically harsh toward his favored student, “I find
Miss Granger nearly as insufferable as you do. But at the end of the day, she may have very well
saved your life. Twice.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but Snape continued. “I know you, Draco. I have watched you grow up.
And I can say there aren’t many other people who would be willing to do that for you. You would
be wise to remember that.”

Snape’s terse assessment of Draco’s predicament rendered him speechless for several moments.
But he felt the resentment bubbling—a member of the Golden Trio had finally turned his favorite
professor against him. Just one more thing to add to his shit-heap.

“Whose side are you on?” Draco spat.

With surprising speed, Snape descended upon him, grasping the collar of Draco’s shirt and drawing
him against the wall. “I am trying to save your life, you insolent child,” Snape stormed, his face
inches from Draco’s. “Your idiot friends may get to strut around, act like imbeciles, and throw
their legs over any Muggle trash that looks their way, but that is a luxury that is no longer afforded
to you.” Snape withdrew his grip on Draco, taking a step backwards. “Courtesy of your father,
you have a target on your back. And you’d better start acting like it.”

Draco remained, unflinching, against the wall to which Snape had pressed him.

As he exited, Snape looked over his shoulder. “Do not mention this to your mother. She is a
formidable witch, but her occlumency is not what it once was.”

Only once he was sure Snape had left the Manor did Draco collapse. He slid down the wall,
folding into a gasping heap on the floor. Silent sobs escaped his throat, as hot tears rushed down
his face. I wish Granger had just let the man fucking kill me.
 Hearing

The Weasleys’ response to Hermione’s about-face regarding the events of the night in question
was as expected. They were all skeptical, of course, and Hermione was sure none of them really
believed her. But Molly, Charlie, and Ginny seemed to accept that something truly grievous
prevented Hermione from being open and truthful with them. Fred and George were dubious, but
made a game out of the possible reasons for her waffling, which seemed to placate them. Ron eyed
Hermione suspiciously, but otherwise said nothing. Hermione had hope that he might still come
around.

But Harry. Oh, Harry seemed was so cross—so hurt. Like Ron, he too said nothing, but Hermione
could see the fury alight in his eyes, and his hands were clasped so tightly they turned stark white.

After several minutes of painful silence, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shooed the kids from the kitchen.
Hermione assumed Mr. Weasley would get an earful, even if Mrs. Weasley didn’t expect him to
cave. Fred and George headed outside to hurl bludgers at Charlie in an effort to test his dragon-
weathered reflexes, as Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Ginny piled into Ginny’s bedroom.

The uncomfortable silence continued. Ginny attempted to make small talk, but Harry just stared at
the wall, and Ron stared at Harry. The tension was so thick that Hermione thought she might
choke on it. Unable to take it any longer, she finally broke. “Say something, Harry. Please.”

Harry’s head snapped toward her with owl-like speed and precision. He said nothing. His eyes
burned and his jaw was clicked so tight that Hermione worried he might crack his teeth. “Please,”
she pleaded.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spat. The venom in his voice caused Hermione’s blood to
curdle.

“Harry,” Ginny lulled.

“No, Ginny,” Harry replied curtly. He stood and began to pace about the room. “I want to know.
I want to know who the hell you think you are,” his eyes leveled at Hermione and his voice
quaking with rage, “that you will lie to your friends—these people who would die for you—at the
request of the Lucius Malfoy? Or of Snape? These fucking Death Eaters who think you’re just
some Mudblood who doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as them?”

“Mate, take it easy,” Ron soothed, standing to place a supporting hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“What? No—you’re telling me that she’s sitting here, in your house and clearly lying to your face
about fucking Malfoy and you’re okay with it?”

“I—,” Ron began, looking dolefully at Hermione, who was still crouched with her knees tucked
into her chest. Ron shook his head and fell quiet. He wouldn’t intervene, Hermione realized, if he
thought it meant crossing Harry.

“And you?” Harry said hastily, turning to Ginny. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me,” Ginny replied simply. “But she is my best friend, and I trust her—even
when I don’t think she’s being completely truthful with me. If Hermione could tell us what really
went on that night, she would.”

“She did,” Harry seethed. “What I can’t figure out is why after a cup of conversation with
Dumbledore and Snape, she would completely and obviously lie to us all.”

“I told you,” Hermione said softly. “I was out late that night. I had been drinking. I simply—I
saw this tall, blonde boy being attacked. I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the late hour, but I
thought he was Draco. And he wasn’t.”

“And you needed a discussion with Dumbledore and Snape to realize that? How would they
know?” As Harry began to lob more questions at her in an attempt to audit her night, Hermione felt
heat rise under her skin. Her despair began to turn into frustration, which in turn morphed into
anger. Harry continued, “Honestly, Hermione do you care about us at all?”

Something inside Hermione snapped, and she was on her feet in an instant. “Don’t you dare,” she
fumed between gritted teeth. “I have risked my life to save yours so many times that I have lost
count. I have extended myself to the breaking point to ensure none of us ever got expelled. So I’m
not sure where you found the nerve to question my devotion to anyone in this house.” She paused,
taking a deep, gasping breath before continuing. “I have been nothing but a steadfast friend to you,
and the one time I ask you to just have blind faith in me, you refuse?” She scoffed. “Then that’s
on you.”

As she turned to resume sitting with Ginny, he said it. “Are you shagging him?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Hermione wheeled around and used that momentum to land a
devastating slap across Harry’s face. Her blow landed with such ferocity that it made a sharp
cracking sound, instead of a dull smack. The whole side of Harry’s face turned red, save for the
spot where Hermione’s hand had made contact, which glowed white hot.

“ENOUGH,” Ginny was on her feet, her face nearly the same color scarlet as her hair. “Harry, I
know how much you are hurting from what happened at the Ministry…what happened to Sirius.
But that does not give you the right to go around acting like a prat to everyone—especially
Hermione.” Ginny shot her a reassuring glance.

“She didn’t say no,” Harry responded combatively, gingerly bringing a hand to the side of his face.

“GET. OUT.” Ginny bristled, her arm pointed rigidly at her bedroom door.

Harry stormed out, Ron several paces behind him. Stopping briefly in front of Ginny, he
commented, “The Sirius comment went too far, Ginny.”

Ginny threw her head back in a scoffing laugh. “Oh, I went too far? Fuck off, Ron.”

Ron shrugged and looked at Hermione wistfully before trudging out of the room.

“Thanks, Gin,” Hermione whispered, smiling weakly at her younger friend, tears slipping from
beneath her lids.

***

Hermione cried on and off the rest of the evening. She wasn’t sure if it was frustration from her
row with Harry, guilt from sowing such discord in the Weasley household, or grief for Draco
Malfoy’s fate. Likely a combination of all three.

Ginny was supportive through it all, of course. Hermione laid on the floor, her head in Ginny’s lap
as she cried. Ginny dragged her fingers through Hermione’s curls, as she gossiped about the
various boys at school. She had broken up with Dean. And even though she didn’t say why, the
answer was obvious to anyone with eyes and ears.
Hermione sighed as she listened to Ginny drone on about Hogwarts gossip. She ached to tell
Ginny what Dumbledore and Snape had disclosed, if nothing else just to have someone else share
in the heaviness of it all.

When her eyelids finally grew heavy, Hermione stumbled into the bathroom shared by all Weasley
kids to wash her face and brush her teeth. She barely recognized the witch in the mirror—
miserable, with a patchy, swollen, and tear-streaked face. Just as she began to drag a washcloth
across her face, Charlie barged in.

“Ach, sorry!” he blustered, beginning to retreat back into the hallway.

“It’s fine, Charlie!” Hermione chimed. “I’m decent—just washing my face.”

The second-eldest Weasley strode back in, bearing a bludger-sized bruise over his right eye.
Apparently, his reflexes were not as iron-clad as boasted. He pulled his sweaty, rugby-style shirt
over his head. Hermione blushed. She had never seen someone so muscled; he looked like he was
made of marble. A large dragon tattoo covered his entire back, and tattoos designed to look like
dragon scales traveled down his arms. Several long scars pocked his sides—claw marks.

Snapping out of her distraction, Hermione looked forward and concentrated on washing her face.
But she could feel Charlie’s eyes turn to her.

“Why so glum?” he finally asked, his concern genuine.

Hermione chuckled mirthlessly. “I think you could venture a guess.”

“Who’s giving you trouble?” he asked, leaning against the counter, facing her with his arms
crossed over his chest. “Is it Ron? That big heart of his feels too much sometimes. It gets him in
trouble.”

A warmth spread through Hermione’s chest, but shook her head. “No, it’s Harry actually. I knew
he wouldn’t be happy—he’s going through a lot. But I’ve never seen him so angry, so harsh.” Her
mind wandered back to their fight, as she put her washcloth down and gripped the sink. She could
feel tears stinging her eyes again.

“Hey,” Charlie said, taking a step toward her. “Look at me, Miss Golden Girl.” She could hear
the smile in his voice.

Reluctantly, she lolled her head to the side, meeting his gaze. “I get that the lad is going through a
lot. But that doesn’t give him unlimited license to make you feel like shite, okay?”

Hermione looked at him skeptically.

He sighed, running a hand through his curly, scarlet locks. “Look, you’re doing the right thing,
correct?” he asked. She nodded. “Then he should understand. And if he doesn’t…” Charlie
leaned in. “Then fuck him,” he finished, a broad grin blossoming across his face.

Despite herself, Hermione chuckled. She nodded appreciatively.

“Just say the word and I’ll set him straight—won’t be the Boy Who Lived when I get through with
him.” He winked as he left the bathroom.

Hermione laughed heartily, and momentarily thought maybe—just maybe—everything would be

okay.
***

The morning of her hearing, everyone roused early to wish Hermione good luck, save for Harry,
who did not leave his room.

Mr. Weasley and Charlie accompanied Hermione to the Ministry. Despite Mr. Weasley’s protests,
Charlie had insisted on joining, both to “see off the Golden Girl as she kicked Ministry arse” and
“visit with former classmates who chose to live out their professional life like caged animals.”

Mr. Weasley rolled his eyes.

Hermione’s pulse quickened as they approached the Ministry. For a brief moment when they
passed through the doors, Hermione felt like she couldn’t breathe. She doubled over, with Mr.
Weasley and Charlie both rushing to her side.

“It’s okay, dear,” Mr. Weasley soothed. Charlie stood next to her, acting as a wall that she could
brace herself on.

“This is a lot, I know,” Mr. Weasley said, his pale blue eyes meeting hers. She blinked back tears
as she replayed their night in the Ministry all those months ago. The feeling of being trapped…the
pitch of the screams and breaking glass…the curse that struck her chest and marked her…

She placed her hand over the scar and focused on her breathing.

It was prophetic, really. That her wizarding fate should culminate here, where Siruis Black was
killed and where Lucius Malfoy had failed. It was like the Ministry building was a major artery,
out of which all other troubles in Hermione’s life flowed.

She removed her hand from her heart and collected herself. “I’m sorry,” she began, but Mr.
Weasley waved her off.

“Let us just move forward,” he said.

Willing herself to remain calm, Hermione began counting down from one thousand. She had
reached six hundred twenty seven when Tonks bustled into the cramped elevator that Mr. Weasley,
Charlie, Hermione, and several other wizards were already occupying.

“Arthur! Hermione!” Tonks squealed, her hair turning bright pink. She barreled through the other
elevator occupants to hug them both. “Hermione, why are you here?” she asked. “Not that I ever
mind having the pleasure of your company, but—.” Before Hermione had a chance to explain, a
thunderous voice rippled through the elevator.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Charlie quipped, finally poking his head up from the back of the
elevator.

“Charlie!” Tonks shouted, nearly knocking Mr. Weasley and Hermione over in her effort to
embrace him. “Charlie Weasley in an office building—never thought I would see the day,” she
mused playfully, swatting his bicep. “What on earth are you doing here? Is it bring your most
headstrong child to work day?”

Mr. Weasley laughed. “That would be a tough competition in our household.” He shook his head
and lowered his voice. “No, we are accompanying Hermione to a disciplinary hearing before the
Ministry. A complete misunderstanding—she used magic over the summer in the defense of a
Muggle life.”
Tonks went wide-eyed. “Way to go, Hermione! I’d expect nothing less from Hogwarts’s most
bad-ass witch.” Hermione blushed. “Were there witnesses?”

“Just one,” Mr. Weasley said quickly. “But we are confident his testimony on Hermione’s behalf
will be more than enough.”

“Fantastic,” Tonks said, squeezing Hermione’s shoulders. The elevator dinged. “This is my
stop.” She lowered her gaze slightly to meet Hermione’s eyes. “Knock ‘em dead, girl,” she
assured. As Tonks began to exit the elevator, Charlie piped up.

“Wait! Let me tag along with you for a bit!”

“Charlie Weasley, as I live and breathe, did you want to shadow an Auror for a day?” she teased.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Charlie replied enthusiastically. “No Dark Wizards are escaping my clutches!” he
bragged, flexing as he jogged out of the elevator. Before the elevator doors closed, he shot
Hermione a quick smile. “Kick ass today, kid.”

***

Snape was waiting for them outside the courtroom when they arrived. “Arthur, Miss Granger,” he
drolled.

“Morning, Severus!” Mr. Weasley greeted brightly. “Any information on who will be sitting in on
the hearing?”

“Unlike Mr. Potter, she has avoided the full Wizengamot—the hearing will only be Archer,
Scrimgeour, and McPherson.”

“Scrimgeour?” Mr. Weasley said in disbelief. “Why would the Minister himself be interested in
presiding over this?”

“Miss Granger’s academic record and lack of prior incidents afford her a more lenient hearing as
opposed to Mr. Potter,” he sighed, his indifferent eyes coming to rest on her. “But Stupefying and
hexing a Muggle is still a serious offense—even if done for allegedly proper reasons.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence for several minutes. “Miss Granger, I presume you maintain a
firm grasp on the events that transpired that night?” he asked

“Yes, Professor,” she answered meekly, her pulse quickening.

The courtroom door opened, and Hermione and Snape were beckoned inside.

***

Much to Hermione’s relief, the hearing members remained quiet during her testimony and did not
appear to push back or doubt her re-telling of the night she cursed a Muggle. In fact, after she
concluded her narrative, Scrimgeour merely complimented her on her performance at Hogwarts
thus far and inquired as to what career paths she felt most interested in once she completed her
Seventh Year.

“And I understand you have a witness?” Scrimgeour finally asked.

“Yes, Minister,” Hermione replied politely. “Professor Snape.” Snape stepped forward, standing
just slightly behind Hermione.
“Ah, yes, it’s good to see you, Severus,” Scrimgeour said, an insincere smile spreading across his
face.

“Likewise,” Snape responded disinterestedly.

“And, I have here that you witnessed Miss Granger’s altercation with the Muggles in question, is
that correct?” Scrimgeour asked.

“Yes.”

“And your testimony is that her telling of the events that transpired is accurate, to the best of your
knowledge?”

“After five years of educating Miss Granger, I can tell you that she is nothing if not thorough and
accurate,” Snape said evenly.

“Ah-ha,” Scrimgeour murmured, scribbling some notes with his quill. For a moment, it appeared
he was going to close the record in front of him, but then he hesitated.

“Still, Severus, it strikes me as very odd that you were roaming the streets of Muggle London at
such a late hour.”

Snape remained silent, and Hermione felt her pulse begin to quicken. She had heard rumors that
Snape was a true Occlumens, but that was not a skill which Hermione yet possessed. If they really
began to question what happened that night, her memories would give them away. Malfoy’s iron
eyes, his panicked and confused stare were seared into her brain.

“Severus?” Scrimgeour prodded.

“Yes, Minister?” Snape replied.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask me a question.” Snape countered.

Scrimgeour let out a short, humorless laugh. “Very well. Let me phrase it this way then: why
were you out roaming the streets of Muggle London in the early morning hours of August 20?”

“I was unaware I needed a justification,” Snape returned. Hermione winced. Was he trying to goad
Scrimgeour into asking more questions?

“But if it’ll hasten this hearing, my testimony is that at the request of Professor Horace Slughorn, I
needed to procure certain materials for his Potions class that can only be found in Muggle London.
As you are aware, I served as Hogwarts’s Potions professor for many years, during which time I
developed a professional relationship with a talented Muggle apothecarist, to whom I go when I
need such orders filled.” Snape said very matter-of-factly.

Hermione’s mind raced. Professor Snape is no longer teaching Potions? Did he finally get Dark
Arts? Who is Slughorn?

“And this apothecarist keeps his shop open until one in the morning?” Scrimgeour volleyed back.

“As you can imagine, he prefers to not mix his wizarding and non-wizarding clients. Therefore, I
seek his services after normal, working hours,” Snape responded.

“And what materials were you procuring?” Scrimgeour asked.

“Motor oil,” Snape said flatly.

Hermione fought the urge to smile and laugh. She had never imagined Professor Snape having a
sense of humor, but here he was having fun at the expense of the Minister of Magic.

“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with that substance,” Scrimgeour admitted.

“Shocking,” Snape drawled.

Scrimgeour seemed to chew on the contents of his back-and-forth with Snape for several seconds,
but realizing he had no more room to push, called the hearing to a vote.

All three members voted that no disciplinary action need be taken, but warned her that any future
discretions would be subject to stricter scrutiny.

Mr. Weasley hugged her tightly when she and Snape emerged from the hearing, relishing in the
good news. “A celebratory lunch is in order then!” he cheered. “Come, I know a great spot right
around the corner.” Hermione didn’t want to point out that it was barely past 9:30AM.

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” she affirmed. “I am so grateful for your support today.”

His expression was difficult to read, as was his response. “Let’s hope our actions today serve us
well, Miss Granger,” he said, before swiftly walking away.

***

Several days later, Hermione found herself back in Diagon Alley with Harry and the Weasleys.
Harry, of course, was still not acknowledging her existence. Ron did, but only when Harry wasn’t
looking. Only Ginny and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley treated her as if nothing had happened.

The atmosphere in Diagon Alley was tense. It was uncommonly deserted, and everyone walked
with purpose. Hagrid accompanied them as security, but when Harry and Ron decided to break off
to Madame Malkin’s with Hagrid, Hermione stayed behind with Ginny and Mr. and Mrs.
Weasley.

In the afternoon, she and Ginny played with Ginny’s new Pygmy Puff—procured from Fred’s and
George’s new joke shop—as Harry and Ron spoke hurriedly about something they seemed to have
witnessed while outside her company. Her stomach churned as she felt herself drift farther out to
sea.
 Indebtedness

Draco tried to keep his eyes trained in front of him as he boarded the Hogwarts Express. Snape had
relayed that true to her word, Hermione had testified before the Ministry that she used her magic
against a Muggle that was assaulting another Muggle, and Draco Malfoy, son of a disgraced Death
Eater and current target of Lord Voldemort’s ire, was mentioned not once. And the Ministry had
believed her, letting her off with nothing but a warning.

While there was a certain sense of relief that accompanied such news, Draco’s issues were far from
solved. Even when he put aside the difficult tasks of slaughtering his Headmaster, he still had to
deal with Granger. He couldn’t avoid her forever, but he didn’t have the stomach to even
contemplate how he would feel when he finally saw her—which he presumed would be soon.

He hated her. And he hated that through a sick twist of fate, she had put him in the position of
being indebted to her. Even as treacherous and complicated and miserable as his life currently was,
he was alive because of her. He was not an unclaimed body on the streets of Muggle London, and
word about his altercation in London would not reach the Dark Lord. Because of her. So, at a
minimum, he figured he owed her some level of…deference.

Walking through the train’s corridors, he was surprised to see Potter and Weasel in a compartment
by themselves. Granger-less. His mind ticked through the reasons that she was absent, but finally
settled on the obvious explanation that she was merely visiting another compartment or changing
into her robes.

But she wasn’t.

Several compartments later, he found her, laying along the compartment bench, her wild curls
splayed across She-Weasley’s lap. She-Weasley said something, causing the two girls to collapse
into a fit of giggles. Sitting opposite of them was Longbottom and Looney Lovegood, who
appeared similarly amused.

What the hell?

He knew she was friends with this gang of misfits, but he had never seen her choose their company
over that of Potter and Weaselbee.

Draco found himself unable to tear his eyes from the scene. On the surface, it appeared so
comfortable and normal. But he had watched the Golden Trio long enough to know that her
distance from them meant something was wrong.

And then it happened. Granger’s eyes broke from She-Weasley’s, landing squarely on him.
Frozen in place, Draco couldn’t tear his gaze from hers. He had expected her expression to reflect
hatred, frustration, or rage. That same look he saw right before she slapped him in their Third
Year. But instead she just looked suddenly tired and sad.

Blaise’s hand clapped Draco’s shoulder, shattering his focus. “Oi, you gonna park it in the
compartment with the Gryffin-fucks and their batshit Ravenclaw friend?” he teased.

Stepping back into himself, Draco laughed. “That’ll be the day.” He walked confidently forward,
aware that Hermione’s eyes remained on him the entire time.

***
Halfway through the voyage to Hogwarts, a portly, older man appeared in their train car. He
looked somewhat familiar to Draco, but he couldn’t place him.

“Ah, yes, hello Slytherins!” he greeted. “Professor Horace Slughorn,” he proudly introduced
himself.

It clicked for Draco. Horace Slughorn had previously been the head of Slytherin House, and one
of his mother’s favorite professors. She had been a member of what she called the “Slug Club” and
still keep a picture from one of their gatherings in a frame in her tea room. Draco’s father, on the
other hand, was not a fan, frequently referring to him as “a disgrace to Salazar’s name.”

“I’m hoping to steal away a Mr. Zabini,” Professor Slughorn beamed.

His eyes fell over the students until they reached Blaise. “Ah, yes,” he said, extending his hand to
Blaise to shake. “No doubt you are Mr. Zabini. You look just like your mother.”

Blaise looked at him skeptically, but shook his hand and rose to join Professor Slughorn. The old
professor’s eyes then landed on Draco.

“And no doubt who you are, eh?” he asked, his smile fading into something less pleasant. “Son of
Narcissa and Lucius?”

“Yes,” Draco replied, extending his arm. “Draco Malfoy.” Professor Slughorn did not shake his
hand; rather, his hands rested on his round belly as a faraway look clouded his face.

“Your mother was an excellent student,” he crooned. “Particularly in Potions. I had always hoped
for her that she would become a potioneer.” He sighed, his eyes still somewhere else. “But alas, I
suppose your father had other plans for her.” Draco gripped the arm of the bench so firmly some
of his knuckles cracked.

“Well, anyway,” he said, his focus returning. “Mr. Zabini, if you would follow me.” Blaise
nodded and followed him out of the car, shooting a confused glance back at his friends.

“What the hell was that?” Draco spat once the two were out of earshot.

“Not used to sharing the spotlight, Draco?” Theo teased, a smartarse smirk tugging at his cheeks.

“Like I would want to be part of that old coot’s dumb collection of students,” Draco scoffed.

“Your mum was though, no?” Theo asked, smile still plastered on his face.

“Yes,” Draco replied tersely. “But father says the man is a loon, and a disgrace to Slytherin
House.”

“I think it’s so romantic that your father takes such good care of your mother,” Pansy mewed,
laying her head on Draco’s shoulder and distractedly casting a spell that coated her nails in shiny,
black paint.

Draco rolled his eyes. “My father is in Azkaban, Pansy,” Draco stated matter-of-factly, as Theo
suppressed a laugh.

“I know,” she shot back, while tenderly placing a kiss to his jawline. “I just mean that he has
provided so well for her. I mean, can you imagine Narcissa Malfoy working in some smelly
potions lab?” Her nose scrunched.
“Yeah, actually, I can,” Theo quipped.

“Shut up, Theo,” Pansy retorted, giving him a short kick to the shin. “Women like Mrs. Malfoy
are above dirty labor like that. She deserves to be pampered.”

Draco rolled his eyes again as Theo laughed, and laid the side of his head against the cool window,
as the train hissed through the emerald countryside.

***

Blaise was gone for nearly two hours. Upon returning, he informed the group that unsurprisingly,
Potter had also been invited for lunch, as well as She-Weasley and Longbottom. Fucking
Longbottom. His father was right—the old professor had to be a complete nutter.

As the group prepared to exit the train car, Draco heard an unmistakable yelp from the luggage
rack as Crabbe dropped his trunk.

“Go ahead,” he told the rest of his friends. “I’ll catch up with you lot in a bit.” He waited until
they were out of earshot.

“Petrificus totalus!” he whispered, aiming his wand at the luggage rack. There was a loud thud as
something heavy hit the ground. As Draco cruised over to the spot, his foot hit an invisible force.
He reached down and felt fabric. He gave it a tug.

Potter laid there, stiff as a board. Draco chuckled wryly. “Spying on my friends and me, Potter?”
he growled, crouching onto his haunches. Potter’s eyes were wide with alarm.

“Were you gonna run back to your Weasel and your Mudblood and tell them what the big, bad
Slytherins are up to?” he seethed, leaning close to Potter’s face.

Draco leaned back again. “You know the problem in sticking your nose in other people’s business,
Potter?” he asked rhetorically. “It might get broken.” And with that, he drove his fist squarely into
Potter’s face, and threw his invisibility cloak back over him.

“Have a pleasant trip back to London,” Draco said coolly as he exited the train.

***

The Slytherin common room offered Draco a sense of solace—a return to normalcy.

“Have you guys seen Millicent Bulstrode?” Crabbe asked. “She looks like she swallowed a
Hippogriff whole.”

“You’re one to talk, lard-ass,” Draco quipped without looking up from the book he was reading.
Crabbe punched him in the shoulder. Draco tore a previously read page from the book, balled it
up, and chucked it at Crabbe, hitting him squarely in the back of the head.

“You know who’s looking good?” Blaise queried. “The Weasley sister. What do you think,
Draco? Would you shag her?”

Draco cackled. “As much as I would love to torment Weaselbee with the knowledge that his sister
was sullied by a Slytherin, I haven’t hit that level of rock bottom.”

“There’s no way she’s rock bottom when Looney Lovegood exists,” Goyle countered.
“Looney isn’t rock bottom—she’s rock bottom’s cellar,” Draco jested. The group erupted into
laughter, Draco included. He was grateful that his father’s fall from grace had not impacted his
social status as far as his friends were concerned.

“All right, dweebs,” Theo said, rising from his seat. “As fun as ranking pity fucks is, I’m bushed.
I’m off to bed.”

“Yeah, me too,” Draco said, slowing rising from the arm chair and closing his book.

“Aw, come on,” Goyle pleaded. “It’s our first night back. And Crabbe snuck in some
firewhiskey.” Goyle held up the bottle, which was nearly full.

“Nah,” Draco replied. “I don’t want to do 9AM Potions with a hangover.”

Crabbe and Goyle sneered, but otherwise said nothing. Blaise mockingly saluted Draco and Theo
as he snatched the firewhiskey from Crabbe’s hands and took a swig.

Draco and Theo set off in the direction of the dormitory, slowly climbing the circular stone stairs
that curled around the dungeonous common room.

“Hey,” Theo said, suddenly stopping mid-stair. “Are you okay? You’ve seemed off recently.”

“I’m fine, Theo,” Draco responded.

“You just seem like you have a lot on your mind,” Theo said, his expression earnest and
concerned.

“Shall we start with my father’s imprisonment in Azkaban and go from there?” Draco deadpanned.

The two friends broke into matching smirks and continued ascending the stairs.

“Fine, fine,” Theo began. “But I just want you to know—you’re my best mate. And whatever it is
that goes on with you, you can tell me.” They stopped at the threshold of the dormitory. “And you
can trust me. With whatever it is.”

***

Malfoy was disappointed to discover that Potter was present at the Gryffindor table the following
morning. Someone must have discovered him huddled under his invisibility cloak before the train
departed back for London. Probably fucking Granger with her heroine complex.

Unlike on the train, she was sitting with Potter and Weasel at breakfast. Although, as Draco
observed her from the Slytherin table, she was almost exclusively talking to She-Weasley and
Longbottom. Something happened, Draco thought. He wondered if it had something to do with
that night in London. Or maybe it was some sort of jealousy for her affections between Potter and
Weasel that was damaging the relationship.

If this is how weak their loyalties to each other are, the Dark Lord will crush them easily. His
stomach churned, and he pushed away the rest of his breakfast.

Moments later, Granger stood and gave She-Weasley a friendly rub on the back. She appeared to
address Weaselbee, but left without making eye contact with Potter. As she headed toward the exit
of the Great Hall, Draco decided to test his theory.

Nearly a foot taller than her, he easily cut her off before she reached the exit. He stopped himself
only inches from her. She hadn’t seen him coming, her forward momentum ceasing only when she
was flush against his chest.

“Malfoy!” she exclaimed, pink rising to her cheeks. The same sadness and fatigue was evident in
her eyes, but there was something else—panic. Her head whipped around, back to the Gryffindor
table. Draco peered over her to see Potter and Weaselbee both staring at the pair of them, their
expressions full of rage. Well, that’s nothing new.

But no sooner had Potter looked at them, did he throw his spoon down and march away from the
table, the She-Weasley close at his heels. Weaselbee, of course, did nothing but look mournfully
into his breakfast cereal. Glancing back down at Granger, he could see it. The tears starting to
well in her eyes. Bingo, Draco thought. It’s about London.

With impressive force for her small size, Granger shoved Malfoy as she fled the Great Hall.
Taking only a moment to revel in his new-found sense of control, Malfoy followed her.

“Granger,” he barked, watching her come to an eerily responsive halt.

“Yes, Malfoy?” she asked, her voice strained. She refused to meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on
something in the distance. Draco peered over his shoulder, finding the hallway empty.

“Granger, look at me,” he said, keeping his voice even.

“No,” she protested through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” he replied assertively, grabbing her chin with his hand and forcing her face to meet his. For
several moments she obliged, her red-rimmed and anxious eyes boring into Draco. And then it hit
him—quite literally.

She had slapped him. Again.

“Granger, what the fuck?” he hissed as he dropped his hand from her chin and brought it to his
face. She stood her ground, still only mere inches from him. She reminded him of an animal that
had been peeled off from the rest of the herd—edgy and volatile. “I just wanted to talk to you,” he
lied, evening his voice.

“Well, that’s too bad,” she said haughtily. “Because I don’t wish to speak with you, much less be
grabbed by you.” She readjusted her schoolbag and turned to walk away. Draco’s arm shot out
instinctively, reaching for her arm. But upon seeing her head whip around and her fist start to ball,
he pulled both hands back in a sarcastic, exaggerated motion.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” she asked, pausing to cross her arms.

He sighed. “I want to…acknowledge what you did for me. I don’t know why you did it, but you
saved me a lot of headache.” He paused. “And you know, I’m sorry for the obvious stress it is
causing your relationship with Potter and the Weasel.”

“From my understanding, it was a bit more than headache,” she replied, an unadulterated disdain
seeping back into her voice. She hadn’t taken the Potter and Weaselbee bait.

Bored with her response, he pushed her again. “I’ve said what I have to say. I won’t spend the rest
of my life indebted to a friendless Mudblood,” he returned.

Anger flashed in her eyes. “I don’t need you to be indebted to me,” she returned, her voice razor
sharp. “Knowing that you almost had your brains blown out by a Muggle is consolation enough for
me.”

Draco supposed he should be angry, but he wasn’t. He was amused. He extended his arm to rest
against the wall opposite him, his face hovering only inches from hers. “Hoo, hoo,” he chided.
“The bitch has teeth.”

A familiar sneer stretched across her face. Feeling more like himself than he had in weeks, Draco
merely quirked a smile, and walked away coolly.
 Perfect

Her anger left her breathless. Taking several deep, shuddering breaths, she reviewed what she
knew: two weeks ago, she saved Draco Malfoy’s life in London. She then saved it again when she
lied to the Ministry, under oath. And she had done so at the expense of two of the most important
relationships she had.

She had felt such conviction that she was doing the right thing in trusting Dumbledore and Snape.
And she had felt such raw despair for Malfoy. And for what? For what seemed like the millionth
time that month, hot tears began to escape from her eyes.

Drawing herself together and wiping away her few intrepid tears, Hermione stormed off toward
Potions, which Gryffindor regrettably had with Slytherin.

Naturally, Malfoy was the first person she saw. His silver hair and size was impossible to miss.
He was chatting animatedly with Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott as if nothing had happened. She
loathed him.

Even more painful was the lone seat next to Harry and Ron. She imagined a painful counter-
scenario in which she had ignored Dumbledore’s and Snape’s pleas, testified about Draco’s
tomfoolery in London, and could fall into comfortable conversation with her two best friends. But
that reality was not available to her anymore.

To her relief, a seat was available next to Neville. She dropped her schoolbag and folded into the
chair next to him. “Hi, Hermione!” his tone chipper. “Why aren’t you sitting with Ron and
Harry?”

“Oh,” she faltered, “you know, I just needed a break from sitting in the front of the class.” She was
getting tired of lying to everyone already. “Plus, I wanted a chance to be partnered with you,
Neville! It’s been ages since we were able to catch up and work on something together.” Neville
was not a dull boy—he might’ve sorted that her reasoning was insincere if he were not so thrilled
that someone was going out of their way to spend time with him—over Harry Potter no less.

***

Hermione adored Professor Slughorn. At the beginning of First Year, she had been so eager to
develop her Potions knowledge; her enthusiasm, of course, being crushed by Professor Snape’s
constant cruelty. Professor Slughorn was eccentric, to say the least, but he seemed kind and
exceptionally knowledgeable, and Hermione was delighted at the opportunity to rekindle her initial
fondness for the study.

Apparently, Professor Slughorn had lower O.W.L.S. standards than Professor Snape, allowing Ron
and Harry (and likely Neville) to take the class. Professor Slughorn was able to lend them books to
perform their first in class project of the year. From what Hermione could observe, Ron’s
appeared to be a disaster. Professor Slughorn appeared pleased with hers, but Harry’s had
apparently been flawless, earning him a vial of felix felicis.

Hermione seethed. She was skeptical that a potion could truly make someone lucky, so she hadn’t
really been angling for the potion. But she hated being bested by anyone, let alone someone who
had so thoroughly betrayed her.

On the upside, her in-class answers had earned her a spot in the professor’s Slug Club, while
Malfoy’s feeble attempt to highlight Professor Slughorn’s relationship with his grandfather,
Abraxas Malfoy, utterly failed to garner him a seat. His potion had also apparently been the
consistency of wet cement, which similarly did not impress Professor Slughorn.

Hermione did not consider herself particularly vindictive, but Malfoy’s behavior toward her fueled
such an attitude. Despite all that she had done for him, he still found room in his heart to hate her.
And what better way to pay him back than demonstrating that a Muggle-born witch had more
wizarding talent than he did.

***

For the next few weeks, life fell into a painful, but familiar pattern for Hermione. Harry did not
speak to her, and Ron more or less followed Harry’s lead. In the rare moments she caught Ron
without Harry, he was more collegial, but there was still this suffocating, invisible barrier between
the former best friends.

One night in early October, the trio was up particularly late doing homework in the common room
—with almost no speaking, of course. Harry was still refusing civility, but doing homework
together seemed like something that they had all become so accustomed to that they just continued
to do so, albeit in uncomfortable silence.

Somewhere around 1AM, Harry wordlessly stood, gathered his school materials, and headed
toward the dormitories. Ron watched him leave, but said nothing. Hermione kept her eyes trained
on her Arithmancy scrolls. They were the only two left in the common room.

After several more minutes of palpable reticence during which time both parties pretended to
diligently read the texts in front of them, Hermione spoke.

“You have abandoned me,” she whispered.

Ron’s eyes shot up from his book, his face despairing. “’Mione, you know that isn’t true. You
and Harry are my best friends. I’m just—well, I’m in an uncomfortable spot between the two of
you, aren’t I? I’m doing the best that I can. Please don’t make me choose.”

“But you have, haven’t you? Chosen, that is,” she asked, vaguely aware that her voice was
quaking. “From the looks of it, nothing has changed between you and Harry. You still sit next to
each other every day at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You go to Quidditch practice together. You
are partners in every class. And me—,” she paused, willing herself not to start crying. “I’ve just
been forced out. Thank God for Ginny and Neville, otherwise I’d be forced to take my meals in
the bathroom with Myrtle.”

Ron looked genuinely remorseful, also perhaps on the brink of tears. “This is hurting me—this
whole thing. I’m crazy for you, Hermione,” he gasped, almost a sob. “Truly.” He brought a hand
to his face and covered his eyes for several moments. “But I can’t help but feel that Harry has a
point. That despite all we have been through together, you don’t trust us with whatever happened
that night. And with everything that Harry is going through…it just seems unnecessarily cruel.
Just tell us, ‘Mione, please.”

Until that point, Hermione didn’t realize it was possible for her heart to break more than it already
had. But to see Ron reduced to such blubber absolutely shattered her like glass. She rushed to him
and held him for several minutes as his silent tears rolled into her hair. “I miss you,” he gasped.

Hermione pulled back, and delicately wiped away his tears with her fingers. “I miss you,” she
replied. “And I shouldn’t have to. I know this situation is…unusual, but have I not done enough
over the past five years to earn yours and Harry’s faith? That if I tell you that I just need you to
believe something for me, you just do?”

“I trust you,” Ron said, bringing his hand to the side of Hermione’s face. “’Mione, I trust you with
my life. But Harry—he’s in such a bad place. He’s so angry at you, and he’s so broken up with
what happened at the Department of Mysteries. And to have you defend Malfoy—after what
Lucius did…he just can’t take it. And I just don’t know what to do.”

Ron’s affirmation provided Hermione with some level of relief, but she was still crushed. Ron
could riddle off all the niceties that he wanted, but he still chose Harry over her. Ron possessed his
own brand of courage, but standing up to Harry was not in his repertoire.

“It’s okay, Ron,” she said, bringing her hand to cover his on her face. “We’ve all been put into a
position we don’t want to be in.”

“Just tell us,” Ron pleaded. “I mean—you already did. But just tell us what happened and why
you had to lie at the Ministry, and everything can go back to normal.” His eyes were thick and
mournful. “Please.”

Hermione shook her head, aware that she, like Ron, was crying. She brought her other hand to his
face, and stared into his eyes, which were equally conflicted as hers. “Ron,” she hushed.

His lips crashed into hers. For a moment, Hermione found herself stunned. She had wanted this
for ages now—Ron as more than a friend. But in all her daydream scenarios she had never
pictured them coming together when everything else felt so completely broken. But, in this
moment, she didn’t care. She kissed him back.

His hand on her face moved to the back of her neck, and tangled into her curls. “’Mione,” he
huffed, as his mouth moved across her jawline and down her neck. His teeth grazed her collarbone
and she gasped. He righted himself and his hands traveled back to her face.

“I meant what I said, Hermione,” he said hazily. “I care for you—so much it physically fucking
hurts sometimes.” He kissed her deeply, his tongue tracing the inside of her lips and then traveling
down her neck. Hermione basked in the affection and comfort for a few moments, but then
reluctantly placed her hands on either side of Ron’s head and draw his gaze up to meet hers.

“Then act like it,” she said defiantly. “I need you to defend me. I need to know that you have my
back, even when it’s terribly inconvenient.” Their eyes didn’t break contact. “I need to know that
you trust me, even when it doesn’t make sense and even when you don’t want to.” She pressed her
lips to his determinatively.

“Ahem,” a voice behind them cleared. Hermione’s head shot up, squarely meeting Ginny’s glare.

***

Hermione couldn’t help but feel she had burnt the one bridge she had left. Through the last several
weeks, Ginny had been her constant companion and defender—despite the negative effects it was
having on her and Harry’s budding relationship. And how had Hermione repaid her? By snogging
her brother in the house common room in a moment of shared vulnerability.

Hermione had followed Ginny like a shamed dog to the shared bathrooms. She watched in terror
as Ginny checked under each of the stalls to ensure they were alone. This is it. I’ve lost the last
significant friendship I have, she thought.

And then, just as Hermione was certain that Ginny was going to rip into her, Ginny threw her head
back and laughed. “It’s about time!” she squealed, playfully smacking Hermione’s arm before
pulling her in for a tight embrace.

Surprised, but relieved, Hermione wrapped her friend in a tight hug. “I know, I know,” she
whispered. “But it’s still not that simple. Ron is thoroughly on Harry’s side; he’s still not back to
being my friend.”

“That’s because he’s a prat,” Ginny responded quickly. “But Harry will come around eventually,
and then—,” Ginny sighed peacefully. “Everything will be perfect.”

“Perfect is a high standard to meet,” Hermione countered affectionately.

“It is,” Ginny agreed dreamily. “But you have to admit, all of us together—Dumbledore’s Army,
the Order…together, we are perfect.”

Hermione smiled—truly smiled—and agreed. “Yes, Gin, I think together we are.”

 Black/White

Draco watched the Gryffindor table absentmindedly as he slowly ate his breakfast. School had
been in session for weeks now, and yet, from his observations, Granger still seemed to be on the
outs with Potter and Weaselbee. She didn’t always sit with them, and even when she did, she
seemed to only really talk to She-Weasley, Longbottom, and the Ginger Twins. Occasionally she
would exchange stolen glances with Weaselbee—but she and Potter never so much as
acknowledged each other.

Draco had long-known that the so-called Golden Trio was not as sacrosanct as they purported to
be, but even so, he wouldn’t have bet money on Potter and Weasel freezing her out for so long.

This morning was typical of the new normal for the trio: Granger sitting next to Weaselbee, with
Potter catty-corner to her, chatting only with Weaselbee. She-Weasley was to Granger’s other side,
and the two girls spoke animatedly. And then—well something quite different happened.

As Potter turned to fish something out of his schoolbag, the Weasel delicately touched Granger’s
elbow, and then brushed his hand across her lower back. She turned to briefly look at him and
smiled.

Draco snorted. Weasel would be the kicked dog in the middle. He had absolutely nothing going
for him aside from his association with The Boy Who Lived and The Brightest Witch of Her Age.
And he couldn’t even fully pick sides between the two of them.

So Draco decided he would choose for him.

As some students began to break from breakfast, Draco slithered past the other House tables,
acutely aware of the skeptical eyes following him as he stalked past the Gryffindor table, coming to
a rest in a crouching position behind Granger. For several moments, she was blissfully unaware of
his presence, until the ferocious ire in the eyes of those around her tipped her off.

“Granger,” he said, keeping his tone stiff and serious. Her head whipped around so fast he thought
she might qualify herself for the Headless Hunt.

“Malfoy,” she addressed him, her eyes filled with dread and concern.

He lightly grasped her elbow where Weaselbee had touched it so tenderly just moments before.
“We need to talk,” he said matter-of-factly. The color drained from her face, as she gave a slight
nod. She slid weakly off the bench, intentionally keeping her gaze focused on the floor.

“’Mione?” Weasel petitioned, his voice strained. She said nothing, just turned and hastily left the
Great Hall, not looking back.

“Gryffindors,” Draco said formally, slowly rising and following her out of the Great Hall.
Weaselbee looks fucking homicidal, Draco thought triumphantly.

Outside the Great Hall, Hermione made a sharp left down a relatively barren corridor. “What is it,
Malfoy? What has happened?” she asked urgently, coming to a halt.

Draco slowly took position opposite her, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. He stared
at her for a few moments, drinking in her pleading, desperate eyes. He quirked a smile.

“Nothing, Granger. I just wanted to see the look on your fellow Gryffindors’ faces when you were
called for a private and urgent meeting with—,” he paused, grabbing her arm and pulling her in
closer, “a Death Eater,” he whispered, centimeters from her ear.

Granger yanked her arm away and shoved him. “Screw you, Malfoy,” she retorted. “What the hell
is your problem? I helped you—I saved you—why are you doing this?” she screeched, albeit in a
hushed tone.

“Because I didn’t want your help,” he responded hotly. “You fucking Gryffindors are always
sticking your noses in everyone’s’ business and creating a goddamn fucking mess when you do.
So maybe if it means losing everyone who gives a damn about you, you’ll think twice about
inserting yourself where you don’t belong!”

Granger’s hand was once again whirling toward his face, but this time he caught her wrist
forcefully before she made contact. “Like I said—you’re fucking predictable,” he said
dismissively. He turned and began to walk away.

“What makes you think I won’t tell everyone what actually happened?” she sneered.

“Because I know you, Granger. And you won’t,” he replied without even turning around.

***

Around 2AM, while the sounds of his roommates’ snores filled the dormitory, Draco quietly rose
from his bed and padded down to the common room. Removing a loose stone from the wall, he
pulled out a book on dark spells and potions and returned to one of the leather couches.

“Lumos,” he whispered and began to scan the pages. He had dog-eared several pages that detailed
rather hands off, indirect curses that might allow him to accomplish his task and save his own life.
He pored over them as he had every night before. He knew them well enough—by heart really.
But each day he failed to summon the courage to do put the spells into action, and each night he
returned to the book until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

He would return the book to its hiding place, returning soundlessly to his bed where he would
repeat the spells in his head until he finally lulled himself into an uncomfortable sleep, haunted by
the images of the Dark Lord’s soulless glare, his mother’s tear-filled eyes, and Granger’s trembling
hand as she returned his wand.

***

Three days later, Draco found Granger holed up in a remote corner of the library with She-
Weasley, Longbottom, and Looney. Casually gliding over, he pulled a chair from the table,
ducking in next to Granger.

“Hello, Draco,” Looney said dreamily. The other three gave him considerably less warm
welcomes; She-Weasley glowered intensely, placing her arm over whatever she had just been
working on. Granger’s face was flush with emotion, but it was difficult to decipher which one won
out—horror or anger. Longbottom stood, unsheathing his wand

“Put your wand away before you kill someone, Longbottom,” Draco said coolly. “I’m just here to
study amongst peers,” he continued, reaching lazily for his Potions book. He watched Longbottom
eye Granger and She-Weasley warily before tucking his wand back and sitting down.

She-Weasley just continued to stare at Granger, while Granger pretended to preoccupy herself with
her Runes work.
“Really, Malfoy,” Granger said, exasperated. “I’m not sure why you are bothering us. Surely you
have your own friends with whom you could study? Pansy, perhaps?” Her eyes were stone cold
when she looked up from her parchment.

“I thought,” Draco began, deliberately shifting in his seat to appear uncomfortable, “I thought when
we spoke the other day after breakfast you invited me to study with you.” He kept his voice plain
and earnest. He could feel the heat from Longbottom and She-Weasley; and he bathed in it.

“No,” Granger replied tersely, her gaze smoldering.

“No?” Draco responded. “Well—a misunderstanding then,” he smiled, leaning in to graze her arm
with his hand. He stood gracefully, addressing the group, “see you all later.”

He smiled as he left, feeling Granger hex him in her mind.

***

The following week, Draco noticed no stolen glances between Weaselbee and Granger during
mealtime. No soft touches when Potter wasn’t looking. In fact, the seating arrangement at the
Gryffindor table appeared to have shifted, with She-Weasley next to Potter, who was across from
Weaselbee. But Granger was no longer next to Weaselbee—Longbottom was. And Granger was
opposite Longbottom.

The Golden Trio loses a member, Draco thought. Although, the whole school knew that on their
own, Potter and the Weasel were not golden—they would be dead by now if it weren’t for
Granger.

So would you.

“Oi, mate,” Blaise quipped, leaning in next to Draco. “You’ve been spending a lot of time oogling
the Gryffindor table. What’s the deal? Re-thinking your position on shagging the Weasley girl?”

Draco feigned a gagging noise. “She may be Pureblood, Blaise, but she’s trash. The whole family
is.” he asked, taking a bite of toast. “God knows what I would catch from her,” he added, and
paused contemplatively before continuing. “No—I’m watching Potter. He’s up to something.”

Blaise and Theo both leaned their heads in, taking long, hard looks at Potter, who was absorbed in
some textbook.

“Maybe,” Blaise said. “But he looks as daft as ever.”

“I’m fucking with him,” Draco announced. “I’m feigning friendship with Granger to piss him off.”

Theo frowned, and Draco ignored it.

“See, that’s the man,” Blaise exclaimed, bringing a hand up to meet Draco’s. “And Granger goes
along with it? Why?”

“Of course not,” Draco stated plainly. “She hates it. She hates me.”

“But she doesn’t call you out on it?” Blaise queried. “Why?”

“Gryffindor,” Draco replied simply. And Blaise asked no more questions.

***
Draco caught up with Granger just outside of Potions. She was walking several strides behind
Potter and the Weasel, chatting amicably with Longbottom.

“Granger!” he hollered when he was only several strides from her. She stopped cold, her body
rigid save an involuntarily shudder that rippled through it. She didn’t turn around, but Longbottom
did—his expression as half-baked as ever. Potter and Weaselbee stopped too, but only briefly.
Potter’s eyes flashed with anger, but Weaselbee, apparently over this entire situation, just shot a
hard glare in Granger’s direction and pushed Potter forward into the classroom.

“Leave her alone, Malfoy,” Longbottom decried, starting to block Granger with his oafish frame.

“Come off it, Longbottom,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “I’m only here to give Granger back
the homework she let me borrow last night.” Granger slowly and deliberately turned her head, her
gaze finally meeting his. She looked positively apoplectic.

“I did not—,” she began, emphasizing each word.

Draco said nothing more; he simply dropped the papers in Granger’s hands as he floated past them
into the classroom.

“Hermione, what’s going on?” he heard an unusually accusatory Longbottom ask.

***

It was late. And the only two souls left in the Slytherin common room were Draco and Theo.
Well, technically Goyle was there as well, but he had long since fallen asleep, draped across one of
the chaise lounges and snoring loudly.

“How are you and Pansy doing?” Theo asked suddenly, scribbling an answer to one of their
Defense Against the Dark Arts’ homework questions.

Draco stopped, mid-parchment, and turned to stare at his friend. “Why the hell are you asking
about Pansy?” he critiqued.

Theo shrugged, turning to face Draco. “I dunno—just making conversation.”

“Make better conversation,” Draco retorted, turning back to his homework.

“Okay then—why are you fucking with Potter?” he asked.

“Salazar,” Draco sighed. “I said make better conversation, not redundant conversation.” He
continued to focus on his homework, no longer bothering to look at Theo. “I told you and Blaise at
breakfast. He’s up to something.”

“Like what?” Theo quipped, no longer even feigning interest in their schoolwork.

“I don’t know,” Draco huffed, his quill suddenly ripping a small hole in his parchment. “Merlin’s
beard,” he lamented, balling up the piece of parchment he had been working on. “Happy now?”
He got up to chuck it in the bin.

“What’s really going on, Draco?” Theo asked, his voice laced with worry for his oldest friend.
Draco paused at the bin, refusing to turn around and address his friend. “It is—is it Granger?”

Draco felt like he had just taken a stunning spell to the chest. “Is what Granger?” he growled, still
not turning around.
“I mean—did something happen between you two? Do you…fancy her or something?”

Draco’s mind raced. No. No way. There’s no earthly way that Theo would know about what
happened in London. Unless—did he see it? Did he follow me out of the club and witness what
happened? No. He wouldn’t have waited this long to say something.

Regaining himself, Draco wheeled around and forced a laugh. “Are you completely barmy?
You’re asking me if I have feelings for that insufferable Mudblood?” He clapped a hand on
Theo’s shoulder. “That’s funny, mate.”

Theo seemed unmoved. He leaned in closer to Draco, his voice hushed. “Draco, we have known
each other since before either of us could walk. We grew up together. I know you. And I know
all of this bullshit,” he said, gesturing widely. “This fucking War, is changing you.”

“Well, no shite—.” But Theo cut Draco off before he could continue.

“We’ve seen what it has done to your family—your mother.” Draco gritted his teeth at the mention
of his mother, her sullen and withered frame moving uninvited into his mind. “And you’re
realizing—like a lot of the rest of us—that this shite just isn’t worth it.”

Draco scrambled for a response, but Theo continued.

“Look, you’ve been a spoiled prat who talks out of his arsehole most of the time I have known
you. But this—,” Theo whispered, jabbing Draco’s sleeve, under which was his Mark. “This is
forcing you to grow up and realize that the world isn’t as black and white as we thought it was.”
Theo stood, now towering over Draco who remained sitting.

“And this Mudblood and fucking with Potter shite,” he stated. “It’s more of an act than anything
else at this point.”

Theo began to stride out of the common room toward the dormitories. “I said it weeks ago and I
meant it, Draco. I’m your oldest friend. If you need to talk to me, I’m here for you.” And he
disappeared up the stairs.
 Intervention

When Hermione stumbled into the Gryffindor common room the evening following the homework
incident outside of Potions, she found the common room unusually empty for such an early hour.
Only Harry, Ron, and Ginny were there, and as soon as she entered, their eyes were hyper-focused
on her.

“What’s going on?” she asked, although she very much knew what was about to happen.

“An intervention,” Ginny said flatly.

Hermione feigned a laugh. “Oh, gosh, guys c’mon. Don’t be dramatic.”

“We’re not being dramatic, Hermione,” Ron said, his face a devastating mixture of anger and grief.
Harry, as per usual, said nothing. He just stared at her, his jaw tight.

“It’s annoying, I know,” she sighed, quickly entering the room. “But this is nothing new. Malfoy
has always bullied me. He’s just found a new tactic to do so.” She let out a scoffing laugh.

She met the eyes of her friends. They didn’t believe her.

“Hermione,” Ginny said softly. “You know I’m on your side. But this is all just so—weird. So
unexplainable.” Hermione cast her eyes downward, focusing on her shoelaces. “I would readily
believe you if it were just the teasing. But after what happened this summer, and the secrecy. And
now Malfoy acting like you’re friends?”

Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but she had nothing to say. Ginny was right. This
particular series of events was unexplainable—unless, of course, she told them the truth. Surely,
Dumbledore couldn’t expect her to sacrifice so much of herself for someone who treated her so
poorly.

And they were her best friends, were they not? Didn’t she trust them with her life? Why not this?
And then her gaze roamed to Harry, dead-eyed and bitter. He was unpredictable. No, she couldn’t
trust him with this. Which meant she couldn’t trust Ron or Ginny with it either.

“’Mione,” Ron said sadly. “Tell us. What happened between you two?”

She looked up at him, tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t do this anymore.

Without so much as a word, she rose and marched out of the common room.

***

She stifled sobs as she darted through the night-blanketed corridors. She kept her head down, lest
anyone see her crying. Of course, with her head down and eyes bleary she could scarcely see
where she was going. Which is how she ran smack into Professor McGonagall.

“Miss Granger!” McGonagall exclaimed. “Eyes forward, dear. If you would’ve run into poor
Professor Flitwick you would’ve completely bowled him over!”

Hermione kept her gaze cast downward. She didn’t want Professor McGonagall to see her weeping
like some broken-hearted schoolgirl, even though that’s exactly what she was.
“Miss Granger?” McGonagall asked, her tone softening. “Dear, are you okay?” She lifted up
Hermione’s chin, revealing a sorrowful face. “What is it?” she asked urgently. “Are you hurt?”

Depends on how you define hurt, Hermione thought. But she shook her head. “Sorry, Professor.”
She wiped her cheeks. “It’s fine—I just need to speak to the Headmaster.”

“Dumbledore?” McGonagall uttered in surprise. “Whatever for?”

Hermione shook her head again. “Please,” she pleaded.

Recognizing the peculiarity of the situation, McGonagall complied. “Very well,” she said.
“Follow me.”

Hermione half hid behind McGonagall as they roamed the halls, desperate to stay out of view of
any students that might be passing through. Particularly any silver-haired Slytherins.

“Acid Pops,” McGonagall stated when they reached the threshold of Dumbledore’s office. She
gave Hermione an encouraging nod, as Hermione ascended into the office.

***

Dumbledore appeared quite unsurprised when a tear-streaked, puffy, and near-hysterical Hermione
poured herself into his office.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” he said warmly. “I thought we might be having a follow-up discussion one of
these days.”

Once again stunned by her own audacity, Hermione near shouted. “How could you?”

Unruffled, Dumbledore rose from his desk. “Deep breaths, Miss Granger,” he soothed, as he
charmed a kettle to begin pouring tea into two delicate cups.

“You—you asked me to do the impossible,” she stammered between sobs. “Lie under oath before
the Ministry, lie to my friends—my family. For—for him,” she stuttered. “That foul, loathsome
boy who has done nothing but make me miserable since I set foot here.”

She took a deep stuttering breath as Dumbledore pushed a teacup into her hand. “And I knew—I
told you—what would happen. How angry Harry would be. That he wouldn’t forgive me. And
everyone else…” she took a gasping breath before shakily bringing the teacup to her lips.
Dumbledore watched her closely, his eyes warm and encouraging.

“But I thought maybe, maybe this will finally get Malfoy off my back. But he’s worse than ever!”
She felt the tears flood down her cheeks, splashing into her teacup. “He’s just so awful—he’s
intentionally driving my friends further away, and soon I will have nothing left.” She sighed
deeply, staring into her lap. “And for what? A boy who would see all Muggle-borns like me
banished from the wizarding world. Or worse.”

She took another deep breath, looking squarely at Dumbledore. “All because you asked me to.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Now. Miss Granger, if I had told you that by reporting what you
actually witnessed that night to the Ministry, Voldemort would have killed Mr. Malfoy—that if
you had maintained to anyone what you actually saw that night, that there was a chance it would
result in Mr. Malfoy’s death, but I had not explicitly asked you to lie, would you have acted
differently?” the wizened wizard asked.
Hermione chewed on her lip for several moments. No. She didn’t say it aloud, but she didn’t need
to.

“I have been forced to do a great many things I did not wish to do. Things that were not easy.
Things that cost me greatly,” he explained calmly. “As have you. This is just one more of those
things.”

Hermione nodded. “What if they never forgive me?” she whispered, her eyes now feeling rough
and tired.

“Oh, Miss Granger, they will. It may not be as soon as you would like, and things may never go
back to exactly the way that they were, but the friends you have made here will never abandon
you. Trust me.”

The Headmaster took a long look at her, his gaze suddenly contemplative. “If I may ask, Miss
Granger, prior to your current misunderstanding with Harry, did he disclose to you anything that I
discussed with him this summer?”

Hermione paused to absorb his question, running through the discussions at the Burrow that day
before the entire afternoon and evening was consumed by her encounter with Malfoy. No—Harry
and Ron talked about Quidditch and O.W.L.S. results, but nothing about discussions with
Dumbledore. Her mind raced. It had to be about what transpired at the Department of Mysteries,
right? Was it with regard to Sirius? Or the Prophecy? She tucked this bit of information away,
reminding herself to see if she could pry it from Ron or Ginny—a bleak prospect given their last
interaction.

“No, Headmaster,” she replied solemnly. “Should he have?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard, a faraway look in his eyes. “I suppose under different
circumstances he would have. But it is nothing to worry about, Miss Granger.” His expression
didn’t convince her, and her stomach began to churn again.

“Who would he be confiding in, then?” Dumbledore continued. “Just Ronald Weasley?”

“And Ginny,” Hermione responded quickly.

“Ah, of course,” he said, appearing somewhat placated. He sat up straighter. “Anything else I can
assist you with tonight?”

Yes, Hermione thought. What did you discuss with Harry over the summer and does it have to do
with the War? Hermione chewed on her lip. No, if he was going to tell me, he would’ve. She
decided not to press her luck and focused only on the problem at hand.

“What am I supposed to do in the mean time? Just let Malfoy continue to bully me and drive more
of a wedge between my friends and me?”

“Now, I never said that in protecting Mr. Malfoy you had to accept his behavior. Quite the
opposite, Miss Granger,” he replied, tracing a finger around the edge of his teacup.

“So what do I do?”

“I cannot tell you what to do, Miss Granger. You must make your own choices. As for me,
though, I always liked to give those challenging me a taste of their own medicine.” The old wizard
smiled at her, a glint in his eye. “Now, if you will excuse me, it is getting quite late and I fear I
must retire for the evening.”
Dumbledore and Hermione stood in unison. “Thank you, Headmaster,” Hermione said softly,
replacing the tea cup onto his desk, and descending his office stairs.

It was late when she got back to the common room. Her inquisitors were gone. Hermione slowly
made her way into the dormitory, and collapsed into her bed. She fell asleep to the cadence of her
own scheming.
 Kiss

Draco had intended to bother Granger at breakfast again, but Snape caught him outside the Great
Hall and demanded Draco accompany him to his office. Unwillingly obliging, Draco followed.

“Sit,” Snape said tersely once the two were inside and the door was shut.

“What is it?” Draco asked, annoyed at the interruption. “I’m quite starving.”

Snape stood in front of him, leaning against his desk. “A little owl informed me that you have
double-downed on your bullying of Miss Granger,” he drawled.

Draco scoffed. “Oh, so she’s a Mudblood and a tout? Color me shocked.”

Half a breath later, Snape had grabbed him roughly by his collar, tossing him backwards toward the
stone wall, the back of his head connecting with a thud.

White hot anger rushed through Draco’s veins, as he brought his face up to meet his professor’s
glare. “My father—,” he snarled, and then stopped abruptly.

“Go on,” Snape mocked, stepping closer until he was only inches away from Draco’s face. Draco
said nothing—just continued to glower at Snape. “Your father nothing,” Snape sneered. “Your
father was a fool who thought he was invincible. He can’t protect you, nor can your mother, who
has been left completely broken by your father’s arrogance.” Snape drew back as Draco began to
shake.

Rounding his desk, Snape continued. “Fact of the matter is, Draco, you have no one left to protect
you except me. And apparently Miss Granger.” Draco looked at his professor, his anger fading
into apprehension. “Act like it. I won’t ask you a third time.”

Snape leaned down to write something on a piece of parchment. When he looked back up, he
seemed perplexed to see Draco still there. “That is all, Mr. Malfoy. You can leave.”

Stride wobbly, Draco exited Snape’s office.

Immediately upon exiting the office, he encountered Blaise, Theo, Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and
Daphne, who were apparently leaving breakfast and heading to their first class of the morning.
Draco’s stomach rumbled, but he ignored it.

“What were you doing in Snape’s office?” Pansy asked, snaking her arm through his and looking
up at him adoringly.

“Oh, nothing. Mother is having trouble sleeping, so Snape made up a particularly powerful
dreamless sleep draught for her.” Draco realized he came out of Snape’s office empty-handed,
making his lie less plausible, but no one seemed to notice or care.

“Oh that’s cute,” Pansy said absently, running her long fingernails through her jet black hair.
Draco felt his face scrunch in disgust.

Cute?

Theo smirked at Draco.

“Well, shall we?” Pansy asked, tugging Draco toward their next class.
“Just a minute, Pans,” Theo interrupted. “I just want to talk to Draco for a sec.” The group looked
at both of them, puzzled, but accepted it and moved slowly forward.

“Everything alright?” Theo whispered, as they trudged several steps behind the rest of the group.

“Nott, I swear to Merlin,” Draco said under his breath. “Cut it with this woo-woo feelings shite. I
don’t need it.”

“Can’t blame a friend for trying,” Theo responded, shrugging.

“Malfoy!” a bright voice rang out from behind them. The entire group stopped dead, as if someone
had just run ragged nails across a chalkboard. Draco turned around to find Granger at his heels.

Before he had a chance to react, she stood up on her toes, grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed
him squarely on the mouth.

***

Draco’s senses were launched into orbit. Her lips were impossibly soft as they carefully moved
against his. He was suddenly drenched in her scent: honey, lemon, parchment. His knees nearly
gave out when she delicately dragged her nails across his throat. And then—as quickly as it had
started—it was over.

“Thanks,” she quipped, giving him a quick smile before dashing off in the direction from which
she came.

He tried to inhale, but it felt like all of the oxygen had been sucked from his lungs. He braced
himself against the wall behind him, his vision fuzzy and his heart thundering so fast he thought he
might pass out. His blood felt like it was burning.

“That…slut!” Daphne exclaimed. Reality began to shift back into focus as Draco took several
gasping breaths.

Blaise gave out a hooting laugh. “So it isn’t the Weasley sister you’ve been looking at? It’s
Granger?! Holy fuck, man, that’s good.” He doubled over, wheezing from laughter.

Theo merely looked at him, suppressing a smile. “I fucking knew something was up with you
two,” he whispered.

And then the inevitable. Pansy let out a shriek so loud and pitched Draco feared it would strip the
enamel from his teeth. His head whipped to meet her gaze, which was wild with fury. Her hand
flew to her bag—for her wand.

Oh, fuck.

He took off and ducked behind a corner hallway. “Run, mate! Run for your life!” Blaise howled,
his voice still thick with laughter. Draco peeked his head around the corner to see Theo wrapping
Pansy in a backwards bear hug and dragging her, quite literally kicking and screaming, to class.

When it appeared that the coast was clear, Draco emerged from the side hallway. It was only then
that he noticed the dozen or so other students, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, standing motionless in
the hallway. He was unsure if they had seen the kiss, or had just been sent spiraling to the scene
after hearing Pansy’s sound-blasting screech.

But he didn’t care. He had bigger issues. Without so much as a nod of acknowledgment to the
crowd that had gathered, he set off in the direction that Granger had gone.

He found her at the base of a staircase, chatting with Looney Lovegood. He marched toward her,
his pace erratic.

“Oh Malfoy, hello,” she said cheerily and smiling as he approached.

“We need to talk,” he said roughly, grabbing her wrist and dragging her behind him down a
separate hallway.

“Bye, Hermione. Bye, Draco,” Looney trilled, as she glided up the stairs.

Granger said nothing as he tugged her down the hallway. Through his grip on her wrist, he could
feel her pulse—completely steady. She hummed to herself contentedly. Has she gone completely
barmy?

Finally finding an empty classroom, Draco pulled her inside and shut the door behind them. He
stepped into her, pushing her against the wall, his face inches from hers. “What the fuck was that,
Granger?”

She didn’t answer. She just stared up at him, her expression placid but her eyes brimming with
righteous determination. “What was what?” she replied finally.

“Don’t fuck with me!” he shouted, slamming his open palm into the wall feet about her head.
“You know what I’m talking about.”

She was completely unphased. She looked down, twirling one of her curls around her finger. “Oh,
that?” she asked. She shrugged. “That was nothing. Really, Malfoy, don’t worry about it.”

He lowered his head so it was level with hers. “Don’t worry about it? Are you mad?”

She shrugged again, not meeting his gaze. “Mad? No,” she sighed. “But I really am quite bored.
Are we about done here?”

“Are we—are we done?” he asked, his voice wild. “No, we’re not fucking done here, Granger.
Why the fuck did you just kiss me?”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his and she leaned in closer. Her breath brushed over his lips. “To
wipe that smirk off your face,” she said, her tone uncharacteristic and unrecognizable. Draco
blinked heavily several times, speechless. “And look at that,” she continued, her lips curling into a
smirk of her own. “It worked.”

Despite himself, Draco laughed loudly. “Oh man,” he said, pushing off the wall and standing
upright. “That’s good, Granger.” He flashed her a tight-lipped smirk.

“Gryffindor is wasted on you,” he said as he tugged open the classroom door and left.

***

Draco took care to avoid Pansy for the remainder of the day. He skipped classes, took his meals in
his room, and posted up in the owlery when evening fell.

He loved the owlery at night. It was hauntingly quiet, save for the dull hoots of the owls as they
glided in and out of the room, bringing in their prey. His own owl, a Blakiston’s fish owl—the
rarest in the world—was perched on a window next to him, carefully nibbling Draco’s blonde
locks.

“I knew I’d find you here.” Theo’s voice rang through the empty chamber.

“Hey,” Draco responded softly, turning his head over his shoulder as Theo approached. Theo
offered a small nugget of leftover chicken to Draco’s owl, which he greedily received.

“Hey, Perseus,” Theo greeted, scratching the side of the owl’s head.

Theo took an exaggerated breath. “So that was quite a scene today,” he said, his back against the
outer owlery wall so he was facing Draco. “Is that why you’re hiding out up here?”

“Pansy hates owls,” Draco responded absently, feeding Perseus another morsel. “She never comes
up here. Figured it was comparatively safe.”

“Makes sense,” Theo replied agreeably. “But you can’t hide from her forever.”

“No,” Draco sighed, hands dropping to his pockets. “But I suppose I am trying to avoid her long
enough that she only temporarily maims me, instead of inflicting any lasting damage.”

Theo snorted. “She went completely mental, mate. Like St. Mungo’s commitment mad. Daphne
had to slip her some sleeping draught, and all that served to do was placate her. It didn’t even put
her to sleep.”

Draco let out a scoffing laugh. “That sounds like Pansy,” he said.

“And what about Granger?” Theo asked, clearly keeping his even and hushed.

“Theo—,” Draco warned.

“Look, mate, the fucking cat is out of the bag. Something’s up. I’m not going to pretend like it
isn’t. So just level with me, and I swear to Salazar that I’ll let it go after that.” Draco’s head lolled
to the side as he met Theo’s gaze.

Sighing deeply, Draco turned to his friend. “There’s not much I can tell you, truly. But Granger
and I are locked in this escalating battle of wills.” He chuckled, reflecting on the end of their last
row. “And I guess today she just upped the ante.”

Theo quirked an eyebrow and looked at Draco quizzically. “So how do you top snogging in the
hallway? Gonna snag Grandma Malfoy’s prize ring and propose?” he jested.

Draco laughed heartily. “Oh, yes, I can’t wait to see that. Then I won’t have to wait for the Dark
Lord to kill me—my father will burst through the walls of Azkaban on pure adrenaline alone and
strangle the life out of me.”

An inflective silence fell over the two.

“So, do you fancy her?” Theo asked softly. Draco shot him an exasperated look.

“Look, all I’m saying is if you do—if you’re softening to her, you can tell me. I wouldn’t hold it
against you or judge you for it,” he said simply.

“You, Theodore Nott, son of a Death Eater, would not judge me for falling for a Mudblood?”
Draco queried skeptically.

“I meant what I said the other night, Draco. This whole thing—the Pureblood/Mudblood status
and this war—it’s all just bullshit. And you and I,” he said, gesturing to them both, “are just
pawns. So be with who you want to be with. Ending up with some crazy bitch like Pansy just
because of her bloodline is completely banjaxed.”

“You’ll get yourself killed talking like that,” Draco replied matter-of-factly.

Theo threw his head back in a cynical laugh. “Oh mate,” he began, throwing his arm over Draco’s
shoulder as they exited the owlery. “Didn’t anyone tell you? We’re all good as dead anyway.”

***

Draco successfully avoided Pansy for most of the next day. He sat in the back of each of his
classes in relative anonymity, although at least once per class, Daphne would look over her
shoulder and send him a withering look and then rub Pansy’s back reassuringly.

Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle, by contrast and quite unsurprisingly, found the situation hilarious.
They ribbed him about it all day, treating it like it should be a source of pride for Draco—
bewitching Gryffindor’s princess. Like he had single-handedly tamed a feral Abraxan. He
couldn’t say he minded the praise and awe.

He thought he would delight in the fact that Granger’s plan seemed to backfire: his friends weren’t
abandoning him like hers had. Unlike the Gryffin-fucks, his friends couldn’t care less who he was
associating himself with. Because they had all grown up keeping bad company.

Well, he reminded himself, Pansy cares. But it had been a long time since he had cared about
Pansy’s opinion; he just wanted to avoid being on the opposite end of her wand.

Which he was almost successful in doing. But despite hiding out in the very back corner of the
library until it was near curfew, she rounded on him as he exited, wand at the ready.

Fuck.
 Date

Hermione had known that there was a non-zero chance that her escapade with Malfoy in the
hallway would reach Gryffindor ears; however, she had tried to time it just right so that only
Malfoy’s gang of Slytherins was present. Not only was she relying on Pansy to make Malfoy’s life
a living hell, she was also hopeful that Pansy would forbid the other witnesses from speaking of
Malfoy’s indiscretion. News that her Slytherin prince was stealing kisses from a Gryffindor
Muggle-born was not something that Hermione could see Pansy allowing to become gossip fodder.

Alas, Hermione was better at books and strategic planning than she was at scheming. Because
when she entered the Gryffindor common room the night after the kiss, Ron stormed her, eyes
wild.

“Tell me it’s not fucking true,” he seethed, backing her into a corner. “Tell me that MacMillan
made up a sick joke about you and Malfoy in the hallway.”

Hermione thought about playing dumb, but decided against it. There was no point.

“Well?” Ron shouted. George was at his side, holding Ron back from advancing toward her
further. It wasn’t unusual for Fred or George to swing by the Hogwarts from time to time in an
effort to peddle their products to additional Hogwarts students. Hermione just wished they had
picked a different night than this evening.

“Look,” Hermione huffed, beginning to explain.

“Oh my god,” Ron said, barely a whisper. “It’s true. You fucking kissed Malfoy.”

Hermione winced at the sound of it, acutely aware that it wasn’t just Ron, Harry, George, and
Ginny in the room. Neville, Seamus, Dean, and Colin were also there.

“You know he’s been teasing me,” she whimpered. “And it was just making everything so much
worse—,” she took a deep breath. “So I tried to figure out a way to mess with him back. So he
would finally leave me alone.” Hearing herself say it out loud made Hermione want to crawl in a
hole and die. It sounded absurd. It was absurd.

“You—,” Ron’s hand flew to his head in disbelief, as he began pacing in circles. “You what?
Why in the bloody hell would that be your response?” Ron cried. “Oh this guy has been an
absolute tosser to me my whole sodding life, but I know how to fix him! I’ll snog him in the
hallway. Yeah, that’ll teach him.”

“But, you see,” Hermione said, rushing to his side, “he’s disgusted by me—Muggle-born and all.
So, I figured if I did that, maybe it would really freak him out and he would just, I don’t know,
leave me alone.”

Ron looked at her with such incredulity that her stomach heaved. “Ron, please,” she whispered,
leaning in toward him.

“No!” he shouted, George once again grabbing his arm to restrain him. “No, Hermione! You
know what you do when someone is fucking bullying you? You go to your friends. That’s what
we’ve always done. You’re safe with us, Hermione. But you keep choosing him over us for
reasons none of us fucking understand because you won’t talk to us.” He yanked his arm out of
George’s arm. “I’m done. I’m so done.”
He stormed out, Harry quick at his heels. “She’s not worth it, Ron,” Harry said dismissively.

Not worth it? Hermione felt like she had taken a shot straight to the heart. She knew she had
committed a cardinal sin, but not worth it? She couldn’t breathe.

Ginny followed, looking tiredly at Hermione. “This is bad, Hermione,” she said resignedly, before
disappearing from sight.

The rest of the room sat in silence that rained over them like shattered glass.

“Well,” George interrupted after several tense minutes, rocking back and forth on his feet. “How
‘bout them Chudley Cannons?”

“I have to go,” Hermione said, and quickly fled into the hall.

***

She sought refuge in Myrtle’s bathroom. Myrtle was such a mournful character that Hermione
didn’t mind wailing in her presence. And no one else ever used this bathroom.

Or so she thought.

Just as she entered the bathroom and was going to let herself collapse into pieces, Hermione heard
someone at the faucets. “Myrtle?” she called out tentatively. No response.

Wand drawn—Hermione knew all too well what you could unexpectedly find in Hogwarts
bathrooms—she walked around the corner into the main part of the bathroom.

Someone was staring back at her, but she didn’t immediately recognize him. His face was horribly
swollen and black and blue. “Are you okay?” she gasped.

“Of fucking course it’s you,” he said.

Malfoy.

Inexplicably, her heart became lighter hearing his voice. “What on earth happened to you?” she
asked, sheathing her wand and walking swiftly to his side.

“One of Pansy’s signature stinging hexes,” Draco replied, awkwardly trying to apply a healing
charm to his own face. “Courtesy of one Hermione Granger,” he said, smirking. “Or as Pansy
referred to you, ‘my Mudblood slag.’”

Despite the eruption in the common room that had just upended her life, Hermione burst into
laughter. Tears rolled down her cheeks—but not the kind she had become accustomed to over the
past two months. Tears that sprung from deep belly laughs and eyes crinkled in hilarity.

Malfoy looked down at her with feigned exasperation. “Really, Granger?” he droned.

“I’m sorry—,” she said, inhaling deeply and wiping the tears from her cheeks. “It’s just—my god,
Malfoy, you look right awful.” Another fit of cackles escaped her.

“My eyes still work, Granger, so I am aware,” he said. “But thank you for pointing it out. And
thank you for turning Pansy into a fucking nightmare.”

“Really, Malfoy?” she asked, mimicking his tone. “I turned Pansy into a nightmare? Please.”
Malfoy snickered and shook his head. Hermione felt her laughter temper as she observed him,
realizing this was the first time that she had seen a smile reach Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy resumed looking at himself in the mirror, continuing his clumsy attempt to apply a healing
charm to his own face. He was using his non-dominant hand, Hermione noticed. The stinging hex
must be affecting the mobility of his right arm.

“Stop, stop, stop!” she said, reaching up to grab his arm. “You’re going to take your eye out.” She
drew her wand. “Here, let me,” she said softly.

“No. No fucking way, Granger,” he said backing up. “You’re going to curse me with your old
buck teeth or some shite like that.”

“Well, it would serve you right,” she snickered, getting a hold of the sleeve of his robe and tugging
him closer to her. “But I won’t. I promise you—I won’t damage your face worse than Pansy
already has,” she teased.

He chuckled again, his eyes lighting up under his purpling bruises. Acquiescing, he bent down as
Hermione began to apply the healing charm.

“So what are you doing here tonight, Granger?” he asked, his eyes focused on her as she traced her
wand across his face. “Weaselbee too broke to take you on a date tonight?”

“Ron and I aren’t dating,” she responded simply, watching the swelling ease and the bruises yellow
as her charm worked across his face.

“No? He’s taking Potter out on dates then? Granger, that’s gotta sting,” he mused, chuckling at
his own joke. Hermione gave him a stern look as she finalized the healing charm.

“All done,” she said simply, replacing her wand back into her robes.

He straightened up, inspecting his face in the mirror.

“Not bad, Granger,” he assessed. “But then again, I gave you some naturally great material to
work with.” He flashed her a smile, holding his head in a position that emphasized his razor-edge
jawline.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “See? No buck teeth,” she observed, standing slightly behind him and
pointing to his reflection in the mirror.

Malfoy turned around, his back against the sinks and facing her. “So why are you here, Granger?”

She sighed, no longer having the energy to lie. “I think you know why I’m here,” she replied
evenly. She experienced an odd wave of relief as the words escaped her lips. To be in the
presence of someone she didn’t have to lie to—even if it was Malfoy—filled her with a peculiar
comfort.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “Guess we’re both in pretty bad spots if we choose to seek refuge in a
bathroom haunted by a suicidal ghost.”

“Oh, where is Myrtle?” Hermione queried, suddenly aware of the relative peace and quiet of the
bathroom.

“Oh, when I entered the bathroom, I started speaking rubbish. I told her I was a parselmouth and
was coming in to open the Chamber of Secrets. She completely freaked and fled through one of
the toilets.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione chided, reflexively swatting the side of his face.

“Ah! Granger!” he cried, cupping his still yellow-bruised face.

“Oh gosh!” Hermione exclaimed, laughing a bit. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Malfoy, I completely forgot
for a moment!” She brought her hand tenderly to the side of his face.

“Brightest Witch of Her Age, my arse,” Malfoy responded, as they both chuckled. They remained
that way for a moment, close, with Hermione’s hand on his face.

He really was, she realized in that moment, heartbreakingly handsome. She hadn’t been blind
before—she could look at him and understand why all the Slytherin girls had been fawning over
him since Third Year. But his cruelty and immaturity had always veiled him in an ugliness that she
couldn’t look past. But in this moment…

He stared back down at her, his slate eyes melting into something warmer. She smiled, and
brushed the remnants of his bruise with the tips of her fingers.

And then, as if waking from a deep sleep, Malfoy took her hand and brusquely moved it away from
his face.

“Right,” Hermione said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. It was then that she spotted it, peeking
out from his cuffed sleeves. She wasn’t sure how she missed it before, so stark against his ivory
skin. Before she could stop herself, she was reaching for his arm, a chill creeping down her spine
as her fingers dusted its inky edges.

“Don’t!” he growled, jerking his arm away and hastily unrolling his sleeve.

“Let me see,” she said softly, an eerie and calm determination settling in her bones. Her gaze
flicked from his arm to his face, his steel eyes regarding her with an uncharacteristic trepidation.

“Please,” she gently urged, holding out her hand.

“Granger,” he protested.

“I want to see. You owe me at least that much.” She stretched her hand out closer to him.

With a reluctant sigh, he placed the back of his hand in hers, but made no movement to draw back
his sleeve. Her eyes sought his, but he turned his head to avoid her gaze.

Taking a deep breath, she brought her fingertips to the palm of his hand, slowly dragging them
across his wrist. She prayed he couldn’t hear her heart pounding or her skin buzzing as her fingers
danced across his flesh.

“Get on with it, Granger,” he sighed, his stare still fixed on the other side of the room.

Her fingers reached the edge of his sleeve, and she delicately pulled it back until the Mark revealed
itself. She inadvertently sucked in her breath at the sight of it. She felt him flinch.

Her eyes flew to his face again, but he still looked away.

“What was it like?” she asked, her fingers tracing the contours of the snake like a person trying to
read braille.
“Oh, it was a real fucking party, Granger,” he scoffed. “After the Dark Lord branded me, we all
popped some champagne and my aunt charmed everyone’s wands to spurt confetti.” He shook his
head, still looking across the room. “I mean, Merlin, do you hear yourself?”

Her jaw clicked and her fingers came to a rest at the skull’s mouth. “Fine,” she said curtly. “Then
why?”

His head hesitantly rolled back in her direction, but his eyes were ahead. “I assumed Snape told
you why,” he replied, his voice faint.

“No, he did,” she sighed, shaking her head, “I mean, functionally what does this change? How
does having the Mark change anything for you? For him?”

“Stop,” he said, closing his eyes.

“I’m just trying to understand,” she responded.

“Why?” he said through gritted teeth. “So you can run back and tell Potter and Weasel?”

“You know that’s not why,” she whispered, still failing to meet his gaze.

“We’re not friends, Granger. You don’t need to understand this,” he said tersely.

He was right, of course; Hermione had never regarded Malfoy as anything other than an odious
bully. Even now, in this otherwise collegial interaction, she struggled to envision a world in which
they were friends. But for some reason to hear him say it so plainly made her gut wrench.

She sighed and smoothed the fabric of his sleeve back over his Mark. “It’s getting late—I better
get back to the dorm,” she whispered, dropping her hand from under his.

His eyes still wouldn’t meet hers as she turned to leave the bathroom.

“Hey Granger?” he called just as she reached the door.

“Yes, Malfoy?”

“For what it’s worth—thank you.”

***

For the three weeks, Hermione and Malfoy didn’t speak to each other—an apparent unspoken
truce. After her explosive confrontation with Ron in the common room, the dust had settled rather
predictably: Hermione had become a bit of a pariah amongst Gryffindors, with Neville the only
one to provide her with some shelter. Ginny came around after a week or so, apparently somewhat
appeased by an owl she had received from her father, urging her to have faith that what Hermione
was doing was the right thing. Harry and Ron, of course, were not speaking to her, and would only
look at her insofar as they felt like shooting daggers at her with their eyes.

Halfway through November, Hermione took a Hogsmeade day with Ginny and Luna. She realized
it was the first time she had left the castle since the year began, and she breathed easier with some
distance between her and the halls that now haunted her.

Even so, there was an uneasiness. Hermione realized in an alternate universe, she would be
peppering Ginny with questions regarding developments in her relationship with Harry, and Ginny
would be teasing her about her feelings for Ron. But Ginny was noticeably more guarded around
Hermione these days—particularly when it came to matters involving Harry and Ron.

Fortunately, Ginny wasn’t so reticent to provide updates about other members of her family.

“Oh—you will never believe who Charlie is dating!” Ginny exclaimed, as the trio passed the
Hogsmeade branch of Ollivander’s. The shop was vacant—a chilling reminder that despite the
airiness of their discussion, a War was brewing.

“Who?” Hermione quickly replied, forcing the impending danger from her mind.

“Tonks!” Ginny gushed, her mouth dropping open.

Hermione’s mind instantly flashed back to the day of the hearing, remembering what a playful and
easy rapport the two seemed to have. Hermione smiled. “Gosh, Gin, I never thought about it, but
now that you say it—they seem like a fantastic match.” An untamable woman and a dragon
trainer.

Ginny nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Mum is delighted, of course. Much more so than she is
about Bill and Phlegm.” Ginny’s face scrunched as if she had just smelled something foul.
Hermione chuckled—she couldn’t say she was particularly fond of Fleur either, but she didn’t quite
share the same level of disdain as Ginny.

She pictured Tonks and Fleur as members of the Weasley family, how a house already filled with
such love could grow into something even more tender and warm. But this image came with its
own brand of grief, as she realized she would not be at that table anymore, much less at Ron’s side,
their budding relationship having met such a vicious and premature end. It wasn’t often that her
thoughts drifted from her schoolwork, but when they did, she found them at the Burrow, swaddled
in hand-stitched sweaters and engulfed in the smell of fresh coffee.

The Burrow felt like home – her wizarding home, at least. And now, suddenly, it did not. Where
would she go to now, when she needed comfort? Where was home?

“Hermione, are you okay?” Luna asked, her voice as soft as fresh snow.

“Oh, yes,” Hermione replied, smiling. “Thanks, Luna. Just got a little lost in my thoughts, that’s
all.”

“Did they take you anywhere interesting?” Luna asked earnestly. Behind her, Ginny rolled her
eyes.

“No,” Hermione grinned. “Just somewhere awfully familiar.”

***

After lunch at Three Broomsticks, the trio headed to Tomes and Scrolls; Luna wanted to procure a
book regarding Nargle folklore in East Asia, and Hermione was more than happy to simply float
through the narrow corridors, dusting her fingers over the book bindings.

She was looking over a book analyzing the effects of Phoenix tears in potions used to cure magical
comas when she heard an unfamiliar voice address her.

“You’re Hermione Granger, yeah?”

She looked up to meet a pair of twinkling blue eyes set evenly above freckle-splayed cheekbones
and below a mop of wavy, sandy blonde hair. He looked vaguely familiar, but still she couldn’t
place him.

“Yes,” she replied, shaking herself out of her contemplation. “I’m afraid that your name evades my
recall—I’m so sorry.”

“Oh!” he laughed. “No apology necessary. I don’t think we have ever officially met. I’m Archie
Innes.” He extended his hand, which she accepted in a friendly shake. “I graduated two years ago,
but I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

“Yes, of course!” Hermione responded, shaking her head slightly. She did recognize him now,
although barely. From what she could remember, he was a wisp of a thing when he attended
school. At three years his junior, she would not have known him if not for his notoriously
excellent academic record. “Ravenclaw, right?” she asked.

“Yes,” he beamed proudly, his smile sparkling. “I’m at the Ministry now—Department of Magical
Accidents and Catastrophes.” He leaned against the bookshelves, facing her and arms crossed.

“That’s very impressive,” she replied. “Honestly, I’m surprised you know who I am,” she
continued sheepishly, absentmindedly thumbing the pages of the book she still held.

He tilted his head to the side and laughed. “Oh please,” he bellowed. “You and Harry Potter and
Ron Weasley were constantly making headlines both in and out of school. You were impossible to
ignore.” His expression became more serious, but the twinkle in his eyes remained. “Even more
so now,” he crooned, his gaze become concentrated.

Hermione felt color and heat rising to her cheeks. Is he flirting? She felt her pulse quicken as she
scrambled for a response.

“Well, I’m hoping for a much more discrete year this year,” she responded warmly, bringing her
eyes to his. “I could go a year without libelous Prophet articles.”

He chuckled again, reaching down to grasp the book she was holding and brought it into his view.
“Well, from the looks of it, you’re already preparing for another valiant rescue, Hermione.”

She smiled, nervously tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Oh, no, I’m just waiting for a friend
to make a purchase. This caught my eye, and I just thought it seemed…interesting.”

“And is it?” he asked, leaning closer. She found herself lost in his gaze, his eyes shimmering like
pools of molten sapphires. She felt like she had pins and needles in her hands and feet.

“Um,” she fumbled to respond. She finally steeled enough focus to stammer an answer. “I’m not
sure. I didn’t get very far.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding slightly. “Well I should apologize for that—I interrupted you.” He handed
the book back to her gently. It felt weightless in her leaden hands. For a moment, it appeared he
was going to leave, and Hermione’s heart sank slightly. But then he hesitated.

“Hermione, would you have dinner with me sometime?” he asked.

It was as though someone had shot a hole through a dam in Hermione’s mind, flooding her brain
and drowning her senses. Aside from Viktor and Ron, boys had never been interested in her. And
admittedly, neither of them had expressed their feelings toward her in a way that felt particularly
romantic or refined. And here was Archie Innes—devastatingly handsome and accomplished—
asking her on a date? She found herself quite literally speechless.
It was then that she noticed Ginny standing several paces behind Archie, holding two thumbs up
and nodding her head vigorously.

“I would like that,” Hermione finally stated, concealing a mischievous smile as she saw Ginny
feign fainting behind Archie.

“Great,” Archie said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “I’ll meet you at the Three
Broomsticks next Saturday around 7PM then?”

Breathless, Hermione barely managed to nod her head in agreement.

“See you then, Hermione Granger,” he said, winking quickly before he departed.

Ginny waited approximately five seconds before running to Hermione’s side, screeching in
excitement. “Oh my God, OH MY GOD!” she exclaimed. “Hermione, you little minx—he is
gorgeous!” Hermione laughed and playfully swatted at her friend.

“I think this is just what you need, Hermione,” Ginny continued, normal color returning to her
exuberant face. “Someone a bit older, who’s not so caught up in all the House drama. You need a
break from it.” Ginny smiled sincerely.

Excited as she was, Hermione couldn’t help but feel it was a slight betrayal to Ron. At current it
seemed that her kiss with Draco had irreparably broken their relationship—both platonic and
romantic—but the kiss had been nothing more than an attempt to put a swotty Pureblood in his
place. This was different. She was agreeing to go out with someone because she was potentially
interested in him. Despite her giddiness, there was hesitation. What if this just dragged her farther
away from Ron and Harry?

I can’t just wait for them to forgive me, she thought. If they forgive me. She winced. Maybe it’s
time to start moving forward.

“Yes, Ginny, I agree,” she said brightly, looping her arm through her friend’s. “Now, let’s go find
Luna before the shopkeeper permanently bans us for too much Nargle-speak.”

***

Hermione had sworn Ginny and Luna to secrecy—she did not want anyone knowing about her
pending date with Archie. Truth be told, she might not have even disclosed the date to Luna had
she not wanted to get ready in the Ravenclaw common room. There would be less questions there.

After returning from Hogsmeade, Ginny spent the next several days combing through Hermione’s
closet for a suitable date outfit. Ginny was clearly less than impressed with the options presented,
as she also started ransacking her own wardrobe, as well as Katie Bell’s, to finally put together an
ensemble that Ginny deemed “just perfect.”

Gratuitously thanking her eager friend, Hermione tucked the outfit away for safekeeping until the
weekend.

***

By Wednesday, Hermione had become so absorbed a particularly difficult Potions project that her
approaching date had sunk to the deepest trenches of her mind. Nor had she had any further
communications with Malfoy or altercations with Harry and Ron. Thus, for the first time that year,
she was able to focus on her schoolwork with a completely clear mind.
Specifically, their assignment was to master a potion that by depositing several drops into a
beverage, would alert you to any poison by turning the drink a rich shade of red. So far, Hermione,
Neville, and Dean had only been able to get the potion to turn a poisoned drink a meek tinge of
pink.

Frustratingly, Harry and Ron had gotten the desired result on their first try. Hermione couldn’t
quite figure it—neither had been particularly adept Potions students. Now they excelled at every
potion they tried. Perhaps it was the change in instruction under Professor Slughorn, but
something seemed amiss.

Sighing, Hermione closed a weather-worn book and glanced at a nearby clock. It was nearly
midnight. Neville and Dean had retired to the dorms over an hour ago, and from the looks and
sounds of it, Hermione was the only one left in the library.

She was, of course, in correct.

“Granger,” drawled a hauntingly familiar voice.

Oh hell.

“Yes, Malfoy?” she responded, not even bothering to look up. She heard the chair across from her
scrape across the aged oak flooring as Malfoy helped himself to a seat at her table.

“Studying alone?” he queried.

“Astute observation, Malfoy,” Hermione deadpanned. “No wonder you were the handpicked
Slytherin seeker—such sharp eyes.” She finally met his gaze, tilting her head to the side, her
expression bored.

Malfoy smiled, the amusement once again reflected in his eyes. “Oh, Granger, when did you
become such a delightfully sarcastic bitch?”

“This year,” she replied instantly, her tone nonchalant. “When I was forced to spend so much time
in your unpleasant company.” She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed and eyes set.

He chuckled softly and rubbed his chin. “Well, I have to say, it’s miles of improvement from the
personality you had when you were running around here with Potter and Weaselbee. You should
thank me, really.” He was drumming his fingers on the table and watching her with a lazy
expression—he was waiting for an outburst, and she wouldn’t give him that. She just stared back,
bouncing one crossed leg against the other.

After several moments of silence, he broke first.

“They still not talking to you?” Something in his expression changed—less taunting, more earnest.
Like a concerned friend, if such a thing were possible for Malfoy.

She didn’t trust him and didn’t particularly care to open up to him. But he was also the one person
she no longer had to lie to.

“No,” she said tersely, willing herself not to express any obvious emotion on her face.

“Really?” he asked, his tone one laced with genuine surprise. “Just because,” his voice lowered
and he leaned further over the table, “you lied for me?”

“Not because I lied for you,” she responded in an equally hushed tone. “Because I lied to them for
you. They think I am putting you before my friendship with them.”

Malfoy leaned back in his chair, stretching out his impossibly long legs and scratching the side of
his face as if contemplating this position. “How many times have you saved their arses,
Granger?”

“It would be exhausting to even try to count,” she sighed.

“And this is all it takes for them to turn their back on you?” He scoffed. “Gryffindors could
obviously take a lesson or two in loyalty from Slytherin, because that’s not fucking fidelity.”

She felt like she had just taken a bludger to the side of the head. How had she ended up in this
scenario, with Draco Malfoy understanding her more than anyone else she knew? In that moment,
she fought the urge to throw her arms around him for finally giving her the feeling that someone
had her back. But this was still Malfoy, and they weren’t friends. So she knotted her hands in her
lap and slowly nodded. “That’s what I’ve been saying,” she admitted, her voice barely above a
whisper.

“I would expect this kind of cowardly and flighty behavior from Weaselbee, but Potter? Honestly,
I’m surprised.”

She met his eyes, trying to keep her expression as placid as possible. “Ron is not a coward,” she
said evenly, recalling the countless times he had stepped up to save her and Harry. But then she
paused. But had that ever been for her, or just for Harry?

“Or at least I didn’t think he was.” She couldn’t tell if her last words made it easier or harder to
breathe.

“Sometimes people surprise you, Granger,” Malfoy smirked, and then summarily got up and
walked away.

***

Before she knew it, Saturday afternoon arrived. Ginny had flitted around the dormitories all
morning, testing Hermione’s responses to certain questions that Ginny was convinced would come
up during the date. While not normally one to enjoy being fussed over, she basked in this new-
found sense of normalcy in her friendship with Ginny and played along.

At 5PM, Ginny ushered Hermione out of the Gryffindor dorms and across the hallway to meet
Luna, who led them into the Ravenclaw common room.

It was breathtaking. Cylindrical walls with cathedral windows; plush, midnight carpets mapped
with constellations visible only when the sun hit them; alcoves with mahogany bookshelves that
were loaded to the brim with well-worn books and statuettes of famous Ravenclaws. The room
smelled like it was drenched in eucalyptus and parchment.

“Wow, Luna,” Hermione gasped, having never been in the Ravenclaw common room before.
“This is incredible.” Ginny nodded in agreement, but Hermione knew that she had been here
before so the bewilderment wasn’t quite there.

“You should see it when the wisps are out,” Luna said airily. Ginny stifled a laugh.

Hermione spent several minutes drinking in the room, before Ginny finally shattered her reverie.
“Alright, enough fussing over furniture. It’s time to get you date ready.”
“Really, Gin,” Hermione responded, “I don’t have much in the way of makeup here, so I’m not
sure we need all this time.”

“Hush,” her friend said excitedly, bringing a silencing finger to Hermione’s lips. “Fear not,
because I have come prepared!”

And with that, she whipped out a considerable tote that was bulging with different types of
makeup. Hermione felt her eyes pop with surprise. Ginny loved to dish about boys and gossip, but
she was far from a girly girl. Not to mention, Hermione had no idea where Ginny would come up
with the money for such a thorough collection.

“Where did you get this?” Hermione questioned, taking the tote into her hands.

A mischievous smile flicked across Ginny’s face. “I wrote to Phlegm,” she said proudly. “Told
her that I had a date with Harry—and she was not to tell anyone—but could really use some sisterly
guidance on makeup.” Ginny fell into one of the opulent Ravenclaw armchairs. “Next thing you
know, I get an owl with this.” She gestured toward the tote. “That woman will do anything for
family approval,” Ginny said, shaking her head.

“Ginny!” Hermione exclaimed, her mouth falling open wide. Despite her best efforts, she felt the
edges of her mouth curving upward into a slight smile. “That is just,” Hermione shook her head,
still suppressing a grin, “wicked.”

“I know, I know,” Ginny said, pulling herself up from the chair. “But we’ll worry about my soul
later.” She sat Hermione in front of a floor length mirror a few paces away. “Right now, it’s
makeover time.”

Luna sat to the side, inspecting each makeup item curiously. “Do you even know how to use some
of this, Ginny?” she asked.

Ginny shrugged and pulled a large, folded piece of parchment out of her pocket. “Phlegm sent a
tutorial as well,” she grinned.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Just exercise some caution, Gin,” Hermione said. “I don’t want to be
totally unrecognizable.”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Hermione Granger,” Ginny remarked. “We are merely
going to be accentuating your already striking features.” Ginny made exaggerated movements with
her arms as she made the last statement, causing the three friends to collapse into laughter.

***

True to her word, Ginny had deftly used the makeup supplied to emphasize some of Hermione’s
finer features. The usually humble and austere witch could not help but notice that her features
were noticeably striking now, and she felt—well—pretty. “Thank you, Gin,” she said softly.

“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny gushed. “You look stunning.” Ginny twirled Hermione around so she
could also admire her hand-picked outfit. Hermione wore a pair of tight black jeans, short black
boots, a maroon blouse, and a leather jacket. Hermione realized that Ginny had pilfered most of it
from Katie Bell, but she didn’t care. She thought the outfit was exquisite.

“Doesn’t she look beautiful, Luna?” Ginny asked.

Luna, curled on one of the longer sofas, looked up from her recently purchased book about
Nargles. She had long since lost interest in the makeover. “I always think Hermione looks
beautiful,” she replied simply before returning to her book.

“Godric, give me strength,” Ginny muttered under her breath. She sighed, taking a last look at
Hermione. “Well, it’s about that time then,” she said. “Off you go, lover-girl!”

Hermione rolled her eyes but embraced her friend. “Thanks again, Ginny. I couldn’t have done
this without you.”

“No shit,” Ginny teased. “Now go!”

***

“Granger?”

She was nearly out of the castle when she heard it, and winced. She turned around slowly, wishing
to delay the inevitable. “Yes, Malfoy?” she returned.

When her eyes met his, he looked like he had seen a ghost. His body went rigid, and his pupils
looked dilated.

“Malfoy?” she asked again.

Seeming to shake himself from whatever daydream he had traipsed into, he responded. “Where
are you going?” he asked, his voice rough.

“I fail to see how it’s any of your business, Malfoy,” she replied. “But it is Saturday night and I am
going to meet…” She paused. She didn’t want to tell him she was going on a date. Why?

“I’m going to go meet a friend for dinner,” she concluded, crossing her arms.

“I thought you didn’t have any of those anymore,” he quipped.

She rolled her eyes. “Believe it or not, Malfoy, despite your best efforts, there remain some people
in this world who like me. So unless you have any other insults you’d like to get off your
chest…” She turned to leave, but his next question left her breathless.

“Do you need someone to walk with you?”

Her ears rang. Surely, she had inhaled too much of whatever chemical was in the makeup Ginny
had slathered on her face. “What?” Hermione asked, frozen. “Why?”

“For the Brightest Witch of Her Age, I would think the answer is fairly obvious. It’s well past
sunset, and predators wait for their prey in the dark.”

“So I should arm myself with another predator as a defense?” she responded sharply, crossing her
arms.

“Something like that,” he said plainly.

“Why would you care if something happened to me, Malfoy?” she asked. “That would just make
you first in class, no?”

He was upon her in a second, inches from her face. She stood her ground, eyeing him defiantly.

“You saved my life, Granger,” he whispered, his minty breath tickling her face. “Now I’m not
some feckless moron with a hero complex, but I’m also not a heartless bastard.” She blinked hard,
unsure of how to respond. “I meant what I said about loyalty the other day. You thought you had
it with Potter and Weasel, but if you actually knew what true loyalty felt like, it would turn your
world upside down.”

Hermione felt like she needed to hold onto something to steady herself. What the hell?

“Well, thank you, Malfoy,” she finally choked out. “I—I appreciate it. I do. But I’m just going to
Hogsmeade. I will be fine.”

He took a long look at her and nodded stiffly. And then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just
occurred, he turned and walked away. “Have fun, Granger,” he said casually.

Pushing the encounter into the depths of her mind, she exited the castle and jogged all the way to
Hogsmeade, the image of predators in the night not fully leaving her consciousness.

***

As promised, Archie was outside of the Three Broomsticks waiting for her at 7PM. He looked
dashing—a cobalt blue pea coat and sharp trousers. His hair fell over his forehead in tamed curls,
and the cold night air had branded his cheeks a bright pink, accentuating his khaki freckles.

“Hermione,” he greeted, wrapping her in a light hug and kissing her cheek. “You look stunning,”
he said, taking a step back to admire her. Hermione blushed, unsure of how to respond.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You look quite handsome as well.”

He put his hand over his heart as a sign of gratitude. “Well, shall we?” he asked, placing his hand
on the small of her back, opening the door, and following her inside.
 Drink

“Get up,” Draco addressed a napping Theo, throwing a coat over him. Theo, sleep-stunned, rubbed
his eyes.

“The hell?” he asked, annoyed. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going out to dinner,” Draco responded brusquely.

***

Much Draco’s chagrin, by the time he had gotten a confused and chatty Theo out the door, enough
people in the common room had heard them that Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne were now joining
them. Merlin’s beard, he thought, as he trudged through the bitter November night.

He had absolutely no rational explanation as to why he felt compelled to follow Granger. Well, he
was sure she had lied to him, and that bothered him. In five years, he had barely seen the girl with
a stitch of makeup on, and tonight she looked like she was getting ready for a cover shoot of Witch
Weekly. Bullshit she was just meeting a friend.

Draco tried to convince himself it was because he needed to continue to have leverage over her. If
she was going on dates, he needed to know who she going on dates with. He needed to continue to
have something to hang over her head. Some sense of control over the girl who had, somehow,
gained a bit of control over him

But it was more than that, and deep down he knew it. He felt drawn to her. He didn’t think he was
attracted to her or particularly fancied her really; it was just that she was just different than he had
always thought: she was a freewheeling and unpredictable smartass who refused to break under
pressure. Now that she wasn’t constantly cleaning up after Potter and Weaselbee, she got to
showcase who she really was, rather than who they needed her to be

And Draco was insatiably curious.

***

It wasn’t hard to figure out that Granger was dining at the Three Broomsticks. Hog’s Head was not
a place that Granger would accept for a date, and Madam Puddifoot’s wasn’t really for nighttime
dates.

Upon entering the Three Broomsticks, Draco’s eyes roamed the room ravenously. He spotted her
almost immediately, sitting at a high top table with her back to the entrance of the restaurant.
Sitting across from her was some blonde, preppy-looking wanker. Draco scowled. I fucking knew
it.

Madam Rosmerta addressed the group cheerily. “Table for five?” she asked.

“Yes, and we’ll take that one,” Draco said gruffly, pointing to a semi-concealed table near the
entrance that would still give him a clear view of Granger.

Madam Rosmerta’s expression faltered a bit at the tone of Draco’s response, but she nodded and
continued. “Perfect table for a group of this size.”

Draco intentionally maneuvered himself so that he sat at the end of one side of the table, facing
Granger, with Theo in between him and Pansy. He didn’t want to deal with her playing footsie
with him all night.

The group chattered endlessly, but Draco barely heard a word of it. Granger’s date was drinking
some posh-looking cocktail, while Granger appeared to be sipping a butterbeer. He was laughing a
lot, and Draco’s mind involuntarily flashed to that night in the bathroom weeks ago and Granger’s
biting wit. He wondered if her date even appreciated her humor, or was just laughing so heartily in
the hopes that it would score him some points.

“Whatcha looking at, mate?” Theo asked, leaning over.

“Who’s that fucking tosser that Granger is eating with over there?” Draco replied, his voice
hushed. Theo’s eyebrow quirked and Draco’s jaw tightened. Fucking don’t, Draco thought, and
Theo seemed to pick up on the message. He took a quiet, albeit scrutinizing look at the distant
table.

“Ah, that’s Archie Innes,” Theo responded in a whisper. “Ravenclaw, graduated a few years back
top of his class. Has some muckity muck job at the Ministry now.” Theo took a bite of his
sandwich. “You going to go break his face then?” he jested.

Draco shot him another warning look, but it was too late.

“What are you two girls going on about?” Blaise asked, his arm slung lazily over Daphne’s
shoulders.

“Granger’s on a date with Archie Innes over there,” Theo responded before Draco could come up
with a plausible cover story.

Great. Fucking great. He could feel Pansy’s eyes boring holes into his soul.

Blaise turned around. “Ah, so she is,” he said plainly, turning back toward the table and taking a
swig of his mead. Daphne flipped her hair, making a tch sound. “He’s way too handsome for
her,” she observed, her face scrunched. Pansy nodded in agreement, although Draco could still
feel her eyes on him.

Forty minutes later, with their meal appearing to be close to over, Draco watched as Hermione rose
from her seat to use the restroom. His eyes traced her movements until she was out of sight, and
then they fell on Archie. For a few seconds he did nothing, save take a small sip from his cocktail.
But then Draco watched as he pulled a small vial from his pocket and quickly emptied it into her
drink.

Theo must have seen it to, because he audibly gasped. “Shite—I think Innes just spiked Granger’s
drink!” he exclaimed to the group.

Blaise turned around so fast he nearly toppled in his chair, and Pansy cackled so hard she spit out
her drink. “Maybe she’ll actually get the iron rod out of her arse now,” she quipped as she dabbed
droplets of her drink from her chin.

Beside Draco, Theo started to rise, but Draco was at the high-top table before Theo could even
finish standing. His pulse was racing so hard that he physically saw red as the capillaries in his
eyes became engorged. He fought the urge to crucio the wanker on the spot.

“Hey, mate,” Draco said, sitting down in the chair that Hermione had occupied just moments ago.
He struggled to keep his voice even.
“Hi—there,” Archie said slowly, clearly confused. “Are you lost, pal? This isn’t your table.”

“Nah,” Draco replied. “I know exactly where I am. But let me ask you, how is your date going?”

Still confused, but perhaps believing this was some sort of juvenile prank, Archie nervously
smiled. “Uh, it’s going well. Thanks for asking. She’s a bonny girl.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Draco agreed, running his tongue over his teeth. “Do me a favor, mate. Take a
sip of her drink,” he said, pointing at Granger’s butterbeer.

The confusion on Archie’s face started to turn to anxiety. He swallowed hard. “Why would you
ask me to do that?”

“Oh, you see, I think we are having a miscommunication here. I’m not asking you to take a drink.
I’m telling you.” Draco stared at him menacingly, unblinking.

“No—no, thank you,” Archie responded, shaking his head and looking away.

Draco laughed a bit. “Here we go again with the miscommunication. Gosh, I’m usually so clear
spoken.” Draco leaned in and gestured for Archie to do so as well, which he did. “This isn’t a
fucking negotiation,” Draco hissed, and before Archie had time to react, Draco’s hand was on the
back of his head, smashing it into the table.

If Draco was capable of focusing on anything other than completely destroying this wizard, he
would’ve heard the audible gasps and screams from the rest of the restaurant patrons. But he
wasn’t finished.

He rounded the table, and while Archie still cupped his bruised and bleeding face, Draco grabbed a
fistful of Archie’s hair, dragging his head back up, and brought the spiked butterbeer to his lips.
“Bottoms up, mate,” he cheered as Archie choked and sputtered on the drink. After the butterbeer
was emptied, Draco threw Archie’s head forward.

“Don’t you ever think about pulling shite like that again,” he seethed, leaning down so he was eye
level with Archie, who whimpered and cried in response. “And if you ever come near Granger
again, I will wrap my hands around your fucking neck and delight in watching the light fade from
your eyes, understood?” Archie again whimpered in response.

Draco slapped him on the back. “Good. That’s a good mate.”

I was only then that he stopped to take stock of his surroundings. Patrons, including his friends,
stared at him in open-mouth horror. The silence hung in the air like a thick, obscure fog.

Except for one, tiny, anguished voice that arose behind him. “Malfoy.”

Granger.

***

Draco didn’t have a chance to reply. He got a moment’s glimpse of Granger’s face, twisted into
something gut-wrenching. She was shaking and tears were already shimmering in her eyes.

But then he felt Madam Rosmerta grabbing him by the shirt collar and promptly hoisting him from
her restaurant. He staggered out onto the street, still trying to wrangle his adrenaline. His pulse
pounded in his ears and he felt like he could run straight through the stone wall of the restaurant—
like he was made of steel and dragon hide.
But the image of Granger’s pained face crashed into his mind, knocking him from his high. I just
need to tell her what happened. That fucking tosser deserved it.

The door crashed open, and for a fleeting second he thought it was Granger. He readied himself to
explain everything—but it was not Granger. It was fucking Archie, who proceeded to flee
Hogsmeade like a whipped dog. Good, Draco thought.

She was, however, the next person to tumble out of the pub, fire in her eyes.

“MALFOY,” she roared, marching toward him with alarming determination.

“Granger, wait,” he soothed, putting his arms in a surrendering pose. She punched him squarely in
the abdomen. A rush of air gushed out of him. He realized she had been pulling the punches she
had landed on him previously; the force with which her fist met his stomach would’ve been
impressive for a mountain troll—let alone a creature as small as her.

“No,” she growled through gritted teeth. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she cried, landing
hits about his shoulders.

He blocked her offensive. “Just listen!” he demanded, grabbing both her wrists to prevent further
swatting punches.

“Listen?!” she screamed. “Listen to you after what you just did to me? What you’ve already done
to me? No. No, absolutely not. I am done listening to you, Malfoy!” She wrenched her arms
from his grip as makeup-stained tears rolled down her cheeks. “I have sacrificed everything for
you!” she wailed. She near collapsed for a moment, and then righted herself. Her voice was softer,
but still determined.

“I destroyed friendships to save your lousy life,” she lamented, her face becoming slicker with
tears. “And I had started to think,” she scoffed with a humorless laugh, “that maybe I had been
wrong about you this whole time. Or that maybe you had changed. That you were different;
kinder, matured, better.”

Yes, he thought.

“But I was wrong. You will never change, Draco Malfoy. You are a miserable bully who destroys
everything around him. Who only takes joy in other people’s sorrow.”

He felt heat start to rise through his neck and his hackles start to come up. She is wrong. She has
to know she is wrong.

“A fucking Death Eater,” she whispered. “Who just wants everyone to feel as alone as he does.”

Her tears had stopped, with nothing but smoldering rage left in her eyes.

Draco felt like he could breathe fire. Maybe he had been wrong about her; maybe she was every
bit that righteous bitch she acted like when she was running the halls with Potter and the Weasel.

Who the fuck do they think they are? Draco thought. They get to decide who is good, and who is
evil. Who does the wrong things for the right reason, and who does the wrong things for the
wrong reasons.

It struck Draco in that moment that Granger still saw in black and white, just like the Death Eaters
that Theo described all those nights ago in the owlery. Draco no longer saw the world that way,
nor was he interested in going back to such a vantage point.
“Fuck off, Granger,” he responded coolly, and left.
 Charlie

Hermione felt her legs give out, and she collapsed into a tangled heap on the cold cobblestone.
What more?, she asked herself. What more do I have to give? Losing Harry and Ron, the strain on
her relationship with Ginny, and now this? She couldn’t even be allowed to try to move forward?

She took several quaking breaths before looking up from the ground, realizing that someone was
standing in front of her, hand extended. It was Theo Nott.

Her vision cleared a bit—as did, unfortunately, her audio—and she realized about twenty paces
away, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass were forcefully dragging Pansy Parkinson away from
the Three Broomsticks, her wand levitating above her head, just out of reach.

“YOU UGLY MUDBLOOD SLUT!” she howled, bucking against Blaise’s and Pansy’s vice-like
grips. “I will fucking end you, Granger! Do you hear me?!” She looked positively possessed.
Blaise whipped her around so she was no longer facing Hermione. “He’s just rutting around in the
trash, Granger! He will never be interested in you!”

Pansy’s wails continued as Blaise and Daphne tugged her out of sight.

Theo cleared his throat, his arm still extended. “Granger,” he said evenly. “Need a hand up?”

Hermione had no opinion about Theo Nott, aside from the fact that he was a Slytherin, the son of a
Death Eater, and closely tied to the Malfoy family. She peered into his crystal blue stare for
several moments; he looked sincere. But she was done giving Slytherins and sons of Death Eaters
the benefit of the doubt.

Wordlessly, she shook her head. His forehead knotted a bit, but he gave her an understanding nod.
Gently, he placed his extended hand on her shoulder. “He can be a lot, I know,” Theo said softly.
“But he’s worth it.”

“What?” she gasped, but he had already turned and left. They’re all fucking insane, Hermione
thought.

***

As expected, Ginny was waiting for Hermione in the common room, an expectant smile draped
across her face. Her expression crashed when she saw Hermione’s face, and she was on her feet in
an instant, ushering Hermione away from any prying eyes in the common room and toward
Myrtle’s bathroom.

The two friends crashed through the doors and were promptly greeted by a particularly curious and
nasal-pitched Myrtle.

“Oooooh, what do we have here?” she squeaked, floating in front of Hermione. “Someone looks
awfully down.” Myrtle’s lips curved downward in an exaggerated frown.

“Myrtle,” Ginny started, her voice impatient. “Not the time. If you don’t bugger off, I swear on
Godric’s sword I’ll shred you.”

“Ooooh, not very friendly tonight, are we?” Myrtle swished away. “That’s fine,” she sighed. “I
don’t feel much like entertaining anyway.” She dove through one of the toilets with a hiccupping
laugh.
“Okay, spill,” Ginny said, eyes trained on Hermione.

“Oh, Gin, he’s so awful,” Hermione murmured. “Such a loathsome brute.” She wiped several
lingering tears from her eyes. “I can’t even—,” she began, shaking her head.

“Archie?” Ginny asked, seemingly stunned. “I can’t believe it—he seemed so nice at the
bookstore, and Luna said she never heard an ill thing about him.” Ginny shook her head confused.
“But it’s no matter. I’ll avada his sorry arse,” she joked.

Despite herself, Hermione chuckled. “No, no,” she responded. “First off, I don’t think I can
survive my best friend being thrown in Azkaban.” Ginny grinned at the title. “Second, I wasn’t
Archie. He was a perfect gentleman. And so well-read, Gin. I felt like I finally met someone who
was as big of a bookworm as I am.”

She laughed sorrowfully, and Ginny wiped another tear from Hermione’s cheek. “It was Malfoy. I
guess he and the other Slytherins were having dinner at the Three Broomsticks too, and when
Archie and I were finishing our dinner, I got up to use the loo. When I came back out—,” she
paused, still struggling to comprehend what happened next. “Well, it looked like Malfoy had
punched Archie in the face and he was force-feeding him my butterbeer.”

Hermione kept her eyes aimed at the floor, afraid to meet her friend’s gaze. Somehow, despite
feeling as though she were the victim in this scenario, she still expected her friend to be cross with
her, as her increasingly problematic interactions with Malfoy all seemed to stem from that lie she
told back in August.

She could sense Ginny taking a few staggering steps backward, but otherwise the silence pounded
in her ears. When she finally brought her eyes up to Ginny’s face, she saw that her impossibly fair-
skinned friend had turned three shades whiter, her eyes and mouth wide with horror.

Ginny began to slowly shake her head. “No,” she choked out. “Hermione, no,” she continued to
toss her head in disbelief. “This—this has gone too far.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Ginny continued. “I am not Ron or Harry; I will not
try to force you to tell me what happened in your conversation with Dumbledore and Snape.” She
took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “But this isn’t just teasing anymore. Hermione,
he assaulted someone just for being with you.”

Hermione nodded.

“So we’re done with you trying to deal with this on your own, okay?” Ginny approached Hermione
and grasped both her arms. It was only then that Hermione realized she had been quivering. “We
need to talk to Dumbledore. Or at least you do, if I can’t be there.”

“I’ve already talked to him, Gin,” Hermione sighed.

“And what, he didn’t care?” Ginny exclaimed, incredulous.

“I wouldn’t say he didn’t care so much as he assured me that I could handle it, which of course led
to the kiss in the hallway,” Hermione explained.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ginny rushed, “you went to Dumbledore for advice and he told you to snog
Malfoy?!”

Hermione laughed and shook her head. “No, of course not. He essentially advised me to try to get
even with Malfoy. The kiss was my own failed revenge scheme.” Hermione sighed heavily and
pushed her hair back.

“Fine,” Ginny said resolutely. “So we’ll go to McGonagall.”

Hermione felt panic bubbling in her throat. “No!” she nearly shouted. Professor McGonagall
would have Malfoy thrown out of school, she knew it. And if Voldemort was apt to kill Malfoy
just for getting soused in Muggle London, what would he do to him if he was expelled from
Hogwarts? No, Hermione couldn’t accept responsibility for that. Malfoy was truly a fetid wizard,
but she would play no part in his demise.

“You have to do something, Hermione. What if he hurts you next?”

“No, Malfoy wouldn’t hurt me.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.
Why did she think that? Had she not just watched him pummel another wizard for no reason? Was
he not a Death Eater—a subscriber to an ideology that would prefer her dead?

But had he not also offered to walk her to Hogsmeade to keep her safe? Had he not lost his temper
around her when they were alone and not laid a hand on her? Sure, perhaps it was all a ruse to get
her comfortable so that he could eventually inflict harm onto her. But Hermione felt confident in
what she said. Draco Malfoy would never physically hurt her.

Ginny looked pained and confused, desperately trying to understand her friend. “Gin, I will go
back to Dumbledore. I just want to keep Professor McGonagall out of this. She will have him
thrown out of Hogwarts,” Hermione explained.

“He deserves to be kicked out!” Ginny exclaimed. “Hermione, why can’t you grasp the gravity of
this? He beat up another wizard in public for no fucking reason!”

“I know, I know.” Hermione said. “But just trust me, okay? I think Dumbledore is the right
person to go to.”

Ginny stared at her for a long time. Finally, whether she succumbed to Hermione’s reasoning or
simply tired of the conversation, she nodded in acquiescence. “Fine. But just promise me you will
actually talk to him?” Ginny pleaded.

“I promise,” Hermione lied.

***

Hermione told Ginny she spoke with Dumbledore the following day, and Dumbledore had
promised he would do something about it. Hermione was alarmed by the ease with which she now
lied to her friends, but she assured herself that she was doing the right thing. She would not have
Draco Malfoy’s blood on her hands.

When he wasn’t in Potions the next day, Hermione was relieved. Not that Ginny was in the class
to see it for herself, but Hermione was sure Malfoy’s absence would reach her ears by way of
Harry, who, from what Hermione could gather from her observations, was keeping a close eye on
Malfoy’s movements. So perhaps Ginny would assume some disciplinary action was taken.

When Malfoy did not show for Potions the next day, Hermione began to feel concerned. Stop it,
she scolded herself. What is wrong with you? Why would you care if he ever came back?

But she couldn’t help herself. Malfoy might be a spoiled prat, but he was a dedicated student. She
had rarely seen him miss one class, let alone two in a row. What if Voldemort had found out about
Malfoy’s row and had hurt him…or worse?
“Hermione, did you get that?” Neville asked.

“Huh?” Hermione responded, her mind blank.

“Professor Slughorn just said how many toadstool slices we are supposed to add to the potion, but
I missed it,” he said, concern etched in his eyes.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Neville—I missed it too. Why don’t you ask Dean?” Neville quickly turned
to the other side to consult with Dean. Get your head out of your arse, she screamed at herself.
Malfoy is off somewhere nursing another stinging hex wound from Pansy.

***

At lunch, as the owls poured into the Great Hall, Hermione was pleased to see she had received an
owl from Charlie.

Golden Girl,

I hope you don’t mind, but Ginny told me things have been pretty rough for you this year. My offer
still stands—just give me a name and I’ll take care of him, even if it’s my youngest brother. These
hands aren’t just for dragon taming.

In the meantime, I will be making a trip to the UK soon to see Tonks. I would love to see you and
the family. I’ve already planned a Hogsmeade trip with Ron, Fred, and George for Sunday, but
perhaps you, Ginny, Tonks, and I could stroll around the Hogwarts grounds on Saturday? We
could pack a picnic. Let me know.

Love,

Charlie

Hermione chuckled quietly at the letter. She looked across the table to see Ginny reading a
matching letter enthusiastically. Her eyes met Hermione’s, alight with excitement.

“Yes!” Ginny exclaimed. “I love hanging out with Tonks!” Hermione caught Harry smiling
broadly as Ginny did a small dance in her seat. His smile made Hermione grin. She loved seeing
her former best friend happy—he looked so solemn all the time now. She wanted to share in his
joy—however small—but she was no longer afforded that luxury. She could only watch.

“You’re free Saturday, right?” Ginny asked, directing her attention back at Hermione. She
watched as Harry’s smile faded and he turned to face Ron, who gave her a withering look. He
appeared displeased that his brother’s loyalty extended both ways.

“Of course,” Hermione responded brightly. “I like spending time with Charlie,” she crooned. It
was immature, she knew, but she loved seeing the grimace on Ron’s face from the corner of her
eye.

She tucked the letter into her schoolbag and continued her lunch.

***

Malfoy did not return to class for the rest of the week. Hermione tried to logic herself out of
worrying, but she just couldn’t. As brutish and awful as he was, she didn’t want harm to come to
him. So that Friday, she found herself at the threshold of Professor Snape’s office—this year was
truly an exercise in experiences she never imagined she would have. Steeling herself, she rapped
her knuckles against the sturdy, pine door to his office.

A muffled voice responded. “You may enter.” Taking a deep breath, Hermione turned the
handle.

Much like his Potions office, Professor Snape’s Defense Against Dark Arts office was dungeonous,
littered with papers, books, and glass bottles. Several chalkboards mapped out lesson plans and
research ideas. It was damp and earthy, but tinged with the scent of quill ink, a scent that
Hermione found comforting.

“Miss Granger?” Professor Snape asked, his expression quizzical.

“Hello, Professor,” Hermione greeted, weaving between the stacks of papers and artifacts to sit
herself at the chair across from his desk. She gripped her Arthimancy book close to her chest.
“How are you?”

“Would you really like to know how I am, Miss Granger?” he drawled, putting down the quill he
had been writing with.

“Uh, no, I suppose not,” Hermione stammered. Professor Snape quirked one of his eyebrows—
waiting. Nervously, she continued, “I came in today to ask whether Malfoy—,” she paused.
“Draco. Whether he is okay. He hasn’t been in class at all this week. And I was just worried that
perhaps something had…happened.” She looked up to meet Snape’s gaze, which was, as expected,
bored.

“And why would Mr. Malfoy’s whereabouts be any of your business, Miss Granger?” he asked
simply.

“I think you know why.” Her voice came out as a whisper, but defiant.

“What you did for Mr. Malfoy was commendable, Miss Granger, but it does not make you his
keeper. His daily doings are none of your business,” Snape replied.

“They are when he continues to insert himself into my life to make it as difficult as possible and
then disappears,” Hermione retorted, her blood suddenly ablaze.

She saw something flicker across Snape’s eyes that could pass as surprise or concern. But just as
quickly as it was there, it was gone, and his response was measured. “I assure you Mr. Malfoy is
fine. If you have any further anecdotes that you want to tell me about Mr. Malfoy’s forays into
your personal life, I will consider taking it up with him.” Snape leaned back in his chair. He was
challenging her.

“None, Professor,” she replied through gritted teeth. She got up quickly. “Thank you for your
time.” Maneuvering between his junk, she exited as quickly as she could, slamming the door
behind her.

She promised herself she would stop worrying about Draco Malfoy. But just as she had become
quite adept at lying to her friends, she was also becoming skilled at lying to herself.

***

She roused early on Saturday, anxious to spend the day with Ginny, Tonks, and Charlie. She
rummaged through her trunk and threw on a faded pair of jeans and flannel shirt. She then combed
through for a sweatshirt; it was uncommonly warm for late November but the wind still carried a
slight chill.
Time stood still when she yanked it out of her trunk. It had been buried with the rest of her winter
clothes—things that hadn’t seen the light of day since February or so. It was Ron’s. She had spent
a weekend with Harry and Ron at the Burrow last year, and the day they traveled out had been
uncommonly warm. She forgot a coat. Ron had given her one of his Chudley sweatshirts the
following day when it was much cooler out. She had promised to give it back, but with everything
that followed that year, she had simply forgot. And now…

She brought it to her face and took a deep breath. Cedar, cinnamon, broom oil. It smelled just like
him. Wistfully, she folded it back up and placed it on top of Ginny’s trunk. She dug around in her
trunk for a while, and found a suitable sweater that her mother had purchased for her at a Muggle
store two years prior.

Hearing Ginny holler from the common room, she set off down the stairs.

***

Tonks and Charlie met them right outside of the Great Hall. Arms outstretched, Tonks hit Ginny
and Hermione with such force that she nearly knocked them over. “I have missed you both so
much!” she exclaimed, her hair turning a vibrant pink. She pulled away, and Ginny and Hermione
both struggled to catch their breath. “How’s the school year? What professors are giving you
trouble? Tell me everything.”

“Calm down, babe,” Charlie said, calmly planting a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him
and smiled.

“This is calm, Charlie Weasley,” she mused. He raised an eyebrow and caught his lip in his teeth,
his gaze suddenly hungry. It made Hermione blush and glance away.

Charlie cleared his throat and looked at them. “Ginny,” he cooed, wrapping his baby sister in a
tight hug. “How are you?”

“Just braw, Charlie,” she beamed. “It’s so good to see you guys.” Her eyes flickered between
Charlie and Tonks.

Charlie gave her another brief hug and then set his sights on Hermione. “Golden Girl,” he said.
As before, he grabbed her in a great bear hug and spun her around. “You okay, kid?” he whispered
as they spiraled.

Feeling lighter than she had all week, Hermione laughed as she responded. “Yes, Charlie, thank
you.” He carefully set her down and then resumed his position at Tonks’s side.

“Well, what do you say?” he asked, picking up a basket they had left toward the entrance of the
Great Hall. “Shall we go for a jaunt and then have a picnic?”

***

They lapped the school grounds several times, with Tonks unrelentingly pestering Ginny about
Harry. Whether she was dodgy because she didn’t want to reveal anything in front of Hermione or
because Charlie’s presence embarrassed her was unclear. But she gave up nothing.

Regardless, during Tonks’s interrogations, Charlie sidled up to Hermione. “So what’s up this year,
kid?” he asked.

Hermione laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, where to start, Charlie,” she teased.

“The beginning is usually a pretty good place,” he countered innocently.

Hermione sighed deeply, but felt oddly at ease opening up to Charlie. “That day when I came to
the Burrow,” she began, “I just want to go back to that afternoon. Things weren’t perfect—Harry
was still coping with Sirius and things with Ron and I were—,” she paused, swatting her hand
through the air as if she was physically pushing the idea away, “but Godric, I didn’t realize how
good things actually were,” she admitted.

Charlie’s pace slowed, and he looked at her thoughtfully. “We never truly appreciate how good
things are in the moment, Hermione.”

“I miss them,” she said, her voice crumbling. She felt his arm come around her shoulders and
bring her into him. Leather, cedar, and broom oil. Not completely unlike Ron.

“They’re buggers,” he whispered. “They’ll come around, trust me. Those two can’t function right
without you.”

“They seem to be doing okay,” she responded simply.

Charlie whipped her around, his hands sturdily gripping her upper arms. His eyes bored into hers.
“And you? Do you think when they look at you they think you’re also doing okay? Because I’m
willing to bet the answer is yes.”

She nodded solemnly and he grinned. “Alright, kid. No more tears. Time to eat!”

***

Charlie had brought an assortment of Bulgarian delicacies for their picnic, including kebapche,
palacinka, and baklava. He had also smuggled wine onto Hogwarts grounds—strictly forbidden—
but the four of them split the bottle.

They talked and laughed until their mouths grew tired. After the food and wine was finished,
Charlie laid down, and Tonks followed suit, placing her head on his stomach, her hair turning a
warm orange. Meanwhile, Ginny began weaving a crown of dandelions, eventually placing it upon
Hermione’s head.

And then it happened. As they all languished in the temperate November afternoon, he drifted past
them. Like a ghost.

Hermione could feel her breath hitch in her throat. She could sense Ginny go rigid next to her.
Charlie, as if sensing the change in density, sat up abruptly, nearly crushing Tonks’s head.

“Ow!” she screeched.

And then he looked over at them. His eyes looked unsettled as he headed for a copse of trees in the
distance. Despite what had happened, Hermione fought the urge to follow him and ask if he was
okay. But then he broke his stare and continued on. It was like he didn’t even see her.

Hermione became vaguely aware of Ginny’s grip on her shoulder. “You’re okay,” Ginny
whispered.

But she wasn’t.

“Pardon me, ladies,” Charlie said a few moments later. “That Bulgarian wine went right through
me. Gotta take a leak.”
“Charming,” Tonks replied, her voice thick with sleep.

Charlie hopped up eagerly, and set off toward the forest. Hermione laid her head on Ginny’s
shoulder and tried to force the haunted look on Malfoy’s face out of her mind.
 Truthtelling

When he had opened the vanishing cabinet to find it empty, Draco nearly collapsed. After a week
of failures, it just worked. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. He was one step closer to
making it out of this thing alive. Of course, he was now also one step closer to having to murder
his headmaster, so it was really a mixed bag at best.

For months he had largely concentrated on the most hands-off ways to kill Dumbledore. Cursing
an item, poisoning…but for as many hours as he spent poring over the materials and rehearsing the
spells and potions in his head, that’s where they stayed. Locked in his mind and splashed on the
pages of spell books. As cowardly as it was, he couldn’t even bring himself to kill Dumbledore
indirectly.

The vanishing cabinets had always been his backup option. Repairing them would afford him an
update to give to the Dark Lord, and it would allow him to bring other Death Eaters into the
school, who perhaps would complete the task for him. It wasn’t quite what the Dark Lord had
tasked him with, but if Dumbledore ended up dead and Draco played a part in it, maybe it would be
enough to spare him.

Completely unaware of the day of the week—let alone the time of day—he stumbled out of the
castle onto Hogwarts grounds, where his face was met with daylight for the first time in days. It
blinded him for several moments, but he staggered on, desperate to simply feel the warmth of the
sun on his face and the wind in his hair.

He had no destination in mind, he just needed to get as far outside the hallowed halls of the castle
that now haunted him. Spotting a familiar thicket of trees in the distance, he headed toward it,
wanting nothing more than to hear the leaves crunch under his shoes and the birds twitter above
his head.

And then he spotted her, sitting on a rounded hill with She-Weasley, a crown of wispy flowers
resting upon her chestnut locks. The vision of her was a jolt to his system, which was already
running on pure adrenaline, having skipped regular meals and sleep for the past week. His pace
faltered for a moment as his eyes connected with hers, but it didn’t register fully. His body was on
autopilot, and he simply continued on.

He could feel his muscles loosen as he reached the threshold of the thicket. He walked several
more paces and then gingerly fell against an old, solid tree. He closed his eyes. Nearly a full week
in the Room of Requirement had left him in a state of sensory deprivation. He concentrated on the
smell of the forest moss and the crisp fall air; the sound of the birds chattering about overhead, a
nearby stream as it rushed over stones, the crunching of leaves as someone approached…

Wait.

His eyes snapped open and fell upon a hulking figure in front of him, with unruly, curly red hair
and chiseled features. He was nearly as tall as Draco, but much bulkier and clearly older. Draco
ventured that with the hair, he could be one of the Weasleys, but Draco had never seen him before.
Nor was he aware that the Weasley bloodline could produce a specimen that looked even remotely
intimidating.

“You Malfoy?” the scarlet stranger asked.

Draco searched his brain for a smartarse retort, but found that his sleep and food deprivation left
his brain in a fog. “Yes,” he replied simply.

And then, without further discussion or warning, the burgundy brute sacked him right in the
stomach. Draco bent nearly in half as the man’s fist connected with his body. With no food in his
stomach, it felt like the punch extended to his spine. Draco wheezed, desperately trying to re-
capture some oxygen in his lungs.

He felt a hand on his shoulder as the man crouched down to meet his gaze. “Stop fucking with
Hermione Granger,” he warned, his face even but resolute. “I can’t say I derive pleasure from
thrashing schoolchildren, but I’m not above it when someone hurts my family. If I hear about it
again, I’ll ensure that your noxious bloodline ends with you. Got it?”

Draco’s mind reeled, unable to focus on anything other than trying to suck in air. He nodded.

“Good,” the man responded, standing up. “As you were then.”

His breathing still ragged, Draco listened as the sound of leaves crunching underfoot grew fainter
and fainter. He eventually righted himself, and slid down the length of the tree until he was in a
sitting position. The irony of getting sucker punched for kicking someone else’s arse in defense of
Granger would’ve been funny if Draco had any capacity for humor anymore.

Fuck this year, he thought as he laid his head down upon the leaf-laden ground.

***

He waited until it was near nightfall and the grounds looked clear before he headed back to the
castle. It had gotten considerably chillier since he had emerged that afternoon, and his breath hung
in front of him in frosty wisps. He cast a warming spell and proceeded to the owlery. He didn’t
feel like going back to the common room yet. He wasn’t ready to face the pillorying he was going
to receive from his friends yet. Particularly not Pansy, who he imagined wouldn’t even bother with
stinging hexes at this point—she’d probably go straight for the blasting charms.

Perseus let out a disappointed hoot when he realized that Draco had not brought him any treats, but
he proceeded to nuzzle the side of Draco’s head anyway.

Draco had alerted his mother that he would be absent for the week, of course. He didn’t need his
friends raising the alarm and causing her any undue stress. She had enough on her mind these
days.

Mother, I need the week to work on my extracurriculars, he had written. Of course, my heart, she
had written back. I will ask Severus to inform the other professors that you will be absent for
family reasons. Draco had humorlessly laughed at the response, wondering how on earth his other
professors would interpret “family reasons,” in the Malfoy context.

His stomach let out a rumble so loud that it spooked Perseus from his post and he took flight.
Draco was so hungry that he felt ill, but he had no appetite. He couldn’t stop thinking about the
vanishing cabinets, Dumbledore, the Dark Lord, and…her.

He had been irate when he left her there shaking on the streets of Hogsmeade. Absolutely blind
with rage. He was convinced that she was, in fact, every bit the sanctimonious, unwavering,
judgmental bitch that he thought she was when they were kids. That she would never see him as
anything than a traitorous, evil Death Eater.

And maybe that was true. But he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. Had they not joked, and
laughed, and smiled? Had she not touched his cheek with the tenderness of someone who cared?
Wasn’t that indicative that like him, she too was changing?

Yes, as the anger from that night dissipated, the image of her once again served as solace and
shelter from the other predatory thoughts that lurked in the darkest parts of his mind.

He closed his eyes and against the lilt of the owls’ hoots and swishing wings, he pictured her face
when she was about to say something clever—the glint she got in her eyes even when she was
trying to play it cool. The feeling of her lips on his, her nails against his neck…

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The voice slashed through Draco’s reverie like a diffindo charm.

Theo.

Draco braced himself to get sacked again as Theo stormed toward him, eyes nearly rolling back in
his head with rage. Normally, Draco could hold his own against his friends, but he would give
Theo a free hit this time. Theo had been wringing his hands this whole semester about Draco’s
wellbeing, and then he just disappeared for a week.

But Theo didn’t move to strike him. He just stood there, eyes wild and face contorted. “Well?” he
bellowed. “What the fuck, Malfoy?”

Draco said nothing, just slowly stood and embraced his friend. Theo allowed it for a second but
then roughly shoved Draco backwards. “No. You don’t get to weasel your way out of this one,
Malfoy,” he said gruffly, his crystal eyes boring into Draco’s. “You fucking pulverize Archie
Innes in Hogsmeade, get into a screaming match with Granger in the street, and then set off into
the night not to be seen again for a week?”

Draco still remained quiet, carefully studying the rage as it danced across Theo’s face.

“No,” Theo scoffed, shaking his head and beginning to pace. “You’ve been so fucking erratic this
year, I—,” he threw up his hands, exasperated. “I went to your mother, Snape, and all I got was
cagey, canned answers about family shite. I even thought about going to McGonagall if I thought
that crusty, old bitch would even give a fuck.”

Theo panted to catch his breath. “Well?!” he shouted.

Draco sighed heavily. It was time to come clean. There weren’t many people in this world that
Draco could fully trust, but Theo was one of them. And at Draco’s request, Theo had received
occlumency lessons from his Aunt Bellatrix over the summer. He wasn’t nearly as good as Draco,
but he could do it in a pinch.

“It’s not just the Mark,” Draco said softly. “The Dark Lord has given me a task.” Theo’s face fell
as he processed the admission.

“A task?” he whispered, his eyes searching. “Like—like collecting some artifact or something?”

Draco scoffed softly. “I’m afraid the Dark Lord doesn’t dole out such simple assignments.” His
eyes lifted back up to meet Theo’s. “It’s bad, mate.”

The color had drained from Theo’s face. “How bad?”

“Oh you know, the usual. Greater than not chance I’ll die in the process. If not, well, my father
and I will likely be spending a lot of quality time together,” Draco responded flippantly. “The Dark
Lord really has a flair for the dramatic.”

Theo looked like he was going to faint. He shook his head as his eyes went glassy. After a few
moments, “Let me help you. Please, Draco. Together we can figure this out.”

“No,” Draco shot back instantly. He grabbed Theo’s shoulder and pulled him in close, meeting his
gaze. “I’m keeping you as far away from this as possible, okay?” He pulled Theo in for another
embrace. “You are my brother, and I will not let you go down because of my father’s fuck up.”

As they pulled apart, Theo’s eyes were slick. “But I’m the older one,” he whispered. “I should be
protecting you.”

Draco squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “And if the shoe were on the other foot, you would be. But
that’s not how the pieces fell, mate.”

Theo nodded solemnly. The two stood in somewhat uncomfortable silence after that, not sure how
to move on from Draco’s disclosure. Finally, Theo shattered the silence.

“And Granger?” he asked.

“Salazar, Theo,” Draco groaned. “We’ve been over this.”

“Not since I watched you beat the piss out of her date at the Three Broomsticks,” Theo observed.

“He was spiking her drink with Merlin knows what kind of potion!” Draco exclaimed. “You were
getting up to intervene right next to me.” Draco glared at his friend hotly.

“Yes,” Theo said slowly. “To intervene, Draco. Not to assault him.”

Draco scoffed. “Whatever, Nott. He deserved it.”

“Not saying he didn’t,” Theo replied agreeably. “What I am saying is that was a pretty intense
reaction for someone that you’re allegedly just playing games with. Someone that you don’t
fancy.”

Draco could feel his jaw click and he stared at Theo as he weighed telling him the truth. What
really happened that night in August. What started it all.

Granger couldn’t tell her friends because they would blow Draco in. Especially Potter. But Theo
didn’t present the same problem for Draco. He would take it to the grave. And Draco desperately
needed to remove some weight from his chest.

“She saved my life this summer,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?” Theo hissed, slack-jawed.

“That night we went out in Muggle London and I left the club. Goyle didn’t punch me. The
fucking oaf tried and tripped over his own troll feet.” Draco chuckled slightly at the memory. “So
I left.”

He took a deep breath. “I was walking down some alley and this guy just attacked me. He was
asking for money, and I dropped my wand. And then he pulled out one of those things we learned
about in Muggle Studies—a gun.”

Theo’s eyes bulged.

“And out of nowhere,” he laughed again, recalling the scene, “comes fucking Granger, wild-eyed
and wand blazing, stupefying and hexing this man into the next century.” Draco laughed wryly.
“I’m telling you mate, she would give Pansy a run for her money.”

A sly grin spread across Theo’s face. “Fuck, that’s incredible. I wish I had seen that.”

“Well, she was underage at the time—sixteen,” Draco explained. “So she gets slapped with a
Ministry disciplinary hearing, but I guess Snape had told her if she testified to the truth, the Dark
Lord would not be pleased with me…to say the least.” Draco sighed. “So she lied. For me. And
she couldn’t just lie to the Ministry—she had to lie to everyone because Potter’s had a hard-on for
me since day one and would’ve ratted me out in a second.”

Theo’s eyes were still wide with wonder as he slowly shook his head. “I mean I always knew
Granger wasn’t someone to fuck with if she had managed to keep Potter and Weasley alive for so
long, but this is next level.”

Draco nodded. “And Potter and Weaselbee froze her out. They’re pissed. They know she’s lying
for me, even if she won’t admit it to them.” Draco took a long breath before continuing. “So I
used that to fuck with her.”

Theo scowled a bit, but Draco recovered quickly. “At first, it was all about getting some level of
control. If I could muck with her other relationships, I still had some level of control in the
situation.” He sighed again, his eyes fluttering closed.

“But?” Theo asked.

“But,” Draco began, slowly peeling his eyes back open. “She’s different than I thought she was.
And I can’t get her out of my head.”

“You fancy her,” Theo replied.

“No,” Draco snorted, as Theo shot him an exasperated look. Draco exhaled loudly. “I don’t
know. It’s not like I want to shag her or think that she’s particularly breathtaking. I mean, I do
want to shag her I guess, but mostly I just want to be around her.” He drew in another long breath.
“And I think about her. All the time.” He shrugged. “So call that what you will.”

Theo chuckled and threw his arm over Draco’s shoulders. “I get that you wouldn’t know this from
only dating Pansy, but there’s more to fancying someone than the physical,” Theo jested.

Draco shoved him lightly. “Come off of it.”

“So what are you going to do?” Theo asked.

“Well, she hates me now, so probably nothing,” Draco responded simply.

“And if she comes around?”

Draco closed his eyes again. “I don’t know. It would never work, and even casually associating
with her just puts both of us in more danger.” He dragged his hand across his eyes. “But if she
suddenly started talking to me again?” He removed his hand, his eyes meeting Theo’s. “I don’t
think I could stay away.”

Theo audibly exhaled.

“Just say it,” Draco said, tilting his head toward his friend.
“You’re fucked, mate,” Theo responded as they both chuckled.

***

Draco returned to classes the following week. Pansy shot him daggers with her eyes, but so far she
had been unable to catch him alone to hex him. Theo and Blaise supplied him with all their notes
and assignments from the prior week, but they weren’t quite up to par with what Draco would’ve
normally done himself.

When he walked into Potions on Monday, he kept his eyes trained forward so as not to make eye
contact with Granger. He still wasn’t sure how to conduct himself around her after their row and
having not seen her for a week. As he settled into his seat next to Theo, Theo leaned over and
whispered, “In case you’re wondering, which I know you are—she doesn’t look angry. She looks
relieved.” And Draco felt some pressure in his chest release.

At the end of Transfiguration on Monday afternoon, Professor McGonagall asked him to stay
behind after the class was dismissed. Trepidation rose in his throat. Did she know something? He
didn’t trust the old witch.

“You missed a week of class with a half-hearted excuse, Mr. Malfoy,” she said once they were
alone in the classroom. “A week of detention, cleaning out Professor Slughorn’s office for his
dinner party next month.” She didn’t even look up from whatever she was writing.

“But I had permission,” he interjected.

She looked up, apparently unamused by his response. “No, Mr. Malfoy, permission would’ve been
you coming to me and alerting me that due to family complications you would be missing a week
of my class. What I received was some secondhand and vague excuse from Professor Snape after
you had missed your second day of classes.” She looked back down and continued writing.

“But—,” he began.

“Your charm may work wonders on Professor Snape, Mr. Malfoy, but it won’t work on me. I am
not changing my mind. But if you would like to keep trying to appeal my decision, I will begin
taking points from Slytherin.”

Draco said nothing more and quickly exited the classroom. Theo is right, he thought, she is a
crusty, old bitch.
 Realization

“Thank you, Hermione,” Ginny whispered on Wednesday at lunch. Harry and Ron had skipped
lunch to furiously finish Transfiguration homework that they had neglected due to their Quidditch
schedule. There was a match against Slytherin on Saturday, so from what Ginny told Hermione
practice was never-ending; however, Ginny still managed to keep up with her schoolwork.

“What for, Gin?” Hermione asked, inhaling a forkful of salad.

“For going to Dumbledore,” Ginny replied.

“Oh.” Hermione winced. “Yeah, of course, Gin. You were right. Thank you.” She smiled
thoughtfully at her friend. “Why are you bringing it up now?”

“Well, Harry told me Malfoy was absent all last week, which I’m guessing means he got a
suspension. And then I heard that he has detention all this week cleaning Professor Slughorn’s
office.” Ginny took a bite of her chicken sandwich.

“How did you hear he had detention?” Hermione asked in earnest.

Mouth full of sandwich, Ginny responded. “I heard it from Neville, who heard it from Luna, who
heard it from Cho, who heard it from Michael, who heard it from Astoria.”

Hermione chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Have to love that gossip grape vine,” she said, taking
another stab at her salad.

“Personally, I’m surprised he didn’t get more,” Ginny continued, taking another large bite. “But
I’ll take what we can get. Hopefully he’ll leave you alone now.”

“Yeah,” Hermione responded softly. Her eyes flickered to the Slytherin table. As always, Draco
sat with Blaise and Theo, but he didn’t appear to be making much conversation. He was mostly
staring at his food.

She was still so angry with him. But her concern found cracks in her anger and seeped through,
taunting her with images of him being tortured by Voldemort. She sighed, and put down her fork,
having lost her appetite.

“I’m going to head to the library, Gin,” she said.

“Want me to come with?” Ginny asked, increasing the speed with which she consumed her
sandwich.

“No, that’s okay,” she laughed, squeezing her friend’s shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later,
okay?”

Ginny nodded vigorously, and Hermione took another long look at the Slytherin table before the
departed.

***

She was doing her prefect rounds alone, as she had done since her fight with Ron weeks earlier.
She didn’t mind having the time to herself; she loved the stillness of the castle at night. It was
romantic in its placidity. She would envision what it must have been like centuries ago; she
pictured beautiful, antiquated robes and stolen kisses in the corridors; like Hogwarts set in one of
her Jane Austen novels.

A shrill voice broke her out of her fantasy. “Granger!”

Hermione turned around just in time to dodge a stunning spell. What the hell?

“You think you can sneak around with my boyfriend and get away with it, you Mudblood whore?”
the voice shrieked.

Pansy.

She lobbed another stunning spell at Hermione, which she again deftly avoided. Hermione tried to
hit Pansy with an expelliarmus, but her balance was off and she missed.

“The kiss was just a joke, Pansy!” Hermione yelled. “I promise you there is nothing going on
between Malfoy and me!”

“LIAR!” Pansy roared, a stinging hex exiting her wand. Hermione deflected it with a protego
spell. “I’m not blind, Granger!” she shrieked, tears springing from her eyes. “I can see the way he
looks at you!”

The way he looks at me? Hermione had suspected a certain softening in Malfoy in the weeks
leading up to the incident in Hogsmeade, but she had been wrong in that. His behavior actions at
the Three Broomsticks proved that. She shook the thought away. Pansy was, after all, insane.

Another stinging hex. It bounced off of Granger’s protego shield.

“And at the Three Broomsticks? When he kicked Innes’s arse for spiking your drink when you
were in the loo? He wouldn’t do that for someone he doesn’t care about!” she wailed.

“What?!” Hermione gasped. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT.

In her distraction, her protego shield dissolved and one of Pansy’s stinging hexes grazed her
shoulder.

“Ah!” Hermione recoiled. It felt like her shoulder was hit with electric pinpricks.

What did she say? Hermione’s mind raced like a runaway train and she advanced on Pansy, hitting
her with impediment jinx after impediment jinx, until Pansy had been knocked clean over.

Wand aimed inches from Pansy’s rage- and tear-soaked face, Hermione growled, “What did you
say about Archie at the Three Broomsticks?”

“Are you deaf, Granger? Innes tried to drug your ugly arse. He probably took one look at your
matronly getup and assumed you were a fucking prude,” she spat. “Little did he know you’re a
fucking slag who shags other peoples’ boyfriends.”

Hermione could hear her heartbeat like it was pounding in her head. She staggered several feet
backwards, as vertigo set it. Malfoy did that to Archie…to protect her? She struggled to breathe as
her chest constricted.

“So you admit it?” Pansy said, her voice deflated.

“What?” Hermione asked. She couldn’t focus. She shook her head. “No, no, no.” Pansy is lying.
But why would she lie about this?
…She’s not lying. They saw Archie put something in my drink. Her pulse raced. And Malfoy…

Hermione hadn’t noticed Pansy had gotten to her feet until her wand was in Hermione’s face.

Shite.

“EXPELLIARMUS!” a voice boomed.

Both witches’ wands flew from their hands. Hermione’s eyes shot upward to see Professor
McGonagall rushing down the stairs. “What in Godric’s name is going on here?!” she cried.

For a moment neither witch said anything, but finally Hermione found her voice. “I was doing my
prefect rounds,” she choked out. “And Pansy attacked me.”

“She’s shagging my boyfriend!” Pansy retorted instantly.

Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows shot up, and Hermione suddenly wanted to die of
embarrassment.

“And that would be whom?” Professor McGonagall queried, her tone rankled.

Pansy’s expression turned incredulous, as if anyone in this school didn’t realize that Malfoy
belonged to her. “Draco Malfoy,” she supplied plainly.

With that, Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows nearly met her hairline. “Well, even if that were true,
Miss Parkinson, which I very much doubt,” she said, barely concealing an amused smile. “that
does not justify hexing another student. As a prefect, no less. Fifty points will be taken from
Slytherin.”

Pansy huffed and crossed her arms, shooting Hermione a venomous look.

“I will escort you back to the Slytherin dorms, Miss Parkinson,” Professor McGonagall said.
“Miss Granger, I trust you will head directly back to Gryffindor’s dorms?” she asked, returning
Hermione’s wand.

“Yes, Professor, of course,” Hermione obliged. She walked slowly toward the Gryffindor portrait
until Professor McGonagall and Pansy had disappeared from sight. And then she turned heel and
sprinted to Professor Slughorn’s office.

***

Her pulse raced and her hands were clammy as she made her way through the corridor. He was
defending me. Her mind was awash with adrenaline; she felt dizzy. And she needed to find him.

She wrenched open the door to Professor Slughorn’s office, and Malfoy’s head snapped toward
her. His gaze met hers, and her blood turned to fire. She strode across the room, and before he
could react, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her lips to his.
 Knowing

Draco wasn’t sure who he was expecting to see when the door to the office flew open at nearly
midnight, but it wasn’t her. Her expression was both wild and determined, and when she glided
toward him, he got goosebumps. When she kissed him, stars exploded under his skin.

Like before, he was wrapped in her scent: honey, lemon, and parchment. Her lips were like velvet.
Only, unlike last time, she didn’t immediately pull away. Her mouth was hungry against his and
her nails snaked through his hair. He felt like he was gripping a live wire. And he never wanted to
let go.

Her mouth broke from his as she placed a feather-light kiss under his ear, and then continued along
his jawline. Spots clouded his vision and he collapsed against the wall behind them. “You know,
Granger,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “If you’re trying to get me in trouble with Pansy, it
defeats the purpose if we snog in private.”

He felt her take a step back, and his eyes locked on hers. They were blazing. “I know, Malfoy,”
she said, “I know about Archie. I know why you did it.” They stood in thick stillness for several
seconds, the silence punctuated by the resounding thuds of their hearts against their ribcages.
Draco felt like he was going to burst through his own skin.

He scooped her up with one arm as they tumbled backwards into the wall behind her. His lips
moved against hers as his hands cupped her face. She weaved an arm around his waist and pulled
him closer to her; he could feel her hip bones cutting into him and his breath hitched in his throat.
Each and every one of his senses was screaming. It was deafening. It was the most intoxicating
chaos he had ever experienced.

He moved one of his hands to the back of her neck and dipped her head back as his mouth worked
down the length of her neck and to her collarbone. He retraced his path back up the other side of
her neck, capturing her earlobe in his mouth and flicking it lightly with his tongue.

“Malfoy,” she gasped.

His knees buckled when his name escaped her lips, and he had to brace himself with one arm
against the wall. “Fuck, Granger,” he whispered into her neck.

She hummed and slowly traced one hand from his hipbone, up his abdomen and chest, and to his
neck, tickling just where his neck met his jaw. His whole body shivered. He wanted to melt into
her. He lowered his mouth to her collarbone again, lightly sucking it until he reached her shoulder.

“Ach,” she inhaled sharply, and her hand flew to her shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked, jerking his head up, and peeling her shirt from her shoulder. A deep purple
bruise covered her small shoulder. Draco felt his chest tighten. “What is that from?” he growled.

“Pansy clipped me with one of her stinging hexes,” she replied, inspecting the bruise. “Better that
than my face though. Guess the bookworm has better reflexes than the seeker,” she teased.

Draco chuckled, planting a soft kiss on her injured shoulder. “Or the bookworm is just smaller,” he
murmured, dotting the shoulder with another barely-there kiss. He stepped away, drawing his
wand. “C’mon, let me clean that up,” he said, peeling her shirt back from her shoulder farther. He
willed himself to keep his eyes on her shoulder, but felt them start to trace the line of her bra strap
down to…
“Eyes forward, Malfoy,” she chided playfully.

He diligently went about casting a healing charm, until the bruise was merely a faint yellow. He
tugged her shirt back over her shoulder, letting his hand linger on the side of her neck while his
thumb traced patterns against her cheekbone.

“How’d you manage an escape?” he asked softly.

She smiled mischievously. “I impedimenta’ed her until she fell flat on her arse.”

Draco howled. The idea of Pansy getting whipped at her own game by a Muggle-born witch was a
heady image. “You better watch yourself, Granger. She’ll be out for blood now,” Draco said.

“Add her to the growing list of people who hate me,” she jested, still grinning proudly. “Professor
McGonagall caught us though. She took fifty points from Slytherin—sorry.”

Draco chuckled again. “I couldn’t give a shit,” he said, pulling her in for another kiss. Her arms
wrapped around his neck as she tugged gently at his hair. His hands flew to her waist, reveling in
the sensation of her in his hands. He pulled her hips against his as their kiss deepened, tongues
dancing against each other.

A noise near the front of the room. “Oh, er, my apologies. I was just came in here for—well,
nevermind,” Professor Slughorn stammered sheepishly as he fled the room.

An unsteady silence enveloped the room. Draco laughed and then looked at Granger, who was
grimacing. “Well,” Draco huffed, “this will certainly make Potions interesting.” He planted a final
kiss to her neck. “Let’s go, Granger, before we’re both stripped of our prefect badges.”

***

Draco was surprised to find a number of Slytherins still awake in the common room when he
dragged himself in there shortly after 12:30AM. His skin was still hot where her lips had touched
it, and he felt goosebumps where her fingers had grazed his scalp. And the intensity in her eyes…
he wanted to have that image tattooed in his brain.

“What the hell happened to you, mate?” Blaise asked, looking up from his Defense Against Dark
Arts homework. Draco realized that his and Granger’s tryst had left him predictably but
uncharacteristically disheveled. If he had been able think about anything other than the taste of her
skin and the sound of her heart beating against his chest, he would’ve stopped at one of the
bathrooms to freshen up before returning to the common room.

“Have you seen Slughorn’s office before? I don’t think the loon has ever thrown out a single thing
he’s ever owned,” Draco sighed, collapsing into one of the arm chairs. “I knocked over a great pile
of rubbish when I was cleaning potion bottles and barely escaped with my life.” He closed his eyes
in feigned exhaustion, finding it easier to sell this story if he didn’t make eye contact.

“Sure you weren’t just shagging your Mudblood whore?” a sour voice from the other side of the
room chided.

“Fuck off, Pansy,” Draco responded plainly, eyes still closed. “This trope is getting old. I’m not
shagging Granger.”

It technically wasn’t a lie.

Draco opened his mouth to continue. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, his brain warned. But
he said it anyway because he felt…fucking proud. “You’re just mad that she knocked the shite out
of you in a duel not more than an hour ago.”

“WHAT?” Blaise howled, one of his textbooks tumbling from his lap and landing on the floor with
a resounding thwack. Draco could hear Theo snort beside him. He could envision Theo slowly
shaking his head, and burying himself in whatever book he was reading, hoping to avoid the
fallout.

Blaise erupted into raucous laughter. “Losing our touch are we, Pans?”

Draco didn’t have to open his eyes to see Pansy’s face. It was shriveled tight in anger and hurt,
probably six shades of red. “How do you—,” she began.

“Portraits can’t stop talking about it,” Draco supplied plainly. Blaise erupted into more laughter
and taunts.

“Fuck you, Draco,” she spat, crossing the room. “We’re done—I’m serious this time. Have fun
with your filthy, fucking Mudblood slut.” He could hear Daphne’s shoes clicking rapidly after
Pansy. She was approaching the back of his chair. He kept his eyes shut.

“Wait until your parents find out you’re a Blood Traitor!” He could feel her breath on his cheek.
He shifted, not wanting it to sour the smell of Granger on his skin.

“Go ahead and tell them, Pans, they’ll never believe you,” Draco replied simply. “And it won’t
bring you any closer to being the next lady of Malfoy Manor.”

“HOO!” Blaise bellowed loudly and clapped his hands. “Damn, Pansy, you’re zero for two
tonight.”

Draco waited for the inevitable flurry of hexes, but McGonagall must have temporarily taken
custody of her wand. Instead, after several tense seconds of silence, he felt her grab a fistful of his
hair and yanked his head backward. His eyes rolled open and her serpentine gaze flooded his field
of vision. Her emerald irises glowed like a chemical fire.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” she hissed, “but eventually you’ll get sick of
digging through the trash, and I won’t be here waiting for you.”

“Promise?” Draco retorted.

“Who are you?” Pansy seethed before storming up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories.

A thick silence settled over the common room. Draco watched as several wide-eyed Third Year
boys scrambled toward the dormitories, probably traumatized for life. Pansy had that effect on
people.

“Well,” Blaise whistled. “That was a treat to watch.”

Draco scoffed.

“No, really,” Blaise continued, still chuckling. “That last bit was inspired. I’m actually aroused.”

Draco watched as Theo rolled his eyes, his gaze still artificially focused on the book in front of
him.

“How long until you two are having a rage-fueled make-up go around?” Blaise chaffed, finally
retrieving his book from the floor.

Draco groaned. “Not going to happen. I’m done dipping my quill in that ink,” he responded.
Theo threw his head back and cackled.

“He says now,” Blaise quipped. “Next thing we know, someone’s cast a muffiliato and
disillusionment charm over one of the common room alcoves.” He began to thumb through his
book again. “Theo—what do you say, mate? Wager on it?”

Theo’s eyes shot to Draco, knowing but contemplative. “Yeah, sure. I’ll take that bet. Two
galleons.” Blaise and Theo reached over Draco to shake on it.

“Are you two quite done?” Draco sighed.

“Yeah, but I’ve got two galleons saying you’re not,” Blaise winked.

“Salazar,” Draco groaned, throwing his head back. “If this is the best company you two have to
offer—.”

“Why, you know of better company for the night?” Blaise taunted, his eyes alight with innuendo.

“Stop encouraging him,” Theo said, exasperated. “Pansy is barking mad. The inbreeding made
her loonier than a shithouse rat. She’s going to kill him one of these days,” he said, shooting a
quick glance at Draco, “and then we’re next, Blaise.” Blaise laughed heartily.

“Well at least she’s starting with the brains and beauty of the operation,” Draco mused, pulling
himself out of the armchair. “But I’m hitting the sack.” He could sense Blaise beginning to open
his mouth “And I swear on the Malfoy name, Blaise, if I hear one more smartarse remark come out
of your mouth, I will avada you on the spot.”

Blaise and Theo chuckled as he left the room.

***

As always, laying down to sleep was Draco’s least favorite part of the day. When he couldn’t keep
his mind busy with schoolwork and Quidditch, his mind had nowhere to hide from the images that
haunted him. Dumbledore lying dead at his feet. His mother crying. Azkaban. His father’s
withered form. The Cruciatus Curse. The Dark Lord’s eyes.

But tonight as he ran from them, he sought refuge in visions of Granger, who shielded him from the
darkness with her light.
 Defensive

Hermione was uncommonly anxious the next morning as she headed to Potions. She tried to tell
herself it was because they would be trying their poison-detecting potion for the final time, and
she, Neville, and Dean still hadn’t gotten it quite right.

But that, of course, was a farce. She was anxious because she had spent the previous evening
snogging Draco Malfoy in Professor Slughorn’s office—and he had caught them. However, it
wasn’t even Professor Slughorn’s potential consternation that plagued her mind as much as what
the events of last night meant.

It had been impulsive; the result of overwhelming shock, relief, and adrenaline. But was it a one-
time thing? Or was last night the dam breaking? Did he fancy her, or was this just a bragging right
to tell his Slytherin cohorts? Did she fancy him, or was she just lonely? Even if they did fancy
each other, what then? They would have to sneak around, certainly. Until when?

Her mind raced.

Suddenly, her Potions book fell from her desk. As she leaned over to pick it up, her eyes met his
for several stuttering seconds.

“Granger,” he said softly, also wrapping his hands around her book. She felt one of his hands over
hers, his thumb grazing her knuckles and then pushing a small piece of parchment into the palm of
her hand. He flashed her a near imperceptible smile as he stood up and continued to walk toward
his seat at the front of his classroom. Theo Nott followed him, and Hermione swore he winked at
her as he walked by.

She quietly unwrapped the parchment, careful to shield it from Neville’s view.

Owlery – Saturday after Quidditch – 8pm.

She smiled.

***

Much to Hermione’s delight, the potion she created with Neville and Dean reacted perfectly with
the poisoned drink, earning much praise from Professor Slughorn. Thus, when he requested that
she stay behind after class, her mind did not immediately fly to the events of the previous night.
Although, given that he did not also ask Dean and Neville to stay should have tipped her off.

“Miss Granger,” he sighed, his tone resigned. “We need to talk about last night.”

Her skin turned prickly and she felt like she could physically taste the humiliation in her mouth.
Was he going to tell Dumbledore? Or worse—Snape and McGonagall, as their heads of house? If
Professor McGonagall discovered that Hermione was snogging Malfoy—let alone snogging him
mere minutes after she rejected such an allegation from Pansy—Hermione thought she might have
to drop out of school on her own accord.

“Professor—,” she began. But she stopped, realizing that she had no acceptable explanation for
what he witnessed. Sensing her hesitation, he continued.

“Draco Malfoy is the son of a well-known and disgraced Death Eater. I’m not sure he is someone
with whom you want to be associated.” Hermione felt a flash of disdain for her otherwise favored
professor. Despite the evident and genuine concern in his voice, it wasn’t his place to pass
judgment on and ostracize another student.

“With all due respect, Professor, Draco Malfoy is not his father,” she responded.

“There are rumors that he has also taken the Mark,” Professor Slughorn countered.

“Rumors, Professor,” Hermione replied immediately, feeling her face go flush. When did she
become so comfortable with lying that she would do so to a professor without even thinking?

“You do understand that his family subscribes to an ideology that believes Muggle-born witches
such as yourself are inferior—not fit to practice magic?” he asked.

“Of course I understand,” she replied, aware of her increasingly defensive tone. “But we don’t get
to choose the families in which we are born. You cannot ascribe someone’s family’s beliefs onto
them—sometimes they have no choice as to what they must accept.”

The words tumbled out of Hermione’s mouth without discretion. It was completely illogical; she
had no proof that Malfoy’s views on Muggle-born witches and wizards had changed at all, other
than his apparent softening toward her. But she knew taking the Mark was out of Malfoy’s
control, and she suspected that if more people had stuck up for Draco Malfoy during his life, he
wouldn’t be in the position he was today.

“For your sake, Miss Granger, I hope you are correct,” Professor Slughorn responded. “But my
warning still stands. And please don’t get any ideas about bringing him to my dinner party,” he
said. “I won’t entertain Death Eaters along with my other students.”

Hermione nodded, and rose to exit the classroom. Her hand on the door, Professor Slughorn
addressed her one last time.

“Some wizards place a lot of emphasis on Pureblood status. But just because blood is pure,
doesn’t mean that it’s not bad.”

***

Hermione marched out of Professor Slughorn’s office indignant. She did care for the aged
professor, and his concern seemed genuine. But what kind of teacher blames a student for his
parents’ transgressions? Was the job of a professor not to look out and care for his students? And
instead Professor Slughorn shuns him? Did Malfoy have anyone looking out for him other than
perhaps Snape?

That familiar mix of sorrow and anger that struck her back at the Burrow in August rose like bile in
her throat.

She was nearly to the library for her study hall period when a force propelled her backwards, and
she stumbled into an unfamiliar and cramped broom closet. “What the—,” she cried before a hand
closed over her mouth. Her gaze shot upward, meeting Malfoy’s sterling eyes. She glared at him
as he removed his hand.

“You know, Malfoy, if you want to talk to me, you can just ask. I think we’ve crossed that
threshold,” she said, straightening out her robes.

“What did Slughorn want?” he asked plainly.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied, aware of the disingenuous tone in her voice. “He just wanted to
compliment me on the success of the potion that Neville, Dean, and I made.”

“Liar,” he returned.

Hermione sighed, and tried to avoid Malfoy’s gaze. But he placed a gentle finger under her chin
and lifted her eyes to meet his. “Granger?” he asked.

“He wanted to caution against associations with suspected Death Eaters,” Hermione said quickly,
ripping off the verbal band aid.

Malfoy nodded slowly. “And did he make a compelling case?” he responded evenly. His facial
expression remained steely, but Hermione saw something in his eyes falter—doubt, regret,
sadness. She couldn’t quite place it. Since last year, rumors that Malfoy was an Occlumens spread
through the school like wildfire. Unsurprisingly, his ability to cloud the emotions in his mind also
applied to his capacity to mask those that would normally appear on his face.

But she had spent the past few months studying Malfoy—more than she would like to admit—and
she could read that something was wrong. At a minimum, hurt that a respected professor would try
to keep other students away from him. She felt her righteous anger return.

“Well?” Malfoy asked again. His finger was still under her chin, and she was suddenly aware of
how claustrophobic the room was—and how close their bodies were. She could feel the heat
radiating between them.

“Not compelling enough,” she replied brusquely, grabbing Malfoy’s tie and pulling his head down
to meet hers as she stood on her toes, their lips connecting. He quickly pulled her into him, his
tongue delicately tracing her lower lip.

One of her hands tangled in his loose, blonde locks, while the other slid from his tie to the side of
his neck. He picked her up slightly, and braced her back against the wall. “You’re full of
surprises, Granger,” he growled into her neck as he peppered it with kisses.

Her pulse was racing so fast she thought she might flatline, and her blood felt like it was boiling
under her skin. She was wrapped in his scent: teakwood, mahogany, and spearmint; and it made
her gloriously dizzy. He once again brought his tongue to the sensitive spot under her ear, and
then began teasing her earlobe. She was drowning in her high.

“Godric,” she gushed, breathless. He groaned and pressed her harder against the wall, his thumbs
snaking under her shirt and sketching circles in her hipbones. She captured his mouth once more.
It felt frantic, hungry. More, her mind was screaming at her.

She pecked small kisses at the side of his mouth before moving down his chin, and finally to his
neck where she traced gentle lines with her tongue. She continued to focus on his neck, savoring
the sound of his ragged breathing. His hands shifted, as his thumbs reached higher, tickling her
ribcage.

She squirmed and squeaked as his fingers continued to delicately dance against her ribs.
“Ticklish?” he rasped. She chuckled into his neck as he grasped her tighter, his thumbs continuing
to tease the sensitive skin between her ribs. He slowly guided one hand across her waist to her
bare back, and slowly dragged his fingers down her spine. She gasped and shivered, her hips
rolling against him.

“Granger,” he whispered hoarsely. She moved up his neck, and flicked his earlobe with her
tongue, directing a huff of air into his ear. His whole body shuddered. “Fuck,” he groaned. His
grip on her loosened, and she felt her toes touch the ground again.

Their eyes met. “Salazar, Granger,” he chuckled, breathless. “You’re going to be the death of me,
you know that?”

“I could think of worse ways to go,” she responded, smiling.

He grinned back, shaking his head lightly. “But,” he began, checking his watch, “I have Defense
Against Dark Arts in ten minutes.” He straightened.

“That still gives us a couple minutes,” Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself. She
was horrified. Now you’ve done it, she scolded herself. You sound like a desperate dog in heat.
But she couldn’t help it. Snogging Malfoy was intoxicating. Her skin felt electric; she felt like she
could cast the world’s most powerful spell without the use of a wand.

He threw his head back and laughed. Hermione felt her cheeks flush, humiliated. “I would love
nothing more than to extend this,” he whispered, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “But I need
that time to, well, compose myself.” His eyes drifted downward to his trousers.

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, following his gaze. “I’m sorry!”

He laughed again. “Why are you apologizing?” he asked, trailing a line of soft kisses down her
neck. “Take it as a compliment.” His eyes locked on hers while he dragged his thumb across her
cheekbone. “Now get out of here before I have to be late.” He smiled at her, which she returned.

She opened the closet door slightly, checking that no one was coming.

“Granger?” he said, as she started to exit the closet. She turned her head to meet his gaze. “Does
this mean you’ll be wearing green to Saturday’s match?”

“Not this time, Malfoy,” she quipped, before closing the door and disappearing.

***

Later that evening, as Hermione was prepping for another night of prefect rounds, she sensed a
quiet presence behind her. She turned to find Ron standing in silence behind her.

“Hey, Ron,” she said disinterestedly. “I’ll do rounds again tonight—I don’t mind. But can you do
it tomorrow? I have some Runes homework I’ll need to catch up on.”

He cleared his throat nervously. “Actually,” he hesitated slightly and she heard him shift. “I was
thinking maybe we could do rounds together tonight?”

Hermione stood stock still and held her breath while she contemplated how to respond. A visceral
part of her wanted to scream at him and tell him to sod off—he couldn’t just nonchalantly insert
himself back into her life after weeks of ignoring her save for shooting her dirty looks. But the
larger part of her was tired of fighting and frankly, missed his companionship.

“That’d be nice, Ron,” she replied, trying to mask the tension in her voice.

“Yeah?” he said, his face brightening.

“It’ll be nice to have company,” she smiled.

“Brilliant,” he responded. “Let me grab my wand and I’ll be ready to go.”

***

Neither of them spoke for the first ten minutes; they seemed to settle into an uncomfortable silence
as they drifted through the corridors. But somewhere around the Grey Lady, Ron began to
noticeably fidget.

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” he said immediately, but then faltered. “Well, no,” he followed up quickly. Hermione
looked at him quizzically. His fidgeting increased. “Well, I wanted to do rounds with you so we
could…talk.”

“Okay,” Hermione responded slowly.

Ron took a deep breath. “Look, I can’t say I’m sorry for the way I reacted to hearing about the
Malfoy thing,” he said, getting noticeably more relaxed as he spoke. “But I would like to call a
truce…between you and me,” he sighed. “I’m tired of being angry, and I understand that you and I
weren’t together or anything, and I believe you that the kiss was just a one-time thing to mess with
him.”

Hermione winced internally.

“And, honestly, ‘Mione, I just miss you.”

They had stopped walking. She could feel Ron’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. She
didn’t know what to say; on one hand, she wanted nothing more than to have one of her best
friends back. She craved a return to normalcy. On the other hand, Malfoy had been right all those
weeks ago in the library; she had spent the past five years devoting herself to Ron and Harry, and
they had abandoned her when she needed them most.

There was also the further complication of where her relationship with Ron left off, and where her
relationship with Malfoy currently stood…

As if picking up on her apprehension, Ron continued, “I’m not suggesting anything other than…
friends. Not saying that I don’t still have feelings for you. But things are so complicated now, and
I just miss my friend.”

Hermione finally summoned the courage to look him in the eye, and she felt her resolve begin to
melt. In his eyes she saw the boy who had talked her through life-sized wizards’ chess. The boy
who tried to curse Malfoy the first time he called her a Mudblood. Who held her when Buckbeak
was executed. Who battled at her side at the Department of Mysteries.

She smiled at him warmly and squeezed his arm. “I’m tired of fighting, too, Ron,” she said
honestly.

He let out a relieved exhale and laugh. “Great,” he said brightly. “Because if I’m being honest
with you, ‘Mione, I also need to talk to you about Harry.” They continued walking. “He’s in such
a bad spot. And he’s become completely obsessed with—.”

A familiar voice sliced through their conversation.

“Don’t you know that inter-species relationships have been banned at Hogwarts since 1810?” it
asked in an icy tone.

The edges of her vision went fuzzy and her blood turned icy. I thought we were past this, she
thought. Or is he still playing games? There was a low, but overpowering humming in her brain
that drowned out all other noise. Is that all the stolen kisses in Slughorn’s office and the closet
were—a game?

Wait—that was you, Hermione. You initiated both of those. The humming in her head settled to a
low roar. Maybe he’s just keeping up appearances.

Ron whipped around. “How dare you talk about her like that, Malfoy,” he hissed, beginning to
draw his wand.

“I wasn’t referring to her, Weasel,” he responded. Hermione suppressed a smile as she saw the
familiar glimmer in his eye when he knew he had just said something clever.

“We’re just doing our prefect rounds,” Hermione interjected before Ron could respond to Malfoy’s
jab.

“You don’t say?” he said, feigning contemplation. “Well, so am I. What do you say I join you
two?”

“Hmm, let me think,” Ron said, his voice poisonous. “I would say shove off, Malfoy.” Ron
stomped forward, grabbing Hermione’s arm and dragging her along. She saw Malfoy’s jaw twitch
and his posture go rigid, his eyes laser-focused on Ron’s gruff grip on her arm, her skin reddening
around his fingers.

“Don’t drag her around like a ragdoll, you dumb brute,” Malfoy hissed.

Ron turned around, his expression feral and wand drawn. “I said shove off, Malfoy,” Ron seethed.
“Why don’t you go do rounds with your hag girlfriend?”

“Merlin, you two are prefects—,” Hermione tried to interrupt, but was cut off by Malfoy’s
immediate response.

“Pansy’s not my girlfriend,” Malfoy said evenly, continuing to keep pace with Ron and Hermione.
“And she is currently on prefect probation, courtesy of Granger here.” Hermione detected a slight
smirk as Malfoy said it.

“What?” Ron asked, turning to Hermione. “What does he mean?”

“Well,” Hermione began, trying to bury her grin. “She threw some stinging hexes and stunning
spells at me last night when I did my rounds. I was able to quell her with some impediment hexes,
but Professor McGonagall saw it and she—well—she was not at all pleased.”

Hermione realized they had again stopped walking, and Ron’s eyes were wide with astonishment
and admiration. “’Mione!” he exclaimed. “That’s incredible.” Their regular pace continued,
Malfoy still at their side. “Why was she hexing you?”

“You know why, Weasel,” Malfoy responded smoothly. “Because I’m irresistible. Even Granger
had to give me a test run.” He skipped a few strides ahead of Ron and Hermione, exaggeratedly
winking at them.

Hermione sighed. Here we go.

Ron’s face became contorted with rage. “You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy,” he snarled. He once
again drew his wand, but before he could utter a single syllable of a spell, Malfoy had disarmed
him and twirled Ron’s wand in his left hand, bored.
Ron approached him and snatched his wand back out of Draco’s hand. “Fuck you, Malfoy,” he
growled.

“Tsk, tsk, Weasel. If anything, you should be thanking me. With the way you cast spells, I
probably just saved you from shitting slugs for a week.”

Ron lunged at Malfoy, but Hermione threw herself in between them. It was a mistake. She should
have used her wand instead of her body.

Her eyes were locked on Ron’s, which were etched with horror as he realized he was going to crash
into her instead of Malfoy. The impact of his body against hers sent her reeling backwards. Much
like Malfoy, Ron was nearly a foot taller than her, and the force of his body against hers instantly
knocked the wind out of her.

She scrambled to get her arms under her to break her fall. But another force hoisted her up
roughly, and pushed her away from the melee.

Malfoy.

Ron hurtled to the floor, with nothing there to break his fall. Malfoy was on him an instant,
dragging Ron to his feet before he could gather his limbs back under him. Malfoy drew his fist
back, ready to drive it into Ron’s face.

Despite barely having enough oxygen in her lungs to breathe, Hermione screamed. “STOP!
PLEASE, DRACO!”

His head snapped instantly to face her, his hair disheveled and his eyes untamed. For a few tense
heartbeats, he did nothing but stare at her, his fist still raised. But then the torrent in his eyes
calmed. He nodded once, slowly, and lowered his fist.

And then it happened.

CRACK.

Ron’s fist landed across Malfoy’s face, splitting the skin where it made contact. Malfoy took a few
stumbling steps backwards. He touched his clipped cheek and blood blossomed across his lithe
fingers. He smirked when he looked at it, but he didn’t advance on Ron. “That the best you can
do Weasel? Your punches are weaker than your spell work.”

The last syllable had barely tumbled from Malfoy’s lips when Ron charged forward.

Hermione didn’t make the same mistake twice. “Petrificus totalus!” she shouted. Both wizards
froze in place. Eyes wide, they looked at her.

“Are we quite done now?” she seethed. “For Godric’s sake, you are both prefects. And sixth-
years. Act like it.”

She took a deep breath and straightened out her robes. “Malfoy, I am going to mobilize you first.
And when I do, you will say nothing and head straight back to the Slytherin common room. Ron, I
will then mobilize you, and we will head to our common room together. You will not make any
more attempted assaults on Malfoy. Am I understood?

They, of course, said nothing.

“Glad we’re in agreement,” she said and released Malfoy from the body-bind. Shaking off the
spell, he started to walk back toward the Slytherin common room. He shot a virulent look at Ron,
but then turned his head toward Hermione as he strode past her and grinned.

“Still on for Saturday, Granger?” he whispered. She stifled a smile and thumbed the small piece of
parchment in her robe pocket.
 Drowning

The common room appeared deserted when Malfoy ducked back in. He strode toward one of the
windows and peered into the murkiness of the Black Lake, and pictured himself drowning in it.
The burning in his lungs. The seizing in his chest. The blood pounding in his brain.

Then it flashed before him. The gleam in the Dark Lord’s black eyes as he Marked him. The lilt
in his voice as he accorded Draco his task. The tear curving across his mother’s cheekbone.

The fear etched in Granger’s face when he held his fist above Weasley. Would that be the
expression she bore when they were discovered? When she was thrown at the Dark Lord’s feet
while Draco was crucio’ed behind her? Would they torture her—the Mudblood who seduced the
Malfoy heir? Would they keep her captive? Would they—

Stop. He occluded, picturing that familiar landscape with the heather and juniper trees swaying in
the breeze. A cottage on a hill, with Granger tucked safely inside. But when she passed the
window, her face was full of terror. It was branded in his brain.

He looked back out at the lake water, wishing he was sinking in it. At least that would make
sense. Now he was just drowning on dry land.

“What am I doing?” he whispered to himself. Or so he thought.

“Got something you want to share with the class, princess?” queried the slow hum of Blaise’s
voice.

Draco’s stomach tensed and his pulse raced, but he quickly collected himself before he turned to
face his friend.

“Funny,” Draco mused. “I don’t see anyone with class here.” He tucked his hand in his pockets
and leaned against the wall.

Blaise chuckled softly. He was stretched out on one of the couches, a book open in his hand. Not
an assignment—a novel. Draco couldn’t quite make out the title.

“Oi, what the fuck happened to your face?” Blaise asked.

Oh, right.

“Weasel punched me,” Draco responded matter-of-factly, his fingers dusting over the wound,
which had started to congeal.

Blaise’s eyebrow quirked. “Because you’re shagging his girl?”

“She’s not his girl,” Draco shot back before he could stop himself. Blaise’s eyebrows arched
further upward.

Wrong answer.

“And I’m not shagging her,” Draco recovered.

“Okay—just snogging then?” Blaise replied, a grin blossoming across his face.

“I’m done talking about Granger,” Draco said, his voice severe. He didn’t necessarily need to keep
this from Blaise; he had never been as rigid when it came to blood status as Draco had been. As far
as they knew, Blaise had pureblood lineage on both sides, but Zabini was not a Sacred Twenty-
Eight. There was no pressure on Blaise to preserve his lineage, and he had a penchant for sleeping
around with women of all blood statuses—even Muggles.

So if Draco told Blaise that he now found himself devastatingly captivated by Muggle-born
Granger, Blaise wouldn’t care. And if Draco told him such information was not to be passed
around, he trusted Blaise to keep his mouth shut.

But the image of Granger’s panicked expression tormented him, and the more people who knew
about his feelings just brought them closer to the moment when the Dark Lord would discover
Draco’s betrayal to his bloodline.

Blaise wisely moved on. “I hope you at least gave as good as you got,” he said, rising from the
couch to join Draco at the window.

At an earlier point in his life, Draco would’ve lied to save face—made up an elaborate story of how
he had wailed Weaselbee until he was whimpering for his Blood Traitor mother. But Draco was
tired.

“No,” he said simply.

“Seriously?” Blaise asked, an astonished yet contemplative expression clouding his face. “Why
not?”

“It’s complicated,” Draco exhaled.

“It always is with you,” Blaise grinned. He pulled his wand out and began to apply a healing
charm to Draco’s face.

“What are you doing up anyway?” Draco asked.

“Reading,” Blaise supplied plainly, finishing the healing charm. Draco gingerly touched the spot
where Weasel’s fist had connected with his face. Still tender and slightly raised, but better.

“Smart arse,” he responded.

“Learned from the best,” Blaise smirked, tucking his wand back in his robe. He turned slightly to
face the window. He was quiet. Draco studied him, but said nothing.

“My mum received a visit from the Dark Lord yesterday,” Blaise said finally, his voice barely
above a whisper.

Draco was drowning again, his chest seizing and lungs screaming for air. No, he thought. This
doesn’t make sense. Blaise’s mother had a habit of marrying dark wizards, including former Death
Eaters, but she was not one herself. How was she even on Lord Voldemort’s radar?

“Why?” Draco choked out.

Blaise let out a humorless chuckle. “You remember her last husband? The one that died a few
weeks ago?”

Draco nodded slowly. It was not unusual for Basia Zabini’s husbands to meet a mysterious demise
after just several months or years of marriage. Blaise had stopped attending the funerals after the
fourth one. Now he just got an owl alerting him of the passing.
“Apparently, the last bloke was someone of unknown importance to the Dark Lord,” Blaise
sighed. “So, he needs a new foot soldier. If nothing else than to fill a gap in his ranks. My name
was brought up.”

No, no, no. Draco’s vision grew fuzzy and it felt like the wintry lake water was pulsing through
his veins instead of blood. Draco had always known that he and Theo would be in Lord
Voldemort’s sights, but Blaise? He thought he was far enough removed that he would be safe. Or
safer, at least.

“I’m not a real replacement for the guy he lost, of course. But he thinks he could use a student spy
of sorts. Someone to collect information about what some of the professors know, what Harry
Potter is up to, the identity Muggle-born students are, et cetera.” He let out a humorless chuckle
and scratched his face.

Draco braced himself against the wall for support as the room began to spin. The identity of
Muggle-born students. Blaise was still talking, but Draco couldn’t hear anything. His senses failed
him, except for his mind’s eye, which played loops of Granger’s horror-stricken face when she was
brought before Lord Voldemort. And Blaise. It would be Blaise who gave the Dark Lord her
name.

They were all fucked. And he had been such a fucking fool for thinking he could protect any of
them.

Black spots began to cloud his vision, and for a few fleeting moments he thought it was his
occlumency protecting him. But when he felt Blaise’s arm around him he realized he was losing
consciousness.

Her voice screaming his name was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

***

He awoke with a jolt, sitting up instantly. The familiar musky smell of the common room flooded
his nostrils and his hands gripped at the leathery couch under him. His eyes roamed the room,
wild, before they settled on Blaise, who was seated at the end of the couch.

Concerned, Blaise put down his book. “Hey, you’re okay, mate,” he soothed.

“What the fuck happened?” he gasped, his voice still thick with panic.

“You’re okay,” Blaise reiterated gently. He stood slowly and kneeled at Draco’s side placing a
firm hand on his shoulder. “I need you to breathe,” he said.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Draco snapped, wrenching his shoulder from Blaise’s grip and
swinging his legs off the couch. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. “FUCK!” he
screamed.

Blaise quickly cast a muffliato. “Draco, I need you to calm down, mate,” he pleaded. “It’ll be
okay—we will be okay. We’ll do what we have to do and we’ll get out of this mess alive, okay?
And we’ll have each other’s backs, which is more than most Death Eaters can say.”

He offered Draco a weak smile, which instantly faded when Draco’s gaze met his. Draco could
feel the fire burning behind his eyes as his pulse raced with rage. “You don’t know what the fuck
you’re talking about,” he hissed.

He stood and began to pace. “Why?” he said, thinking out loud. “Why wouldn’t he just ask me?
Or Snape? Why is he asking you?”

“Because it’s not your turn to be punished,” Blaise replied plainly.

“FUCK!” Draco roared again, driving his fist into a portrait, the occupant of which quickly fled
while issuing a litany of swears.

“Enough,” Blaise bellowed, marching toward Draco. “Look, I’m not happy about this either. But
you stomping around here acting completely fucking unhinged doesn’t help either one of us. If we
keep our wits about us and watch out for each other,” he sighed, “well, that’s our best chance,
innit?”

Draco shook his head “It’s not that simple,” he said, resigned.

Blaise stared at him, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. “Of course it’s that fucking
simple,” Blaise snapped. “I have your back, you have mine. We make sure neither of us gets
sideways with the Dark Lord and we make it out of this alive. It’s. That. Simple.” He was inches
from Draco’s face.

For a few moments, all Draco could focus on was the intensity of his friend’s glare. But then came
the soft sound of Granger’s laugh, echoing in the back of his mind. The sensation of her fingers in
his hair, on his skin…

He sighed and closed his eyes. It’s not that simple because you won’t be the only one I’m focused
on protecting, he thought.

He slumped against the wall. “You don’t get it because you’re not in it yet,” he said finally.
“Nothing with the Dark Lord is ever simple.”

Blaise said nothing, the frustration in his expression melting into trepidation.

“When?” Draco asked.

“He didn’t say,” Blaise responded.

Draco nodded slowly, praying to Merlin that he still had time.

***

He gave two short raps on Snape’s office door, not waiting for a response before he burst into the
professor’s office.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape greeted without looking up from his work. “To what do I owe the
unexpected pleasure of your company at this early hour?”

“Did you know?” Draco roared, slamming the door behind him. Snape let out an exasperated sigh
and wordlessly cast a muffliato.

“Answer me,” Draco hissed, his fingers digging into Snape’s desk, his face inches from his
professor’s.

Snape’s face was predictably expressionless. He stared at Draco for several long breaths. He was
prodding already, but Draco had fortified his wall brick by brick before entering Snape’s office.

“Cut the legilimency, Severus,” he seethed. “You know exactly what the fuck I am talking about.”
Snape’s expression darkened. “You are a bright boy, Draco,” Snape began, rising slowly and
rounding his desk, “so it completely bewilders me that you have failed to grasp that you are no
longer the darling of the Death Eaters. You are not in a position to hurl accusations or make
demands, least of all to me.” Snape now stood toe-to-toe with Draco, towering over him in a failed
attempt of intimidation.

“That’s rich,” Draco scoffed. “From the man who bound his fate to mine with an Unbreakable
Vow? I think you’re exactly the person to whom I can make demands.”

A now all-too-familiar sting swept across his face as the back of Snape’s hand connected with his
cheek. He didn’t even bother bringing his hand to his face, but rather reached for his wand. It flew
out of his robes and into Snape’s hand before he could even begin to wrap his fingers around it.

“You’re just as arrogant as your father,” Snape sneered. Rage rushed through Draco’s veins where
blood once was. But he was disarmed. In more ways than one.

“Tell Him I want to do it,” he said through gritted teeth. “Whatever the Dark Lord needs done. I
want to do it. Not Blaise. Tell Him.”

“Are you deaf, Draco?” Snape growled. “You. Do. Not. Make. Demands. Especially not to the
Dark Lord.” Snape handed Draco back his wand and moved behind his desk.

“Blaise said He wants information on Potter. What he’s up to,” Draco said as he gripped the back
of the chair positioned in front of Snape’s desk. “I’m clearly better suited for that role than
Blaise.”

“Is that clear?” Snape retorted. He picked up his quill and began writing again.

“Yes,” Draco growled. “Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you, Draco,” Snape sighed. He looked back at Draco, his expression again bored.
“Because I know you are a skilled liar. And I do not trust your judgment if you are seriously
coming in here, emotions running wild, to try to sell me on some half-cocked idea that will
inevitably get both of us killed.”

“Just let me talk to him. Make my case about why I am the right person for this task.”

“No,” Snape said simply, continuing to scribble on the parchment in front of him. “If I were to
allow that to happen, your mother would kill me before the Dark Lord ever got a chance.”

Snape’s eyes lazily moved from the parchment to Draco.

“This conversation is over, Mr. Malfoy,” he said tersely. Draco was cemented to the spot in front
of Snape’s desk, his head pulsing.

“For what it’s worth, I recommend that you and Mr. Zabini do what you can to look out for one
another. That is the best you can do.”

“What if—,” Draco started, but stopped himself and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What if?” Snape pried. He could feel Snape digging in, his hands methodically reaching for each
stone to overturn. But Draco was stronger now, and the bricks didn’t budge. And behind the
bricks was Granger, ambling up a hill of heather, a soft wind tangling in her copper hair. Sea birds
sang overhead, a gentle percussion of waves against the cliff side echoing in the background. She
summited the hill and ducked into a cottage, where she locked the door behind her.
Draco closed his eyes and exhaled.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Thanks, Professor.” He slowly turned and ambled toward the office’s
exit.

“Careful, Draco,” he heard Snape caution as he exited the room.

 Draco

It was still dark when Hermione awoke on Saturday morning. She delicately slid from beneath her
sheets, melting soundlessly onto the floor. Balancing on the tips of her toes, she crept toward
Ginny’s bed and crouched before her friend’s trunk. With nimble fingers, she slowly raised the
lid. The aged wood emitted a low creak as she opened it. She sucked in her breath and held it,
examining the room to see if the noise had roused anyone. Nothing stirred.

Reluctant to even conjure a lumos, she snaked her hand into the trunk and felt around for the
makeup tote that Fleur had sent Ginny weeks earlier. Her fingers traced over countless jumpers
and scarves, but she failed to detect the satiny tote. She leaned in closer to the trunk, her arm
digging down further.

And then she felt it. She carefully dragged it to the surface of the trunk and tactfully replaced the
lid. She tiptoed back to her bed and fished a pair of black jeans out of her trunk, as well as a
burgundy jumper, black boots, gloves, and a Gryffindor scarf. She dressed quietly, and tucking the
makeup tote under her arm, exited the dormitories and common room.

She scurried through the halls, hoping it was early enough in the morning that she would not
encounter anyone. She had decided to use the girls’ bathroom closest to Ravenclaw, as it was the
furthest from the Gryffindor dorms. Myrtle’s bathroom was also a safe option, but she didn’t care
to deal with Myrtle’s inevitable prying questions and critiques.

She felt silly, really. Sneaking around the dorms and dashing across the school all just to try to
secretly apply a bit of makeup. She had never considered herself particularly vain, but she would
be lying if she said she didn’t love how she looked when Ginny made her up for her date with
Archie Innes. She doubted she could apply cosmetics with the same deftness as Ginny had, but
even if she could successfully administer a touch of blush and mascara, she would consider that an
accomplishment.

She reached the bathroom and gingerly pushed the door. Silence welcomed her with open arms.
Once again able to resume normal breathing, she approached a sink and mirror and began
extricating the various makeup items from the bag. She studied each clinically, trying to analyze
which she had liked the most when Ginny used them, and which she even had a prayer of
adequately affixing herself.

“Hello, Hermione,” floated an all too familiar voice.

“Merlin, Luna,” Hermione cursed as she jumped slightly. “What are you doing here? And where
were you when I walked in here? I didn’t see you.” It dawned on Hermione that she didn’t really
have any right to subject Luna to such an inquisition given that Hermione was more out of bounds
in using this particular bathroom.

If Luna thought the same, she didn’t show it. “I was perched on the counter just over there,” she
said airily, pointing to a concealed corner of the room where a pile of books and Quibbler
magazines was stacked.

Of course, Hermione thought, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

“I had a nightmare that I was trampled to death by heliopaths, and I couldn’t fall back asleep,” she
continued.
“Why not just read in the common room then, Luna?” Hermione asked, frustration slipping into
her voice.

“There’s a wrackspurt infestation in the common room at the moment,” Luna replied, as she stared
at the first rays of sunlight poking through the windows. “It’s terribly distracting.”

Hermione huffed and turned back to the task at hand. There was no point in trying to conceal it
from Luna; the different tubes and compacts were spread across the counter. “Just do me a favor,
Luna, and just don’t mention you saw me in here this morning,” Hermione said.

“Okay,” Luna responded amiably, as she continued to float around the bathroom, peeling through
the pages of the most recent Quibbler.

Hermione plucked a mascara brush from its tube and carefully grazed it over her eyelashes. She
diligently performed the same action to her other set of lashes. She blinked several times, trying to
assess her handiwork.

Definitely not as dramatic as what Ginny had done, but that was preferable. She didn’t want her
preparation for tonight to be plainly obvious. She just wanted that little extra boost of confidence.

“Are you going on another date with Archie?” Luna’s voice hummed, breaking Hermione’s
concentration.

“What?” Hermione asked absently.

“The makeup,” Luna said. “You wore makeup on your date with Archie a couple weeks ago. Are
you going out with him again?”

“Oh, no,” Hermione replied, dropping the mascara back into the tote. “That didn’t take.”

“That makes sense,” Luna stated distractedly, her eyes flipping back to another Quibbler article.

Despite what she now knew about Archie, Hermione found herself insulted. Was Luna insinuating
that Hermione couldn’t keep the attention of another talented wizard like Archie Innes? Granted,
Hermione’s dating track record was slim, but still…

“What do you mean, Luna?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice even.

Luna’s emotive eyes turned from the pages in front of her to meet Hermione’s gaze. “I told Ginny I
didn’t think he was right for you,” she said simply. “I don’t think he’s very nice.” She chewed on
a strand of her hair while she spoke.

Hermione shook her head. That didn’t make sense. “Ginny told me you had never heard a bad
thing about him,” Hermione countered.

“Yes, that’s true,” Luna said simply. Hermione resisted the urge to violently shake her. Luna
reminded Hermione of someone who finished a puzzle, plucked a few pieces from the completed
project, and then asked others to fill in the missing pieces while she tucked them under couch
cushions.

“I think I’m confused, Luna,” Hermione stated. “You say you’ve never heard an ill thing about
him, but you don’t think he’s nice?”

“That’s correct,” Luna nodded. “Didn’t you notice when you looked into his eyes? He’s cloudy
behind there. He’s hiding something.”
Normally, this is where Hermione would roll her eyes, but the strikingly prophetic nature of Luna’s
statement grounded her. Luna meanwhile, continued to drift around the room, her nose back in the
Quibbler.

“What do you mean when you say ‘he’s cloudy behind there’?” Hermione inquired.

Luna set the magazine down, hopping up onto the counter next to Hermione. “When you look at
someone and you see beyond just what they put on for the world to see,” she explained.

Hermione suppressed a sigh of disbelief and picked up a blush palette. She dusted it lightly over
her cheekbones, as Ginny had showed her. Luna continued to watch her.

“Like for you, Hermione,” she began, “behind your eyes is bright and warm. It feels safe and
good.”

Hermione set the palette down, feeling a pang of guilt for her treatment of Luna’s eccentricities.
“Thanks, Luna,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

“It’s not a compliment, Hermione. It’s just the truth.” Luna hopped down off the counter. “I think
I’ll go back to the common room now. The wrackspurts are nocturnal and have probably settled
by now.”

She wandered toward the door. “Will I see you at the Quidditch match today, Hermione?” she
asked.

“Yes,” Hermione smiled. “I’ll likely be with Neville, so please come find us.” Luna smiled back
and reached for the door.

“Luna?” Hermione called. Luna’s head turned back toward her friend. “What is behind Draco
Malfoy’s eyes?” She hexed herself for asking, but the words escaped her mouth before she could
stop them. She hoped she could trust Luna not to read into it.

“He’s iridescent,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Dark, but when met with light, shines all different
colors.”

***

It was a terribly blustery afternoon, with the wind tossing the players about like dinghies upon a
rogue wave. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat when a particularly powerful gust nearly blew
Ginny into the stands. But she quickly righted herself and zoomed back across the field.

But Ginny’s near collision wasn’t the only thing making her nervous.

Even when considering the turbulent winds, Harry’s movements were erratic. His turns were
excessively harsh, and on several occasions he nearly crashed into other Gryffindor players. It was
as if he was chasing something, but she had seen Harry chasing down the snitch enough times to
know that this wasn’t it.

And then she realized it. He wasn’t chasing the snitch—he was chasing down Malfoy. He was
refusing to let Malfoy out of his sight, aggressively following him everywhere he went. Malfoy
didn’t appear to notice; his eyes seemed to be darting across the field, scouring it for the snitch.

Ron’s concern from their prefect rounds on Thursday evening rattled in her brain. And he’s
become completely obsessed with…
Malfoy had cut them off before Ron could finish. Is Harry stalking Malfoy? Convinced that the
event in August had some greater meaning?

“Finally getting into Quidditch?” Neville asked, shattering her focus.

“Huh?” Hermione replied, still not fully paying attention.

Neville chuckled. “Usually you bring books to the match and just glance up every once in a while
when you hear people cheering.” He shrugged. “But today you’re actually watching.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “But, well, it’s Ginny’s first real game, if you’re not counting the disaster
last year. So I’m just a little more interested than I normally am I guess.”

“Of course,” Neville responded brightly. “She’s quite brilliant. I guess that’s not a surprise, being
a Weasley and all. Although Ron had a bit of a shaky start. But he’s doing great this game.”

Hermione nodded, remembering Ron’s disastrous first match last year. And how badly she had
wanted to hex Malfoy after learning of his torment. Was that all a show even back then?, she
wondered.

Her gaze lifted to the sky again, as she watched Harry continue to haphazardly tail Malfoy across
the field.

“Does Harry seem off to you?” she asked Neville.

“Yes,” came an airy voice behind them.

“Merlin, Luna!” Hermione exclaimed. “You have to stop sneaking up on me!”

“I didn’t sneak—I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes,” she replied simply, and then tugged
on the string that made the lion atop her head roar. Hermione shook her head while Neville
laughed.

“He seems distracted,” Luna continued, unphased.

Neville scrutinized Harry’s flying for a few moments. “Maybe he’s seen the snitch, no?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione and Luna said in unison.

As if on cue, a shiny golden object whizzed just above their heads, followed closely by a streak of
silver and green.

Malfoy.

Harry rocketed past them milliseconds later. Hermione couldn’t tell if his eyes were on the snitch
or Malfoy.

Harry gained on Malfoy as they rounded the far corner of the field. Malfoy flattened out on his
broom, and hyperextended his arm. Harry did the same, but Malfoy had several inches on him. If
it came down to reach, Malfoy would have it.

But then Harry did something Hermione never thought she would see him do. He threw his weight
into Malfoy, sending him and his broom hurtling into the side of the stadium.

“Harry!” she scolded, as if he could hear her.

Malfoy recovered and rushed forward again in pursuit of the snitch. But Harry did it again, except
this time Malfoy grabbed a fistful of Harry’s uniform, dragging him toward the stadium with him.

Hermione held her breath and dug her nails into Neville’s arms as the two tumbled through the air.
Malfoy finally dove under Harry’s broom and shot forward again. Still reeling, Harry was slow to
catch up, and the next thing she knew Madam Hooch was blowing her whistle, calling the game to
a close. In the middle of the field stood Malfoy, golden snitch in hand.

And among the groans and boos around her, Hermione grinned.

***

The mood in the common room following the game was predictably morose. Hermione sat curled
in one of the armchairs by the fire, reviewing and revising her Runes homework as those around
her chatted in disenchanted voices. She checked her watch. 6:30PM.

Harry had not come back to the common room after the match. Hermione imagined him sulking in
the locker rooms, unable to face his teammates and fellow house members. Ginny was also
noticeably absent, likely trying to cheer him up.

Gradually, people filed out of the common room, many deciding to salvage what was left of their
Saturday in Hogsmeade. Hermione finished her revisions of her homework somewhere around
7:30PM, and rose to pluck a book off one of the common room shelves for some light reading until
she left for the owlery.

It was then that she realized Ron was still there, perched on one of the window seats and staring
outside.

“Ron,” she said softly. Breaking from his apparent trance, his gaze landed upon her.

“’Mione, I didn’t know you were here,” he responded, his voice thin.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding toward the armchair. “I was working on Runes.” His face was tired and
drawn. “I’m sorry about the match today,” she said, staring down at her shoes. “You did an
excellent job as keeper though.”

He let out an exasperated huff, but met her with soft eyes. “Thanks,” he replied.

A stillness hung between them. “Ron, when we were doing our rounds on Thursday,” Hermione
whispered, her eyes scanning the room to ensure they were alone. “You mentioned Harry having
become obsessed.”

His eyes drifted downward. “Yeah,” he said softly.

“Is that what happened today?” she asked quietly.

He gave a short nod.

“Tell me, Ron,” she pleaded.

He took a shuddering breath, hesitation heavy in his eyes. “He’s in a bad spot, ‘Mione,” he said,
his resolve crumbling. “After everything that happened at the Ministry, the meeting you had with
Dumbledore and Snape—he’s just convinced something big is going on. And sometimes I listen to
him and I think he is making a point, and sometimes…sometimes it’s just like listening to a crazy
person.”
Another deep breath. “Ginny calms him a lot,” he explained, the protectiveness in his voice giving
way to relief. “But she doesn’t talk sense into him like you do.” He ran a hand through his scarlet
locks. “He spends a lot of time with Dumbledore, and he comes back from those meetings with
more questions than answers. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

Hermione nodded solemnly. Time with Dumbledore. Is this related to what Dumbledore asked me
about in October?

“Do you know what he does with Dumbledore?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice level.

Ron looked at her hesitantly, and then his eyes carefully scanned the room. He stepped closer.
“He’s giving him lessons about You-Know-Who. His history and all of that. I can’t make sense of
it—I mean the point of it all. Other than the obvious—to help Harry understand who we are all
going up against.”

Hermione slowly processed the information. She had a million questions, but before she could
continue, Ron spoke again.

“Look, I told Lavender and Parvati that I would meet them at the Three Broomsticks tonight,” he
said, flickers of doubt clear in his eyes. “But I’d like to talk to you more about this—maybe later
this week? I—,” he stumbled for a moment, “we could use your help.”

“Of course,” Hermione said weakly, desperately cataloguing all of this information. “Before
prefect rounds on Wednesday?” she suggested, feigning a smile that she knew was not reflected in
her eyes.

“Sure,” he replied, wrapping her in a half-hearted hug. He walked past her slowly, pausing for a
moment before ducking out of the room. “Do you want to come with to Three Broomsticks? I’m
sure Lavender and Parvati wouldn’t mind.”

Hermione turned her head over her shoulder. “I’m sure they would, Ron,” she responded simply.

***

She waited several minutes after Ron departed the common room to head for the owlery. She
glanced at her watch nervously—8:10PM. She rushed down the corridor, down two flight of
stairs, and crisscrossed the courtyard before arriving at the threshold of the owlery.

Hermione took several moments to catch her breath and straighten her robes before she strode
through the entryway.

It was empty. Through the moonlight she saw nothing but the massive owl stand in the middle of
the owlery and several dozen owls gliding in and out through the windows. Her heart sunk.

Did he leave when I didn’t show up on time? Is he too busy celebrating Slytherin’s win this
afternoon to make an appearance tonight? Her mind raced. Is he out shagging Pansy?

She felt like a fool. A right fool.

Just as she turned to leave, a voice sliced through the evening calm.

“You’re late Granger.”

She whipped around to find him strolling slowly from the shadows, his hands in his trouser
pockets, hair slightly mussed.
Despite her resolve to keep a cool demeanor, she felt a grin of relief blossom across her cheeks.

“I don’t blame you,” he cooed, stopping just breaths away from her and tilting her chin up toward
him. “I assume you had to row a boat through a river of Potter’s and Weasley’s tears to get here.”

He leaned down slowly, placing a firm kiss to her lips. He broke away quickly, smirking down at
her.

“Did you summon me here just to gloat, Malfoy?” she mused, taking a half step away from him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Granger,” he cooed. “The gloating is just the appetizer round, and I have a full
course planned.” He dragged the back of his fingers down her arm.

“Pity,” she countered, crossing her arms. “I just had dinner.”

He leaned down, snaking his arm around her back and pulled her close. “Sounds like you had
something salty,” he breathed into her ear. “Maybe you could use something sweet.” She
shuddered as his whisper tickled her ear.

She collected herself and looked up at him defiantly. “And will I find it here in this room full of
owl shite?” she asked, a coy smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh that’s right,” he teased. “You’re more of a cat lady.” He extended out one of his large arms
as an impossibly large owl swooped down, landing effortlessly on his forearm. It looked at
Hermione and squawked loudly.

Hermione felt herself flinch, tucking away her fingers and turning her face.

“He’s not going to bite you,” Malfoy laughed, taking her hand and extending it toward the owl.
“This is Perseus.”

The owl looked at Hermione skeptically before sniffing her fingers. She shut her eyes tightly for a
few seconds before she felt his feathers against her hand. She slowly opened one eye to see the
owl rubbing the side of his head against her hand—the same way Crooks would do to show
affection.

“Malfoy,” she gasped excitedly. “He’s so gentle.”

“What did you expect?” he asked, his eyes glittering at her astonishment.

“Owls can be vicious predators,” she supplied. “And in the Muggle world, they don’t care much
for humans. Sometimes they actually attack humans’ heads because they mistake their hair for
nests.”

“Well, in the case of your hair, Granger…” She swatted him. Perseus took a quick nip at her.

“You’re just misunderstanding them,” he said plainly. “You see their behavior as hostile when it’s
really just—.”

“Loyalty,” she answered for him, carefully bringing her hand up to scratch the side of Perseus’s
head. The bird closed his eyes and gently hooted.

“So why the owlery?” she asked, continuing to brush his fingers against Perseus.

“It’s my favorite part of the school,” he replied plainly, his focus still on the owl.
Hermione was taken aback at the simplicity of his response; not a shred of sarcasm or wit to it. His
eyes drifted down to her, completely unmasked. They glinted in the moonlight, and it momentarily
took her breath away.

He lowered his arm and then launched it upwards and Perseus took flight, his extraordinarily long
wings creating a rush of cool air across Hermione’s face.

“I want to show you something else, too,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers and quickly
striding off toward the back of the owlery. They stopped before a solid stone wall, as Draco pulled
out his wand.

“What—,” Hermione began, but then watched carefully as he whispered something in Latin and
pressed the wand to a series of the stones.

Slowly, the stones slid back, revealing a curved staircase.

Hermione felt herself go slack-jawed. “Malfoy,” she gasped.

He gave no response, but tugged her up the stairs. She struggled to keep up with him, both because
his legs were impossibly long and the stone steps were unusually wide. She kept her eyes on his
feet, trying to drag her toes on the back of his shoes as she used to do to the boys in her primary
school before she arrived at Hogwarts.

“The fuck?” he exclaimed, as she successfully pulled the back of his shoe from his heel as they
summited the stairs. His head whipped around to face her, but she was no longer looking at him.

The stairs had led to a roofless turret nearly as high as the astronomy tower. The sky above them
was impossibly clear, the stars glowing against the inky backdrop.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, her hand dropping from Malfoy’s fingers to cover her mouth. “This is
incredible.”

Electricity rushed through her veins as she turned to face him. “Malfoy—,” she began, realizing
she had no words to finish her statement. She laughed in her shock. “How did you find this place?
It’s—,” she paused for a moment to scan the skies again. “This view is magnificent.”

A broad grin rippled across his face as he jogged up the last several steps and sidled next to her.
“My mother used to come here,” he said, his minty breath rolling onto her cheeks as he glanced
toward the sky.

“She is a gifted witch, but Merlin, she was shy and nervous in class. Her sister, Andromeda, used
to bring her up here to practice spells.” Hermione glanced up to see a smile envelop his face. “She
brought me here when I was little—before I was accepted to Hogwarts.” He exhaled. “I never
forgot it. And even now, I still come here.”

Andromeda. Sometimes Hermione forgot that Sirius wasn’t the only Black who defected. She
studied Malfoy as he studied the sky. Maybe—just maybe—there is room for one more to fall from
Pureblood grace.

Hermione stood on her toes and planted a barely-there kiss below his jaw as he stared at the night
sky. She took several steps forward, before noticing the oversized quilt and pillows arranged near
the north-facing wall of the turret.

Her head whipped back, and Malfoy merely nodded once. “Don’t act so surprised, Granger,” he
said, taking several long strides to reach her side.
“Don’t act—,” she began, before Malfoy pressed his lips to hers. “Just months ago you were
calling me—,” her breath stopped as his kiss deepened and he pulled her from the ground in one
arm.

“Calling you what, Granger?” he murmured against her lips, wrapping his other arm around her
and walking forward.

“Calling me—,” she again started, before he took her mouth in his, tickling her tongue with his
own. He stopped and gingerly lowered them to the quilt. Her head connected with a pillow behind
her.

He hovered above her, propped up on an elbow, his iron eyes boring into hers.

“I’m not shagging you tonight, Malfoy,” she blurted out matter-of-factly.

“Merlin, Granger!” he exclaimed, rolling off of her. “Get your Gryffindor head out of the gutter.”
His head came to rest on a pillow next to her. “I was merely suggesting some stargazing,” his head
rolled toward hers, a wide smirk painting his face.

Hermione chuckled and shook her head.

“Get over here,” he growled, pulling her next to him, and draping a blanket across them. She
draped her head over his chest, her pulse humming to the cadence of his heartbeats.

“Is your astronomy knowledge as thorough as your spell work, Granger?” he breathed into her,
running his fingers absently through her curls.

She propped her head up on her hand, her eyes meeting his. “I think you will find my knowledge
more than satisfactory,” she mused.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked. His eyes drifted skyward. “What is that constellation,
then?” His long arm and pointer finger extended to a cluster of stars on the most northward
horizon.

“Cassiopeia,” Hermione replied simply.

His eyes darted back to her, a mischievous glow to them. “And below it?” he asked, bringing his
lips to her neck.

“Cepheus,” she responded, her breath hitching slightly as his lips brushed against her skin.

“And to the west?” he inquired, teasing his tongue against her throat.

“Cygnus,” she sighed, her eyes fluttering as his mouth continued to work against her neck. “Lyra
below Cygnus,” she gasped, anticipating his next question.

He hummed against her throat, peeling away her scarf and dragging his teeth across her
collarbone. She felt her breaths grow shallow and quick, her pulse racing as he shifted over her,
wedging one of his legs between her thighs and running a hand down the opposite side of her body,
drawing her leg up and against his. He gently rocked against her as he continued to trace his
tongue along her collarbone, sucking lightly when he reached the hollow of her neck.

Just under her skin her blood was sparking. Her veins no longer felt like controlled conduits
through which electric currents ran, but rather like metal rods being repeatedly struck by lightning.
She dug her fingers into his hair, needing some release for the voltage building inside her.
“And the constellation next to Cygnus and Vega?” he whispered into her neck.

“Draco,” she breathed, pulling his head up to capture his mouth with hers.
 Space

Granger’s mouth moved greedily against his as her hands coiled in his hair. She tugged on his
locks as their tongues tangled together and he groaned, pushing himself closer against her and
running his hand along her thigh.

Her moans melted into his mouth as he continued to rock against her. She dragged her nails down
the back of his neck, sending a shiver through his entire body. He pushed his mouth harder against
hers, determined to consume her completely.

Her mouth broke from his as she began to plant bruising kisses along his jawline. Her breath
escaped in frenzied pants, tickling the sensitive skin below his ear.

“My gods, Granger,” he thrummed. His skin burned with the heat of a supernova, and his heart
pounded with such intensity that he worried it would crack his ribcage. Every nerve ending in his
body was screaming at an impossible decibel, drowning out all other sounds except her.

Her small gasps and keening. Her lips forming around his name. Her heart thudding against him.
Her. He was drowning in her and it was the most divine form of torture he could imagine.

With remarkable strength, she rolled on top of him, tangling them in the quilt. Wrapping her
fingers in his hair, she pulled his head back, trailing a line of blazing bites down his neck until she
met the collar of his shirt.

When he felt her begin to unfasten the buttons at the top of his shirt and trace her tongue and teeth
along his collarbone, his heart nearly burst. She rolled her hips against him, and only then did he
realize how hard he was. And how warm she was against him.

We’re not shagging tonight, we’re not shagging tonight, his mind howled at him in an effort to
temper his arousal. It didn’t work.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands grasping at her hips to hold her against him. As her mouth
continued to move across his chest, he quietly slipped his hands under her jumper.

“Ah!” she squeaked, jolting upright. “Your hands are freezing,” she murmured, breathless.

“Good thing you’re warm then,” he smirked, sitting up slightly to catch her mouth with his. He
dragged her back toward him, his fingers tracing lines from her hipbones to her ribcage. He lightly
tickled her sides and she squirmed against him, her smile blossoming against his lips.

His hands traveled further upward, and he sucked in a breath as his fingers traced the slope of her
breast, covered only by a thin layer of lace. She shuddered as his fingers dusted her chest, and
gasped loudly as he began teasing the peak of her breast with his thumb.

“Is this okay?” he asked, feathering kisses to her neck.

“Gods, yes,” she breathed, her hips rocking harder against his. “Don’t stop.”

Her response alone nearly finished him off. “Merlin, Granger,” he groaned as his hand traveled to
her back, unclasping her bra. “You really are going to be the death of me.”

She let out a breathy chuckle, her hands methodically unfastening the rest of the buttons on his
shirt and flaying it open.
Fuck.

Her nails dug into his chest as his hand roamed back to her front and began massaging her breast.
Her hips snapped against him as he rolled her nipple between his fingers. He bit down on his lip as
he watched her on top of him, moving against him, eyes fluttering and mouth gasping as his hands
teased her. He nearly lost it when she moaned his name.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groaned, pulling her toward him and rolling on top of her. She chirped in
surprise. He fit between her legs perfectly—like they were carved from the cosmos with each
other in mind.

He pushed her jumper up, planting feverish kisses to her chest before capturing her breast in his
mouth and tracing its peak with the tip of his tongue.

A sharp gasp escaped her throat as her hips bucked against his. He brought one of his hands back
down to her hips, pulling her firmly against him as she moved, desperate for the friction. She
continued to grind against him as he nipped and sucked at her breasts. Her breath wafted against
his ear in small pants.

She flooded his senses. The honey, the lemon, the parchment. The melody of her moans. The
tickle of her breath against his skin. The ecstasy in her eyes. It was suffocating him. He never
wanted to breathe again.

He traced the hem of her pants, his fingers unhooking the button on the front of her jeans. His
hand creeped southward, toying with the hem of her knickers. Also lace. His hand began to slip
under them but he paused, her words ringing in his ears. I’m not shagging you tonight, Malfoy.

How far was too far? He needed more rules before he started down this path, terrified that he
would completely lose control while he drowned in her.

“Gods,” he groaned, biting her shoulder. He shifted away from her and onto his elbow, closing his
eyes tightly. “We need to slow down, Granger,” he breathed into her neck.

The rocking motion slowly came to a stop as they both breathed into each other. He looked down
at her, her eyes still hazy with lust. But as they came into focus something else washed over them.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her expression turning sheepish. She crawled out from under him, hiding her
face from his.

A stab of guilt wrenched his stomach. I took it too far.

“Granger—,” he began, reaching out for her.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out before he could finish. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Her hands flew behind her back, refastening her bra.

“Make—make me uncomfortable?” Draco queried, thoroughly confused.

“I’m not usually—I don’t normally just throw myself,” she sighed, bringing her hand to her
forehead and closing her eyes. “You know, I’m not the type of girl—just sort of casually…”

Draco chuckled as she continued to fumble for words. Her gaze hardened, changing from
embarrassment to frustration.

“Well if you’re just going to laugh at me,” she huffed, beginning to stand.
“Granger!” he exclaimed, grabbing her wrist and holding her in place. “Ratchet it down a notch or
two, okay?” Her expression melted into something unreadable.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he explained, tracing circles in her palm with his thumb. “I
just didn’t want to take it too far—I believe you took shagging off the table tonight. And I was just
—,” he sighed and shook his head, “losing myself in you.”

“I know the feeling,” she whispered shyly, a reluctant smile spreading across her face.

“And as for the ‘type of girl you are’,” he continued, inching closer to her and kissing her lightly
under her ear. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” He could hear her chuckle under her breath.

“But Granger,” he started, as he pulled his head away from hers. “I will not share you. So tell
Weasley I’ll break his fucking hands if he can’t keep them to himself.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Tell Pansy same goes,” she teased, before closing the gap
between them and capturing his lips. Their mouths moved against each other for several more
minutes before Granger broke away.

Her honey eyes poured into his. She brought her hand to his head, smoothing the hair she had
inevitably messed earlier. “You’re different than I thought you were,” she said softly.

“So are you,” he returned, dusting her wrist with his lips.

***

“When did you become a master of constellations, Granger?” he asked later, his fingers lazily
tracing patterns in the fabric of her jumper.

She smiled warmly. “When I was little—before I got my Hogwarts letter—I wanted to be an
astronaut,” she said softly, her eyes dancing across the night sky.

“What’s an astronaut?” Draco asked, moving his hand to the nape of her neck, tangling it in her
curls.

“What’s a—,” she scoffed. “Draco Malfoy, did you pay attention to anything they taught us in
Muggle Studies?”

“I tried not to,” he replied, nipping at her neck.

She rolled her eyes and put her hand to his chest, lightly pushing him away. “An astronaut is
someone who travels into space.”

“Into space,” he asked skeptically, turning his eyes skyward. “How?”

Granger chuckled a bit. “In a rocket ship,” she responded plainly.

“I have no sodding idea what that is,” Draco laughed.

“I’ll draw you a picture sometime,” she smirked, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Why?” Draco asked, utterly befuddled. “Why would someone go into space?”

Granger’s face turned contemplative. “For a lot of reasons, I suppose,” she replied. “But for me?
To discover what’s out there. To understand our place in the universe.”
He couldn’t explain why, but her answer gave him goosebumps. He pulled her closer, resting his
head on the top of hers. “So if you hadn’t come to Hogwarts, you’d be up there, traveling through
space?” he inquired.

“Well, likely not at seventeen,” she chuckled. “But yes, I’d like to think if I hadn’t gotten my
Hogwarts letter, I would’ve found my way to the stars.”

He sat up and stared at her for several breaths, watching the reflections of the stars glimmer in her
dusky eyes, which were still wide with wonder.

“Me too, Granger,” he whispered, picturing her traveling across the universe until perhaps her
wandering spirit found a home in the constellation beside Cygnus and Vega.

***

“We should—uh—probably leave separately,” Granger said quickly, not quite meeting his eyes.

They were back down in the owlery, standing near the entrance.

“Embarrassed to be seen with me, Granger?” he mused, twirling a strand of her hair.

She rolled her eyes. “I would venture to guess that it’s best for both of us not to be spotted
together,” she replied, tugging slightly at his shirt.

He wrapped his arm around her waist for a final time, pulling her in for a long kiss. “No, definitely
not,” he growled, as they parted. She grinned up at him.

“Thank you,” she crooned. “Tonight was…unexpected.” She planted a quick peck to his cheek.
“I’ll see you, Malfoy,” she said, as she turned to walk away.

“Not if I see you first,” Draco countered, smirking.

“Arse,” she muttered, turning her head back toward him and smiling before she disappeared from
sight.

He fell back against the wall, weak at the knees. Weak everywhere.

He closed his eyes, savoring the scent of her that still lingered on him. But as the haze of his
intoxication slowly melted from his senses, panic seeped in.

Her laughter and the lilt of her voice replaced by echoes of her whimpers and wails as she was
dragged in front of the Dark Lord. The warmth of her tawny eyes deadened as He scoured her
brain for memories of the Malfoy heir’s betrayal. The softness of her skin under His bony fingers
as they slithered across her frame.

His mouth became dry and hot as he battled the bile rising in his throat.

Stop.

He closed his eyes tightly and inhaled deeply, focusing on the thatched cottage resting upon a
heathered hill. He concentrated on the feeling of the cool breeze in his hair and the calls of the sea
birds as they dove along the cliff sides.

“Are you coming?” a soft voice asked. Granger. His eyes met hers, and she tugged lightly on his
fingers in an attempt to drag him toward the cottage ahead.
“Not yet,” he replied, shaking his head.

She flashed him a wistful smile before she turned and gracefully meandered across the sloping hill,
her fingertips dusting the heather as the afternoon sun illuminated her chestnut locks. She turned to
look at him once more before she reached the cottage door and closed it behind her.

Safe.

Refusing to tear his eyes from the cottage, he backed up slowly until nothing appeared in front of
him but an impossibly large brick wall. He placed both hands upon the wall, pushing into it with
all of his weight. But the bricks didn’t budge.

Safe.

His eyes fluttered open back in the owlery. He took a deep breath and slowly strode back toward
the Slytherin common room, willing himself to believe that he could keep her hidden. Keep her
safe.
 Iridescence

The second week of December brought with it bitter weather and the first snow of the season. On
Monday, Hermione’s Potions book again tumbled from the table she shared with Dean and Neville,
and another piece of parchment was pushed into her palm by a silver-blonde Slytherin with pale
eyes.

Saturday – 8PM – Gregory the Smarmy portrait. P.S. saw you first.

He shot her a nearly imperceptible grin as she looked up from the parchment. She quietly tucked
the parchment into her robes, finding it difficult to temper the smile tugging at her cheeks.

***

Wednesday arrived slowly, and Hermione met Ron in the common room an hour before their
prefect shift was scheduled to start.

“I think we should go to the library,” he whispered, glancing around the crowded common room.
“Maybe the restricted section.”

Hermione nodded silently, her eyes falling upon those watching them—the remaining Gryffindors
trying to determine whether she was still a pariah or not.

“Where’s Harry?” she asked skeptically.

“Running plays with Ginny,” he replied simply. “We’re good.”

***

Hermione pulled Ron to a small desk in the furthest-most part of the restricted section she could
find.

“How are you, ‘Mione?” he asked as he folded into a chair across from her, a wistful smile crossing
his face.

“I’m fine, Ron,” she exhaled, returning a polite smile. “Thank you for asking.” She paused. “And
you?”

“Fine, fine,” he said nervously, drumming his fingers on the table. Then he shook his head. “Not
great, actually,” he sighed. “I knew things were going to be hard after what happened at the
Ministry but—.” His shoulders sagged. “I never thought things would get this broken.” A shaky
breath escaped his lips. “This was not the year I wanted for any of us.”

“Well, I can’t disagree with you there,” she replied tersely.

Ron’s face crumpled a bit. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione,” he said, casting his eyes downward. “I should’ve
done more—had your back—.” The words cracked and died in his throat as he shook his head and
took another shaky breath.

“Stop,” Hermione said firmly, closing her eyes. “We can’t keep rehashing this every time we talk,
Ronald.” She exhaled, her fingers digging into the underside of the table. “We both made
mistakes, but it is what it is at this point. We just need to move on.”
He opened his mouth as if he was prepared to fight her on it, but instead just solemnly nodded and
knotted his hands together.

“So tell me what’s been going on,” she supplied plainly. He sighed and cast a muffliato spell
before he spoke.

“It was Dumbledore who brought Harry to the Burrow. Just a day or so before you,” he said,
running a hand through his hair. “But they stopped over in Budleigh Babberton first—to meet
Professor Slughorn.”

“Slughorn?” Hermione gasped. “Why?”

“To convince him to come back to Hogwarts. Took some real convincing too, from the sounds of
it. Bloke thought that taking a post at Hogwarts would land him on You-Know-Who’s kill list.”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Bloody spineless if you ask me.”

Hermione chewed on her lip. “But why was it important to Dumbledore that Professor Slughorn
come back?”

Ron merely shrugged. “We were a professor short with Umbridge gone, I guess.”

Hermione shook her head, doubtful that the Occam’s razor was the correct explanation in this
instance.

Unbothered, Ron continued, repeating to Hermione what Harry had told him and Ginny about the
Prophecy, the Gaunts, the Riddles, the ring, and the orphanage.

“The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,” she breathed. “Ron,” she whispered, reaching across
the desk, “they are so similar already. Half-bloods, orphaned, saved by Hogwarts—,” she paused.
“And Dumbledore in particular.”

Ron nodded. “That’s what Ginny said too,” he replied. Hermione felt a flood of relief surge
through her veins upon hearing that Ginny had similar instincts to hers. Even if she couldn’t be
there, at least there was someone else to help keep him focused.

“So how does Malfoy fit into all of this?” Hermione asked, praying that Ron couldn’t notice the
heat rushing up from her neck to her face. “I mean, shouldn’t Harry be focused on what he’s
learning with Dumbledore?”

“That’s what Ginny and I keep telling him!” he exclaimed, suddenly becoming quite animated.
“But he is convinced that Malfoy is a Death Eater—.”

Hermione swore she felt her heart stop. She struggled to keep an even face.

“—and is on some mission from You-Know-Who.” Ron let out an exasperated breath. “I mean,
it’s completely barmy. What use would You-Know-Who have for a sixteen-year-old?” He shook
his head, running his hand through his hair. “Even Dumbledore has told him he’s wrong.”

Another surge of relief. At least she wasn’t the only one still actively covering up for Malfoy.

“And Harry is just ignoring Dumbledore’s advice?” she asked skeptically.

“Sure is,” Ron sighed. “It’s driving Ginny absolutely batty. And after that Quidditch match last
week—.” His eyes bulged and he tossed his head. “He’s bloody lucky Ginny didn’t kill him.”
Hermione nodded. “What makes him so convinced Malfoy is a Death Eater?”

“Well, your meeting with Dumbledore and Snape for one.” He shrugged. “But besides that, it’s
pretty barebones. Back this summer in Diagon Alley, we followed him to Borgin & Burke’s and
he was asking the shopkeeper about repairing something that he couldn’t bring into the store
himself.”

“I fail to see how that’s proof of anything nefarious,” she responded hotly.

“It’s not really,” Ron supplied, “but when the shopkeeper told Malfoy that he wasn’t sure he could
help him—,” Ron paused, scratching his face, “well, our view was obstructed, but it looked like
Malfoy showed him something. And then he seemed to threaten him by saying that the werewolf,
Fenir Greyback, is a close family friend.”

Hermione winced. She could imagine it like she saw it herself: his face twisted with spite, his
voice laced with cruelty. This vision of him that she held for so long, but now knew to be a farce.

She briefly closed her eyes, reminding herself of the tenderness. The protectiveness. The
vulnerability. The loyalty.

The iridescence behind the mask.

“Anything else?” Hermione asked, as she peeled open her eyes.

“Well, Harry snuck onto the Slytherin train car on the way to school, and he overheard—.”

“He what?” Hermione spat, rising from her chair—unable to temper her frustration. Ron flinched
and sunk back in his chair.

“He thought maybe he could learn something about what Malfoy is up to,” Ron offered
tentatively.

“What an idiot,” Hermione groaned, falling back into her chair. “And?”

“Nothing really,” Ron admitted. “He said there was a lot of chatter about Death Eaters, but
nothing definitive. Just discussion really, which is understandable given that most of their parents
are Death Eaters.”

“Brilliant,” Hermione responded coolly. “Really enlightening.”

“I know, I know,” Ron lamented. “But a couple weeks ago, just before the Quidditch match, he
overheard Snape talking to Malfoy outside of his office. He made references to some sort of task
that Malfoy was supposed to be working on. And then warned him that he needed to keep working
on his occlumency.”

Hermione felt the color start to drain from her face. A task?

“Maybe it was just something for school,” Hermione replied thinly, not sure who she was trying to
convince more—Ron or herself.

“I mean, maybe,” Ron said, scratching his head. “It seems unlikely that You-Know-Who would
have something that he specifically needed Malfoy to do. But still—you have to agree it’s a weird
exchange.”

Hermione nodded absently. She wanted to find comfort in Ron’s doubt—she, too, found it unlikely
that there existed a task for Voldemort that Draco Malfoy was uniquely suited to do. But she also
knew that Voldemort’s interest in Malfoy was driven by retribution—not a desire to harness any
particular skill set Malfoy possessed.

Maybe the punishment wasn’t just the Mark. Maybe.

“’Mione?” Ron’s voice came back into focus. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she responded, clearing her throat. “Just thinking is all.”

Ron nodded. “Well, anyway, Harry is completely obsessed now. More convinced than ever that
Malfoy is not only a Death Eater, but is carrying out some project for You-Know-Who.” He
sighed. “Ginny even had to hide his Marauders Map to keep him from tailing Malfoy
everywhere.”

Hermione made a mental note to thank Ginny for that one day.

“This isn’t good, Ron,” Hermione said simply. “If Dumbledore is giving Harry private lessons,
showing him memories—that’s what he needs to be focused on. Chasing Malfoy around the
school and the Quidditch field isn’t helping anyone.”

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice hollow.

“You’re being a good friend, Ron,” Hermione whispered earnestly. He shot her an appreciative
smile. “You and Ginny just need to try to continue to keep him focused on what he’s learning with
Dumbledore.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” he sighed.

“And if you learn more, I’d like for you to be able to tell me,” she murmured. “I know things
aren’t right between Harry and me, but I’d still like to help.”

“Of course,” he nodded. They stood, prepared to head out on their prefect rounds. Before he
removed the muffliato, he brought his hand to her shoulder and gazed straight at her.

“So you don’t think there’s a chance that Malfoy is a Death Eater, right?”

“No, Ron, I don’t,” she replied firmly.

Because some truths are worth lying for.

***

The realization that Malfoy may have been given an assignment by Voldemort plagued Hermione’s
consciousness for the rest of the week. She studied him, watching his hands nimbly slice fluxweed
leaves and muddle them into a potion. The same hands that held her, explored her, protected her.
She observed as he cast perfect transfiguring spells, the words tumbling out of the same lips that
affirmed her, kissed her, defended her.

Were these parts of him already being used as a weapon by Voldemort?

The thought of it made her throat dry and her head spin. The idea that in between his moments
with her, he was playing the pawn in a plan that would surely see Hermione and her friends killed.

That she might be wrong about him. That Luna misread. That there was no iridescence to him.
That he was just…
Dark.

She bathed her mind in memories of his softness, when the sarcastic and cold exterior melted away
to reveal who he really was. The boy talking to her about owls. Healing her shoulder. Kissing the
top of her head. Asking her about stars.

But the fear of his darkness lurked in the shadows of her mind.

She wanted to ask him. She thought of a hundred different ways to pose the question to him on
Saturday, but she found a thousand reasons not to ask.

She convinced herself it was because the timing was not right, but she knew it was because she
was afraid that the answer was something that she did not want to hear.

***

She roused early on Saturday, emotion crackling under her skin. Anxiety or excitement, she
couldn’t tell. Maybe both. More than anything, she wanted it to be 8PM so she could see his
smile, be in his arms, and feel his lips against hers, and remember all the reasons he couldn’t be the
monster she fretted he might be.

The day crept by with painful lethargy. She assisted Ginny with her Runes homework, finished her
own Arithmancy and Transfiguration assignments, played several games of exploding snap with
Neville, and asked Luna if she would accompany her to Slughorn’s Christmas party the following
week. She thought of asking Ron, but she didn’t wish to complicate things. And Luna seemed
genuinely delighted that Hermione thought to ask her.

As the sun began its descent behind the mountains, Hermione slipped back into the common room,
finding it pleasantly deserted. She collected a tweed miniskirt, cream-colored jumper, and boots
from her trunk, and a tube of mascara and blush palette from Ginny’s. She ducked into the
prefects’ bathroom and locked the door behind her.

She quickly dusted the makeup over her eyelashes and cheeks, pleased with the extra pop it gave
her features. She shimmied into a pair of lace knickers—she had purchased several pair the
summer before. She wasn’t sure why she had, other than she was seventeen. While academia
consumed most of her waking thoughts, she wasn’t blind or without hormones. She thought she
might make use of them one day. It just was with the boy she would’ve least expected.

She tugged on her jumper, tucked it into her skirt, and slipped on her boots. She checked her
watch. 7:30PM.

***

He was waiting for her at 8PM, clad in black trousers and a grey jumper, a smug grin tugging at
his cheeks. “Granger,” he greeted, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. She shuddered, the
questions that had pried at her mind in the preceding days fading away as static engulfed her
senses.

“Malfoy,” she responded, returning her own coy smile.

He looked around before addressing the portrait, speaking what Hermione believed was some
Germanic language. The portrait returned in kind and swung open. Malfoy took a final sweeping
glance around them before he pulled Hermione inside, lacing his fingers through hers.

They landed in an impossibly dark hallway, with only a pinprick of light in the distance. Hermione
barely noticed. “Was that Gaelic?” she asked.

“Gaeilge, actually,” he replied simply, pulling her hand to his lips and dusting it with a kiss. Her
skin buzzed where he touched it.

“You speak an ancient Irish language?” she returned, stunned.

“Enough,” he said, winking.

The faint light in the distance grew closer. “Close your eyes, Granger,” Malfoy said.

“What?” she responded, coming to a stand still. “Why?”

He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Can you just try to be amenable for once in your life?” he asked,
placing his hands on both sides of her face and kissing her.

Her pulse quickened.

“I promise it’s worth it,” he whispered.

“And you won’t let me fall?” she countered.

“While I have no doubt in your ability to trip in a perfectly flat hallway, Granger, no, I won’t let
you fall.”

She shot him a withering look, but then closed her eyes. She felt his arm snake around her back
and his hand close around her hip.

Slowly they progressed, until she felt the cobblestone on her feet give way to something else.
Something soft. Carpet? No. It was almost like…grass.

They came to a stop. “Alright, Granger, open your eyes,” he said softly.

When she opened her eyes, she nearly fainted.

It was grass below her feet. They were in a massive atrium lined with Japanese maples, wisteria
trees, and willows. The ceiling was enchanted to appear as a dusky sky. Torches dotted the walls,
giving emitting a soft glow around the room. Dense groves of flowers surrounded the bases of the
trees, and somewhere she could hear what sounded like the babbling of a small creek.

“Malfoy,” she gasped, “how did you—what is—when—.” She couldn’t figure out which question
she wanted answered first. She wheeled around to face him, his eyes shimmering in her delight.

“One question at a time, Granger,” he soothed, wrapping her hand in his as he began to stroll
forward.

“What is this place?” she exclaimed, unsure where to direct her attention.

“It was a Snidget preserve,” he responded, running a hand through his hair. “After they banned the
use of Snidgets in Quidditch, the school still had a couple dozen left over. They weren’t suited to
be released into the wild, so they kept them here. Had a fairly successful breeding program for a
while.” He pulled Hermione closer to him as they ducked under the weeping branches of a willow
tree. “Eventually the Snidgets all died of age, but they kept the room.”

He nudged her against the tree, stepping into her. She shivered as his fingers traced circles in the
side of her neck.
“How did you find out about it?” she asked, as his hand crept to the back of her neck and tangled in
her hair.

“Theo’s mum showed him when he was little,” he replied simply. “Theo showed me.” His lips
moved to her neck, blowing a cool breeze against her skin. A gasp escaped her lips.

“Like yours did with the—the owlery?” she stammered, losing focus as his lips connected with her
skin.

“Mhm,” he breathed into her neck.

“Lee Jordan said that portrait opened up to a secret passageway that led outside of Hogwarts,” she
gasped as he flicked his tongue against her skin.

“That’s because Lee Jordan is a bloody moron,” Malfoy murmured.

She had more questions, she knew she did. But the sensation of Malfoy’s mouth moving against
her neck and his hand pulling at her hips was sparking fires in her brain.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, pulling his face up to hers. His eyes bored into hers, melted pools of
iron ore. Wrapping her fingers in his jumper she pulled him closer to her, moving her lips over his.

His mouth moved roughly and feverishly against her, like a dam had broken inside of him. She
gasped for air when he briefly broke from her.

“We need rules, Granger,” he growled, planting bruising kisses against her neck.

“Rules?” she huffed distractedly.

“Yes,” he responded, nipping her below her ear. “I need boundaries,” he breathed into her neck.
He straightened a bit, tilting her head toward him. “Because you drive me fucking insane, and I
don’t trust myself not to cross a line if you don’t tell me where it is.” He put his mouth to hers,
sucking on her lower lip. She groaned.

Boundaries. God, did she have them anymore?

The summer before Fifth Year she had taken Viktor up on his request that she visit him. They had
fooled around for a couple weeks, but it had always been so easy to cut him off. There were some
areas of intimacy she just didn’t crave with him.

But if there existed a boundary between her and Malfoy, she would reduce it to ash as she burned
for him.

“No shagging,” she finally choked out, as he trailed kisses down her neck. “I mean, not tonight.
I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” he hissed, bringing his lips back to hers. “What else?”

Her mind raced as his tongue pressed into her mouth, his hands braced against her waist with
bruising pressure. “No other rules,” she gasped.

“What about this?” he asked, his hand slipping under her jumper.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“And this?” he asked, drawing his other hand up her thigh.

God, yes, she thought.

“Yes, Malfoy,” she said firmly before drawing his mouth to hers. He groaned against her lips and
pressed her harder against the tree. Her fingers ran through his hair and tugged on it as he
untucked her jumper, his fingers dancing across her abdomen.

She could feel the electricity in her veins again, the static louder than ever. His hand stretched
further up, freezing in place when he reached her bare breast.

She felt a mischievous smile blossoming across her face.

“Granger,” he growled, his eyes sliding to hers. “You appear to be missing an undergarment.” His
thumb began rolling over her nipple, and she trembled against him.

“It seemed…superfluous,” she teased, pulling his mouth to hers.

“Merlin, fuck,” he groaned, dropping his head into the crook of her neck. “You really are trying to
kill me, aren’t you?”

She chuckled and he captured her mouth with his again, his tongue moving voraciously against
hers. He kneaded her breast, twirling her nipple with his thumb. Her hips began to rock against
his, a moan tearing from her throat.

“Granger,” he breathed, stepping back to slide her jumper up and over her head. His eyes roved
over her, and she fought the urge to move a protective arm over herself. The way that he looked at
her …she couldn’t remember ever feeling so powerful.

“Fuck,” he whispered, stepping back into her. He brought one hand to her face while the other
traced her chest. He stopped and frowned when he saw the thin, silver scar struck across her
chest.

“What is this?” he asked, his fingers dancing over it.

“The Department of Mysteries,” she said tentatively, recognizing this was the battle that landed his
father in Azkaban and sealed Malfoy’s fate as a Death Eater. “Dolohov hit me with something—I
think it was a revulsion jinx. I don’t know. It knocked me unconscious.”

Something dark flashed before his eyes for a moment, but then he just moved his mouth to her scar,
tracing it with feather-light kisses. The scar ended abruptly above her left breast, which he then
began teasing with the tip of his tongue. His hand moved to her other breast, moving with
similarly torturous light touches.

He continued in this way for what felt like hours. It was the most blissful torment she had ever
experienced. “Malfoy, please,” she pleaded, her back arching against the tree. Another swipe of
his tongue over her nipple, and her hips bucked against him. “Oh, god,” she moaned.

One of his hands slid between them and began slowly moving up her inner thigh. Her breath
hitched when his fingers reached the fabric of her knickers and delicately began moving against
her. His pace increased, his tongue still tracing her breast.

“Please,” she gasped. He pushed the fabric to the side and began swirling his thumb against her
center, light at first but steadily increasing the pressure. He dragged his teeth over the peak of her
breast and began to suck at her skin as his thumb moved harder against her.

Her skin was buzzing, static noise jamming her brain waves. He pushed a finger inside of her, and
she nearly melted down. She grabbed his head and pulled it back to her mouth, desperate to pour
herself into him. Their mouths moved wildly against each other, as she rocked against his hand.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groaned. “You’re so fucking perfect.” His finger found her spot and dragged
along it.

“Malfoy—,” she gasped, the words catching in her throat as his finger continued to caress her spot.
“Oh, god, yes.” She bit into his shoulder to suppress a scream.

“Come for me, Granger,” he whispered, slipping a second finger inside of her. He captured her
earlobe in his teeth, a pinprick of pain as his thumb swirled against her and his fingers moved in
and out of her.

She cried out as the lightning strike ripped through her, electric sparks surging through her arteries
and veins until she was completely drained.

She laid her head on his shoulder, panting into his neck. He removed his hand and pulled her into
him, planting lazy kisses to the top of her head.

“Your turn,” she said simply when she regained her breath, reveling in the awe and arousal that
flashed across his face.
 Reckoning

It had never occurred to Draco that Granger would ask to get into his pants tonight—let alone
demand it. He could’ve gone home satisfied just watching her come apart in his hands.

But having her hand tight around him, stroking and massaging him as she gasped little, huffy pants
into his neck was perhaps the most transcendent thing he had ever experienced, and he thanked
every god in the wizarding world and otherwise for filling this witch with so many goddamn
surprises.

***

They sat in the soft grass, their backs against the willow tree, her head on his shoulder. His fingers
lazily toyed with the hem of her jumper, wondering who Granger had been with before. From
what he had observed of her over the past six years, he would’ve assumed she had very little time
for extracurriculars, but the witch moved with a confidence that bespoke of someone who had
been here before.

He wanted to ask. But it really wasn’t his business, and if the answer was, as he suspected, Ronald
fucking Weasley, Draco wasn’t sure if he would have the restraint not to kill him.

He sighed, tucking the thought away.

“Can I ask you a question?” Granger suddenly quipped.

“You just did,” He responded, dragging his fingers through her hair.

“Arse,” she chided, elbowing him in the stomach.

He chuckled. “What is it?” he asked, breathing into her hair.

“Can I see it again?” she replied.

He felt his eyebrows rise. Full of surprises, indeed.

“Bet your arse you can, Granger,” he growled in her ear, his fingers hurriedly working at his belt.

“Not that,” Granger sighed, swatting his hands. “That,” she said, her hand reaching for the fabric
covering his right forearm.

“Why?” Draco asked, his voice thin.

“I don’t know exactly,” she shrugged. “I think seeing it helps. It’s like it takes away some of its
power, you know? Makes it less scary.”

His gut wrenched.

“It should be scary to you, Granger,” he responded coolly. “Very fucking scary, okay?”

She glared at him, her stare indignant. “I refuse to live in fear, Malfoy,” she said, reaching again
for the sleeve of his jumper.

“Cut it out,” he hissed, grabbing her wrist. She tried to twist her arm away, but he held firm and
pulled her in closer. “You don’t know what fear is.”
“How could you say that?” she seethed, trying again to wrestle from his grip. “Do you have any
idea what Harry, Ron, and I have been through since our first year?”

“Of course I know. Everyone fucking knows, Granger,” he scoffed, grabbing her other wrist and
pulling her in until her face was inches from his. “But I’m talking about a different type of fear.
Not the fleeting, adrenaline rush fear you experience with your dumbarse friends. I’m talking
about the constantly looking over your shoulder, second guessing every decision, lay awake at
night kind of fear. When fear is an emotion you feel every fucking minute of every fucking day.”

A defiant exhale escaped her lips, her expression unchanged.

“How are you not getting this?” he growled.

“Because,” she huffed. “My blood status has endangered me since I came to Hogwarts and
Voldemort began his return. Nothing has changed. I’m not going to succumb to constant fear.”

“It has fucking changed, Granger. I am the last Pureblood heir of two Sacred Twenty-Eight
bloodlines,” he growled. “If they knew—if they suspected—,” he sucked in a breath. “They
would torture us in ways that you can’t even imagine.”

“Then we better not let them catch us, Malfoy,” she replied defiantly, capturing his mouth with
hers.

“Gods, you’re insufferable,” he groaned against her lips, pulling her into his lap. Her fingers
plucked at the hem of his sleeve.

“Fine. Get it over with,” he sighed. His lips dusted her neck as she slid the arm of his jumper up.
She paused.

“You covered it,” she said plainly. “Why?”

“For the Brightest Witch of Her Age, you ask a lot of dumbarse questions, you know that?” he
said, continuing to feather kisses down her neck. “I covered it because it’s fucking offensive,
Granger. I didn’t want you to have to see it.”

He felt her hands on his face, pulling him into her honeyed gaze. “You’re the one person I can be
completely honest with now, Malfoy,” she whispered. “I don’t want you to have to hide things
from me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

His breath caught in his throat as his heart shattered. You have no idea what you’re talking about,
Granger.

He watched her as she unraveled the bandage covering his Mark. Just as she did months before,
she regarded it with a haunting tenderness, her fingers tracing its curves like she was greeting an
old friend.

“Is your mum—,” she began.

“No,” Draco responded quietly, tucking wisps of her hair behind her ears. “She never took the
Mark.”

“So she doesn’t—.”

“If you’re asking if my mother would approve of this,” he said, planting a kiss below her ear. “The
answer would be a resounding no.”
She chuckled wistfully. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

“She doesn’t subscribe to the anti-Muggle-born philosophy per se. She could really care less about
it—she’s only concerned about her own family’s blood status.” He brought his lips to her neck
again.

He wondered if he should say more—tell her that he didn’t care what his mother or his father or the
Dark Lord wanted. He just wanted her. And if there was a way for both of them to survive this
and be together, he would find it. And hold onto it for dear life.

But then the moment passed.

“And what about Theo’s mum?” she asked.

“She’s dead,” Draco responded simply. “But she never took the Mark either.” He kissed
Granger’s shoulder. “She had no issue with Muggle-born witches or wizards.” A kiss to her ear.
“She actually left Theo’s father for a Muggle-born wizard.”

“She did?” Granger asked. “Did she take Theo?” She brushed her thumb over the skull’s eyes.

“Of course,” he said, resting his chin on her head. He sighed, dreading what would come out of
his mouth next. “But his father killed her and her Muggle-born lover about a month after she left.
He collected Theo and brought him back to their manor and,” he exhaled, “that was that.”

Granger gasped. “Wha—why is he not in Azkaban?”

“Because that’s not the official story, Granger,” he sighed. “Nott Senior is one of the Dark Lord’s
most favored followers, and bloody deadly. No one was going to turn him in.” He exhaled. “So
they came up with another story. But we all know.”

He felt her shake her head, but he couldn’t summon the courage to look her in the eye. He couldn’t
stomach her inevitable disgust.

“That’s barbaric,” she choked out. “How old was Theo?”

“About five,” he responded, drawing his fingers down her back. “We were so close then. Well,
we still are, but when we got to school—Merlin, he could barely stand me. I didn’t get it then. I
couldn’t see that I was being—.”

“A prick?” Granger supplied, grinning.

Draco cocked his head. “Yes, a prick, Granger,” he replied, pulling her in for a kiss.

“Sounds like Theo and I would get along,” she murmured against his lips.

“Probably,” Draco muttered back, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb.

“You’re like her, you know. His mum,” he said as they broke apart.

“How so?” she asked, laying her head against his shoulder.

“She was an extraordinarily gifted witch, from what I can remember,” he said softly, twirling a
strand of Granger’s hair between his fingers. “But Merlin, she was so gentle and kind. And
patient. Theo and I got into loads of trouble—I mean literally breaking priceless shite in their
home—and she would always just...laugh. She would pick us up, twirl us around, and laugh like
we hadn’t just shattered a thousand-galleon heirloom. She just didn’t care about that stuff.”
He chuckled softly. “She would keep a stash of these pumpkin candies at their manor that I wasn’t
allowed to have at home. She didn’t eat them—she kept them around just for me. She didn’t care
about the rules that everyone else seemed to live by.” He coughed, clearing the emotion clotting
at the back of his throat. “I never knew adults could be like that.”

He shivered as he felt Granger’s nails drag down the side of his neck, her lips firmly connecting to
his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me that, Malfoy,” she said simply, rolling the sleeve of his jumper down.

“So,” he began, trailing several kisses along her jaw. “May I ask a question now?”

“Mm, I believe you just did, but you may certainly ask me another one,” she mused. He captured
her sides with his hands, tickling her ribs until she cried out and squirmed against him. “Okay,
okay!” she exclaimed. “Ask me.”

“What did Snape tell you, exactly?” he asked, nibbling on her earlobe. “How did he convince you
to lie and say it wasn’t me?”

“Mm, it was more Dumbledore, really,” she said absently, running a hand through his hair.

What?

Her mouth continued moving, but Draco heard nothing except the blood rapidly draining from his
head.

What the fuck did she just say?

“Malfoy?” he heard her ask, her voice still distant. “Malfoy, are you okay?”

“What did you say?” he asked, the hollowness of his voice ringing in his ears.

“I said he told me that you had been forced to take the Mark and that if Voldemort found out what
had happened in London, he would likely harm you. He said he knew it was a lot to ask given our
history, but he was adamant that he wouldn’t see harm come to you if he could prevent it,” she
replied, a mix of concern and confusion spreading across her face.

“Who said that?” he snapped. “Who fucking said that to you?”

“I just told you,” she said, her voice now thick with worry. “Dumbledore. He asked me to do it.
To lie to the Ministry.”

Acid tore at his throat as a cold sweat prickled his skin. He stomach rolled, and he pushed Granger
off his lap just in time for him to turn away and vomit.

“Malfoy!” she exclaimed, scrambling to his side. “Oh my god—Malfoy, what’s wrong?”

Black dots clouded his vision, and he dug his fingers into the grass to stop the room from
spinning. “Why the fuck would he do that?” he gasped, not sure if he meant for the question to be
rhetorical or not.

He felt her hand on his back. “Because he cares about you,” she responded, as if it was the easiest,
most logical answer in the world. “What on earth is going on? Are you sick?” she asked.

Yes, he thought. More than you can imagine.

“That’s a fucking lie, Granger,” he hissed. “Why would Dumbledore give a shit about me? I’ve
been nothing but a fucking tosser to him since I’ve been here.”

“Because he sees the best in everyone, Malfoy,” she soothed, her hand rubbing circles along his
shoulder blades. “He may not agree with some of the things you have done, but that doesn’t mean
he doesn’t care about you.”

No. No fucking way. No fucking way Snape let this man intervene to save my life all the while
knowing that I’m plotting to kill him.

Fresh sick traveled up his throat and onto the grass in front of him. A strangled gasp escaped
Granger’s lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and collapsed back against the
tree, eyes shut.

“Please tell me you’re lying, Granger,” he pleaded, stifling a sob.

“Why would I—,” she stammered. “Of course I’m not lying.” She crawled to him, pulling his
head up to meet her gaze. His shattered heart cracked when he saw the panic etched in her doleful
eyes.

Granger. Dumbledore. This whole fucking time. This whole fucking time I’ve been making
enemies out of the wrong people.

This whole fucking time I’ve had a choice.

A sob tore from his throat as his world splintered around him. The final explosion of a dying star,
its fractured particles collecting light as they formed into something new.

“Oh god,” he heard Granger cry as she pulled him into her, wrapping her arms around him. “Please
tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

But he couldn’t speak. Violent sobs tore through his body as hot tears flowed freely from his eyes.
His lungs swelled and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, his mouth thick with grief and guilt.

“Malfoy, just tell me—please,” she whispered, her breath breezing his hair. “Whatever it is, we
can handle it.”

No, you stupid girl, you can’t.

I can’t.

Minutes passed with him just sobbing into her.

“I can’t fucking do it,” he finally choked out. “I can’t fucking to it, Granger. And he’s going to
kill me.”

“WHAT?” Granger nearly screamed. He could hear her heart thudding against his. She inhaled,
and pulled his face up to meet hers. “Malfoy, I need you to breathe,” she said, wiping the tears
from his cheeks. “And I need you to tell me what’s going on. Please. Let me help.”

He took several shuddering breaths. He pulled her in against him, drowning in her scent one last
time. Because he knew he was about to lose her.

“The Dark Lord,” he whispered into her neck, his breath shaky. “He’s told me that I must kill
Dumbledore. But I can’t fucking do it, Granger. And he’s going to kill me.”
***

Draco awoke the next morning in his bed in the Slytherin dorm with no memory of anything that
happened after his admission to Granger. He had no idea if she had fled, leaving him there in a
pitiful, sobbing heap in the Snidget room. Or if she had wiped away his tears and told him that
they would figure it out together.

But he was almost certain it was the former. Whether he was reforming or not, there was no way
Hermione Granger could love a man who admitted to plotting to kill her revered headmaster.

He stepped in front of his mirror.

He should’ve been more shocked at his appearance than he was: his skin was nearly grey in its
hue, save for under his eyes which were nearly purple and comically swollen. But he had truly
never felt worse in his life, so this seemed pretty fitting.

He wanted to run to her, ask her what happened last night, and beg her to do the unthinkable—
stay. He figured he didn’t have much time left, but he wanted to spend it with her. Engulfed in
honey, lemon, and parchment. Trailing kisses down her neck. Hearing her laugh. Running his
hands through her hair. Making her moan his name.

But he knew what would really happen when he ran to her. She would scream at him in the Great
Hall, calling him a murderer and a coward, slamming her fists into his chest. That is, if she hadn’t
already turned him in. Which would solve at least one of his problems.

Sighing, he pulled the hood of his robe over his head, ducked out of the dormitory, and headed
straight for Snape’s office.

***

He didn’t even bother knocking.

“Severus,” he hissed as he marched through the door.

“Oh, goody, another unexpected visit,” Snape drawled without looking up from his parchment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growled, hovering over Snape’s desk.

“And—oh my lucky stars—another guessing game,” Snape replied dryly. But his expression went
cold when he looked up and saw Draco’s face.

“Draco,” he gasped, in a rare, emotive moment. “What happened to you?” He stood quickly,
striding around his desk to his student.

“You knew,” Draco began, his voice razor thin. “You sat there with Dumbledore at the fucking
Weasley hovel, letting him intervene, knowing full well that I was plotting to kill him.”

Snape paused, studying Draco for several moments before responding. “Yes,” he said simply.
“And so did Dumbledore.”

Draco’s knees buckled and he collapsed into the chair behind him. “What?” he asked, the room
spinning again.

Snape leaned down, eye level with Draco. “Dumbledore knows. He knows about the task the
Dark Lord gave you.”
Acid flooded his throat again, but he swallowed against it. “How? How could he possibly know?”

“Draco, I’m going to tell you something that I don’t ever want you to repeat,” he said, his voice
low. “But the Dark Lord is not and will never be the most powerful wizard in this world as long as
Albus Dumbledore is living. Every move that the Dark Lord makes, Dumbledore is a step ahead
of him. That is why he needs him dead.”

Tremors wracked his body, and his palms were slick against the arms of the chair. “Why would he
help me if he knew I was going to try to kill him?” Draco rasped.

“Because Dumbledore would rather see himself dead than you,” he said plainly.

Draco couldn’t keep it down this time—vomit splashed onto Snape’s floor.

“Lovely,” Snape muttered, as he wordlessly cast a charm to clean the sick off the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” he asked, dragging the cuff of his sleeve along his chin.

“Believe it or not, Draco, I do not seek to make your life more difficult. In fact, I routinely go out
of my way to make your life easier. And that would not include telling you that the man you must
kill was actively involved in an effort to save your life.”

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, bringing his hand over his eyes. “FUCK!”

“Who did tell you this?” Snape inquired.

No.

Draco fled to his wall, but Snape was faster. Snape dug in, wrenching the bricks away and peering
through.

Honey, lemon, parchment.

Her tawny eyes catching the light. Her laugh. Her lips against his neck. Her hair in his hands.
Her gasping his name.

Her.

“Draco,” Snape gasped, nearly collapsing onto his desk. “Please tell me I’m wrong. Please, gods,
tell me I’m wrong.”

Draco felt Snape continuing to dig, his hands ripping more bricks away.

Her silver scar. Her fingers tracing his Mark. Her hips rocking against him. Her skin buzzing
under his fingers.

Her.

“Stop,” Draco begged, leaning over and digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Please,
Severus, just stop.”

“Do you know how much danger you’ve put her in?” Snape whispered.

“Stop,” Draco said again, standing.

But he was still there, prying.

Her trembling hand returning his wand. Her bruised shoulder. Her hand cupping his face. Her
stories about rocket ships, astronauts, and the cosmos.

Her.

He saw it all. He felt it all.

“FUCKING STOP!” he screamed, his fist hitting Snape’s face with such force that he sent him
spinning into the wall behind him. Snape reached for his wand, but Draco was faster this time.

“Expelliarmus!” he roared, watching with relief as Snape’s wand flew across the room. Draco
advanced on him, wand still drawn.

“I can keep her safe—my occlumency is better than it’s ever been—.”

“I just got in with absolutely no resistance, Draco,” Snape growled.

Draco pinned him to the wall, his forearm across Snape’s neck. “Only because I’m fucking losing
my mind right now, Severus!” he shot back.

“And you don’t think you’ll be fucking losing your mind when the Dark Lord is interrogating
you?” Snape spat back.

The two wizards stared at each other for several breaths. Draco couldn’t bring himself to admit
that Snape was right. That when it counted most, he might not be able to keep Granger in that
cottage on that hill behind that wall that he so painstakingly built, brick by brick.

“I need to go,” Draco said abruptly, dropping his arm.

“Draco,” Snape began, trying to block Draco’s exit.

“Are you deaf? I said I need to fucking leave.” He shoved Snape again, watching without remorse
as his professor collapsed over a pile of books.

“Not again,” was all he heard as he yanked the office door closed behind him.
 Sectumsempra

“Hermione, please tell us what’s wrong,” Ginny begged that morning at breakfast, cradling her
friend’s head on her shoulder. Ron looked on with alarm, and even Harry’s expression revealed a
level of concern and affection that she hadn’t seen from him in many months.

“I told you guys—it’s nothing, I’m just not feeling that well,” Hermione replied, knowing full well
that she was not convincing anyone.

“I heard you crying when you came in last night,” Ginny whispered in a tone so hushed only
Hermione could hear it.

Hermione had no rebuttal. She had cried—for nearly half the night, if she had to guess. Malfoy’s
confession shattered her, and watching him completely break down had ground those shattered
pieces of herself into ash.

Forgive me, he had sobbed over and over again. I’m not going to do it. Please, Granger, fucking
forgive me.

She couldn’t get a word in edgewise. She couldn’t tell him that she wanted to hate him. That she
wanted to go back to a world where things were black and white. A world where his status as a
Death Eater made him evil. Made them enemies. Made him unforgiveable.

But nothing was black and white anymore. That she didn’t think he was evil. That she cared for
him in a way that scared her more than any Death Eater ever would. That she forgave him for
everything he had ever done—and anything that he might need to do in the future.

It had taken every ounce of physical strength in her to lead him out of the Snidget room. He had
limped along side of her, breaking down the entire way.

I don’t want to fucking die, Granger, he repeated. She had bitten into her hand to keep from
sobbing each time he said it; an arched bruise now encircled her hand.

She cast a muffliato and disillusionment charm as they moved through the castle. She calmly
deposited him in front of the Slytherin common room entrance. We’re going to talk about this
tomorrow, she whispered. Please, Malfoy, let us talk about this tomorrow.

He had said nothing and slipped behind the portrait.

She went back to her dorm and sobbed into her pillow. She wished she had remembered to cast a
muffliato then.

“There he is.” Harry’s voice shook her from her nightmare. Her head shot up to look at him, and
she followed his line of sight.

Malfoy.

She swallowed a sob when she saw him. He looked absolutely horrific—a ghost of the boy who
had met her in front of the portrait less than twelve hours before.

His face cracked when their eyes connected. He backed up slowly, and then turned, fleeing the
Great Hall.
“Fuck this,” she heard Harry mutter as he rose from his seat and took off after him.

Her heart stalled.

“Harry, NO!” she bellowed, untangling herself from Ginny and chasing after him. She heard
frantic footsteps behind her—Ron and Ginny.

She thundered after Harry as he pursued Malfoy through the corridors. She was screaming for
Harry as Ron and Ginny were screaming for her.

In the distance, she saw a silver blonde head duck into a boys’ bathroom, and with Harry close
behind him. She tumbled into the door, flinging it open. She saw Harry first, his wand drawn and
aimed straight in front of him.

She took several tentative steps toward him. “Harry,” she soothed. “Harry, please let’s talk about
this.”

A sob ripped through the bathroom, and her head jerked to the left. Her gaze landed upon Malfoy,
hunched over the sinks, strangled cries escaping his throat. He seemed completely oblivious to
their presence.

She turned her attention back to Harry, her mind racing. “Harry, please stop. Put your wand
down.” He looked at her, his eyes wild.

“What did he do to you?” he asked, his tone unrecognizable.

“Nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing, Harry.”

He laughed mirthlessly, and shook his head. “You’re a fucking liar, Hermione,” he said simply.
She watched as he opened his mouth, an unfamiliar spell rolling off his tongue.

“DRACO!” she screamed, and he wheeled around to look at her. His eyes met hers for an instant
before Harry’s spell hit him square in the chest.

Red bloomed through his shirt as his chest appeared to come apart. She heard a scream, although
she wasn’t sure if it was her or Ginny. She looked to Harry—his face frozen as Malfoy collapsed
to the floor.

Her feet were moving before she even realized she was reacting. She fell to her knees when she
reached his side, unsheathing her wand and frantically murmuring healing spells as the wound
continued to blossom across his abdomen. Her spells weren’t working.

Blood. Oh god, there was so much blood.

“Goddamnit!” she screamed, as her healing spell continued to fail to close the wound splitting his
chest.

“Hermione,” a haunted voice behind her whispered. Ron. She looked up to meet his gaze, her
stomach rolling when she saw the panic in his eyes.

Her head whipped back to find Ginny on Malfoy’s other side, also unsuccessfully trying to apply
healing spells.

“Snape,” she murmured, tugging on Ron’s sleeve. “Ron, you need to get Snape. Now.” He
gulped, nodded, and ran off without another word. Her eyes drifted back to Malfoy as he writhed
on the floor, his chest completely cracked.

“Oh, god, Malfoy,” she sobbed. His eyes met hers, the coldest shade of grey she had ever seen. He
lifted his arm, bringing his hand to her cheek.

“I’m,” he rasped. “Sorry.” His thumb moved over her cheekbone.

She held his hand in place with hers. “I forgive you,” she whispered over and over again. “Oh
god, please, Malfoy. I forgive you.”

Ginny screamed in frustration as her spells continued to fail. She dropped her wand and Hermione
watched in horror as Ginny tried to push the wound together with her hands.

Hermione leaned down, burying her head next to his ear. “Stay, please,” she begged.

“Move,” a gruff voice erupted behind her, yanking her away from Malfoy.

Snape.

Hermione watched, frozen, as he knelt down and gathered and cradled Malfoy in his arms, and
Ginny frantically tried to explain to him that the healing spells weren’t working.

“I know, Miss Weasley,” he replied, his face drawn. He quickly exited the room.

Hermione felt Ginny wrap herself around her as she trembled on the cold, stone floor, soaked in
Draco Malfoy’s blood.

***

Hermione awoke in an unfamiliar room. She snapped upright, the panic returning to her like a
flood to the heart.

All the blood. His blood. His chest splintered like a felled tree. His leaden eyes and ashy skin.
I’m. Sorry.

A scream escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“Miss Granger! Miss Granger!”

Professor McGonagall came into view, pulling Hermione into a tight embrace.

“You’re okay, Miss Granger,” she soothed, rocking her slightly. “You’re in my private quarters.
You went into shock after witnessing the duel between Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy.”

It wasn’t a fucking duel, she wanted to scream. Instead, she sobbed into Professor McGonagall’s
robe.

“After Madam Pomfrey administered a sleeping draught, we thought it best you recuperate here,
given your state.” Professor McGonagall pulled back, smoothing Hermione’s hair away from her
face. “I need you to breathe for me, dear,” she said softly, warmness brimming in her eyes.

“Oh, gods,” Hermione gasped, rocking slightly as she forced herself to take deep breaths.

“You are okay, Miss Granger,” McGonagall whispered, rubbing her shoulder.

“Where is he?” she asked quietly. She couldn’t bring herself to ask if he was even alive.
“He’s with Professor Snape and the Headmaster. He will not be expelled, Miss Granger. It is clear
he did not understand the lethality of the spell he cast. But he will receive detention, and he has
lost Gryffindor almost all of its house points.” She sighed. “And he has been removed from his
role as captain of the Quidditch team. Miss Bell will take his place. I’ve got to tell you, Miss
Granger, I’m not sure if I’ve ever been so disappointed in a Gryffindor student.”

“No,” she shook her head. “Not Harry. Where is Malfoy?”

“Oh,” she responded, appearing somewhat surprised. “He is recovering in the hospital wing. It
will be a painful recovery, I’m afraid, but he will be okay.”

Tears of relief flooded from her eyes as Professor McGonagall took her in her arms again. “I’m so
sorry, dear,” she hummed. “I’m sure that was incredibly traumatizing to witness.”

“I need to see him,” she whispered.

“Very well,” McGonagall sighed. “But right now you need to rest, as does Mr. Malfoy. I will
bring you to him tomorrow.”

***

The next day, Professor McGonagall accompanied her to the Gryffindor common room while
others were in class. Once inside, Hermione shot into the dorm, quickly changing out of the
pajama robes that had been supplied to her, and throwing on a pair of jeans and a jumper.

“Would you like me to escort you to the hospital wing?” Professor McGonagall asked as Hermione
emerged from the dormitory.

“No thank you, Professor,” she responded. “I’m okay, really. Thank you for your hospitality
yesterday and this morning.”

Professor McGonagall squeezed her shoulder before she turned to leave. “Thank you, Miss
Granger. I know your relationship with Mr. Malfoy has been fraught, but hearing of your and Miss
Weasley’s valiant efforts to save him yesterday filled me with much pride.” She ducked into the
portrait hole and disappeared.

***

Hermione sprinted the entire way to the hospital wing. But she skidded to a halt when she saw
Theo Nott sitting at Malfoy’s bedside.

“Damnit,” she hissed to herself as she ducked behind a curtain. Professor McGonagall had
specifically chosen this time, as all other students were supposed to be in class. Her mind raced,
planning an escape route.

“I can see you there, Granger,” Theo’s voice rang out.

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t move. She didn’t even try to breathe.

“You know, for the brightest students at this school, you’re both pretty shite at sneaking around,”
he continued. “Which I imagine is going to become a problem.”

Fuck. She cursed herself and continued to hold her breath.

“Seriously, Granger, I can see your fucking feet under the curtain. Give up the ghost and pull up a
chair, huh?”

“Goddamnit,” she huffed as she rounded the curtain.

“There she is,” Theo exclaimed, chewing on a toothpick. He kicked a chair in her direction.
“C’mon take a seat.”

“You’re supposed to be in class,” she growled, crossing her arms and legs.

Theo laughed heartily, reaching over and squeezing her shoulder. “Is this prefect Granger or
girlfriend Granger?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” she responded hotly, rolling her shoulder away from him.

She rose from her chair, moving closer to Malfoy. His eyes were shut, thick bandages covering his
entire chest.

She hated Theo for being there. She wanted to curl up next to Malfoy, run her fingers through his
hair, and scream that he had nothing to apologize for until her mouth ran dry. She needed to lay her
head on his chest to make sure that his heart was actually still beating...

A hand enveloped hers. “Thank you, Granger,” Theo said simply, giving her fingers a quick
squeeze before dropping away.

Her heart stuttered for a moment as her head snapped back toward him. “What?” she whispered.

“For saving him,” he replied in an equally hushed tone, his sapphire eyes searching hers.

“I—I didn’t,” she stammered, shaking her head. “All my healing spells—they failed. Ginny’s too.
We didn’t save him. Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey did.”

A smug grin spread across Theo’s face. “Oh, you’re assuming I’m talking about this time,” he
whispered. “And not the two other times you saved him.” He kicked his feet up to rest on the
edge of Malfoy’s bed.

Hermione felt her eyes grow wide as she fell back into the chair beside Theo. Malfoy told him
about London? And the Ministry?

Theo reached out and squeezed her shoulder, rolling the toothpick between his teeth. “And a
thanks for, you know, just generally making him less of a prat.”

Despite herself, Hermione chuckled. “Has he been awake at all?” she asked.

“No,” he responded, his head swiveling behind him. “But I’ve only been here for about thirty
minutes. Had to sneak in when Pomfrey was on her break,” he whispered. “She’ll toss me out on
my arse when she does her next rounds.”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you, Theo,” she murmured. She reached for Malfoy’s hand, but
paused mid-reach, returning her hand to her lap.

“I fucking know, Granger,” he said, lazily drooping an arm over her shoulder. “You can drop the
act, okay?” He pulled her in toward him. “And you can talk to me—if you need to.”

She looked at him, but said nothing.

He sighed loudly. “Look, we’re both sitting bedside vigil for a man who drives us out of our
fucking minds. It’s a form of insanity, really. We might as well get comfortable with each other.”

She didn’t want to confide in Theo. Just like she hadn’t wanted to confide in Malfoy. But she felt
herself crumble just so she could breathe again.

“Godric,” she sighed, dropping her head into her hands. “I really thought—,” her voice cracked. “I
thought he was going to die.” She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob. “I’ve never
seen—,” a strangled breath. “I’ve never seen a wound like that.” She roughly wiped tears from
her cheeks. “Nothing was working and—,” another swallowed sob. “God, Ginny was just trying
to close it with her hands. His blood—his blood is still under my fingernails. I can’t get it out.”

Theo tightened his grip around her shoulder, pulling her into him. “He’s fine now, Granger,” he
whispered. “Honestly, at this point, he’s probably just doing this for attention.”

She chuckled under her breath, rubbing her thumb against Malfoy’s knuckles. “That does seem
like him, no?” she asked.

“Without a doubt,” he agreed, laughing a bit. “But Granger,” he began, turning to face her. “I
meant what I said back in Hogsmeade.” He exhaled deeply. “He’s perhaps the most infuriating
and difficult person I have ever met. But he’s so fucking worth it.”

She exhaled and nodded, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Did Madam Pomfrey see his Mark?” she whispered.

“No,” he replied, his voice also hushed. “Snape masked it with a glamour spell before he brought
him in.”

A throat cleared behind them.

She whipped her head back, her eyes locking on him.

“You,” she seethed, rising from her chair. “How dare you.”

Harry reflexively moved backwards, his arms creating distance between himself and Hermione.
“Hermione,” he began, “I just wanted to see—to make sure he was okay.”

“Does he look okay, Harry?” she spat, pointing to Malfoy’s pallid and bandaged form behind her.
“You nearly killed him!” She continued to advance upon him as he backed up.

“I didn’t—,” he stammered. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it would be so bad. All the book said
was ‘for enemies.’”

“Oh, I know all about it. Professor McGonagall told me everything,” she hissed, her veins aflame.
“You used a fucking handwritten curse in a used spell book against someone who had their back
turned to you, completely unaware that you were even in the room!” She shoved him, and he
stumbled a bit before righting himself.

“That same spell book that you’ve been using to get ahead in Potions all year,” she finished. “And
here I thought you were actually doing your own work for once!”

“But—,” he started.

“No,” she growled. “You turned your fucking back on me for nothing, and you come here—.”
She shook her head. “You come here asking for forgiveness after casting an unknown spell on a
classmate and nearly killing him?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to apologize to you, Hermione. I’m here to apologize
to Malfoy.”

“Oh? How do you propose you apologize to him when he’s unconscious because you split his
chest open?” she scoffed. “No. No—I reject your apology on his behalf.”

His green eyes hardened against her. “Was I right back this summer, Hermione?” he asked,
leaning in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you shagging him?”

“Leave,” she hissed. “Leave, before I sectumsempra you myself.” Her blood crackled as she
leaned in even closer, pinning him against the wall.

“Fuck you, Hermione,” he retorted, shoving her out of his way as he strutted toward the exit.

She watched him leave, disbelieving that she ever saw him as anything but reckless. She exhaled
deeply, unfurling her balled fists. There were pinpricks of blood where her nails had cut into her
palms. She wiped it on her jeans and marched back toward Malfoy’s hospital bed.

“Gods, Granger,” Theo remarked, flipping the toothpick around in his mouth as she folded back
into her chair. “I’m half hard after watching that.”

A dry laugh slipped from her lips. “Godric, Theo, some things are better kept to yourself,” she
mused. “We barely know each other.”

“And yet you already know one of my kinks,” he shrugged.

“Ugh, gross,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. He chuckled.

A hand brushed against the tips of her fingers. But it wasn’t Theo’s.

“I would have gotten into your knickers years ago, Granger,” the voice rasped. “If I knew you
would thrash Potter like that.”
 Everything

Exactly every part of his body ached, particularly his head, which he figured he clipped pretty hard
against the bathroom floor. He kept his eyes closed for fear that if the light from the infirmary hit
his eyes, it would blast his brain into oblivion.

She was talking a million miles a minute, peppering him with question after question, and dusting
her fingers over his bandages. It made his head ache even more, if that was at all possible.

“Gods, Theo,” he croaked. “Hit her with a silencing spell, please. She’s going to split my skull in
half.”

A wry chuckle from Theo. “From what I’ve heard about Granger’s dueling, I’ll pass. You’re on
your own, mate.”

Draco groaned.

Another string of frustrations and questions spilled out of Granger’s mouth.

“Merlin, Granger,” he sighed. “Shut up and come here.” He laced his fingers through hers,
pulling her into his bed.

“Malfoy,” she protested as she delicately fell in next to him. “Madam Pomfrey could come by any
second.”

“To hell with her,” he breathed into her hair. “Theo,” he said, “be a mate and close the curtains.
And if Pomfrey comes by, hex her into next week.”

“Malfoy!” Granger chided.

“Aye, captain,” Theo responded, the clinking of the curtains closing behind him.

With the curtains closed, he cracked his eyes open, his vision immediately falling upon her honey
eyes. Gods, you’re beautiful, he thought.

“Hi,” she whispered, brushing her thumb over his lower lip.

“Hi,” he responded, nibbling on it.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her fingers moving to trace his jawline.

“Oh, never better, Granger,” he deadpanned. “I should have Potter try to split me in half more
often.”

She dropped her head to the crook of his arm, silent sobs echoing against his skin.

“Hey,” he whispered. Her body trembled against his as she tried to curb her cries. He couldn’t
move his other arm to tilt her head back up toward him, so he craned his neck down to bury his
face against hers. “I’m right here, Granger.”

After several moments, she turned back toward him, her face streaked and puffy. “I thought I was
watching you die, Malfoy,” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

“There’s not a chance in hell I would let that four-eyed freak kill me,” he said, tugging her in closer
to him. “Especially not in a fucking Hogwarts bathroom—I’d be stuck with Myrtle for the rest of
eternity.”

A wistful chuckle danced across her lips. She grew quiet, her gaze locked into his. She leaned
down and kissed him deeply, running her hand through his hair. He was drowning in her again, his
lungs bursting.

After several minutes, he broke away. “Did you mean it?” he whispered, his voice more frantic
than he intended. “What you said before Snape took me away?”

She nodded firmly, her eyes still brimming. “Yes,” she gasped. “God knows my life would be
easier if I didn’t, but I’m with you, Malfoy. We’re going to figure this out—together.”

He felt his eyes grow hot and slick as he peppered her with kisses. “You’re a fucking fool,
Granger, you know that?” She laughed against his lips. “The Brightest Witch of Her Age, but a
fucking fool.”

They broke apart, and she continued to absently run her fingers through his hair. “We’ll find a way
through this,” she whispered. “I always find a way.”

He sighed, willing himself to believe her.

Outside the curtains, a voice squawked, “Theodore Nott, what are you doing here?” A small
whoosh and plume of smoke followed. “Oh Merlin! How did that catch fire?!” Pomfrey
exclaimed.

Theo’s head ducked inside the curtain. “Time’s up, kids. Gotta go.”

Granger planted a final kiss to his lips before she hopped off the bed, ducked behind Theo, and
disappeared from sight.

***

His mother arrived later that day. He expected her to be breathing fire, provided that she hadn’t
already separated Potter’s head from his neck. But the woman who arrived at his bedside was
unrecognizable; eyes red-rimmed, skin ashen, shoulders hunched, and hair dulled. She looked like
she hadn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks.

He had seen her like this once before, years earlier. But she looked even worse now, likely
because she didn’t have his father to lean on this time.

“Oh, Draco,” she gasped, bringing a trembling hand to cover her mouth. “Oh, my heart, what has
he done to you?” She wrapped him in her arms, but she was cold. It was the opposite of
comforting.

“I’m fine, mum, really,” he lied. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” She took a shuddering breath as she
pulled away, tangling her skeletal hands in his.

He studied her for several breaths while he found the courage to say it. “Mum, I’m worried about
you.” Her expression was unreadable.

“I don’t want you to worry about me, my heart. You have enough to worry about.” She pushed his
hair back, her hand lingering on his cheek.

He leaned into her hand. “You can talk to me if you need to,” he said simply.
She released a strangled exhale, her eyes beginning to brim with emotion. “What’s there to say,
Draco?”

He frowned. But she had a point. She could talk about what plagued her all she wanted, but it
wouldn’t change the fact that her husband was in prison and her only son was living on borrowed
time.

“Draco, I’ve requested that they release you to me for the remainder of the semester so you can
recuperate at home. Healer Denison has said he can live in for the next week to tend to you, and
Severus has said he can have all your schoolwork forwarded,” she said.

“No,” he replied instantly.

A look of hurt crossed her face. A stab to his already ruptured chest.

“Draco, I really think it’s best if you come home. I don’t want you anywhere near that homicidal
maniac, Potter. And no one will care for you here better than I will.” She brushed her hand across
his cheek.

“I know, mum, thank you,” he said, a reserved smile tugging at his lips. “But I’d really prefer to
stay here until the end of the term.”

“Why?” she asked.

Where should I start, mum?

Well, for one, I think I’m falling in love with a Muggle-born witch and the idea of being away from
her for three weeks is enough to drive me to the brink of insanity, if I’m not there already.

And speaking of insanity, I’m toying with the idea of not killing Albus Dumbledore and, you know,
just seeing what happens.

All of this to say, it is a massively inconvenient time for me to spend weeks cohabitating with the
greatest Legilimens the wizarding world has ever known. Wouldn’t you agree?

“I’m struggling with my occlumency,” he replied. “And I’m not comfortable spending a lot of time
at the Manor around the Dark Lord until I’ve rectified it.”

Not a lie.

She nodded. “Your Aunt Bella can help you with that, you know.”

Fuck, woman, are you trying to kill me?

“I know,” he said. “But I prefer working with Severus.”

“I understand,” she sighed, standing and pressing her lips to the top of his head. “You’ll let me
know if you change your mind?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied.

A sad smile played across her lips. “I love you, Draco,” she said, smoothing his hair one last time.

“Love you too, mum,” he replied, watching as the ghost of his mother exited the infirmary.

***
The curtains ripped open early the next morning, bathing Draco in sunlight. Nothing had stopped
hurting yet, including his head, which felt like it was under constant siege by Grindylows. “For
fuck’s sake, Pomfrey,” he groaned, draping his good arm over his eyes.

“Guess again, Mr. Malfoy,” came a low, drawling voice.

Fuck.

“What do you want?” Draco groaned, peeking an eye out from underneath his arm.

“Ah, is that how we great the person who single-handedly saved your life?” Snape inquired, taking
a seat beside Draco’s bed.

“Gods, you know, Severus, I’d have a whole lot more appreciation for that if I knew you weren’t
just fattening me up for the Dark Lord’s slaughter.”

Snape exhaled loudly. “I have no intention of allowing the Dark Lord to kill you, Draco. Which is
why we need to talk.”

“If it’s about Granger, Severus, I have nothing to say to you,” Draco seethed, turning his head away
from him.

“Of course you don’t, Draco,” he said, bored. “I’ve seen it all already—I don’t need your clumsy
narrative.”

Every muscle in his body tightened. “I swear to Merlin, if you even think of saying anything to my
parents—to anyone—I will fucking kill you.”

“I think you’ve made it clear that you’re not a killer, Draco,” Snape responded plainly.

Draco slowly rolled his head back around to face Snape. “Don’t confuse my hesitation to murder
an innocent man who helped save my life with my absolute willingness to destroy anyone who so
much as looks the wrong way at Granger.” The words dripped off his lips like poison. “So I find
out you even whispered Granger’s name to anyone, I wouldn’t hesitate to avada you. Got it?”

Whatever reaction Draco was expecting, it wasn’t the one that he got.

“Understood,” he responded evenly. “Then once you’re released to the infirmary, you will come to
my office every single day to work on your occlumency.”

He stood to leave.

“That’s it?” Draco asked, dumbfounded. “You’re not going to tell me to stop?”

Snape sighed, turning back to face Draco. “If I thought that would be a fruitful exercise, Draco, I
would. But you and Miss Granger have a tendency to flout each and every rule set before you, so I
have every confidence you would not listen to me anyway.”

He paused before continuing. “This may be the dumbest, most reckless thing either of you have
done in your shockingly long resumes of dumb and reckless acts, but at this point it is what it is.”

“And the fact that she’s Muggle-born?” Draco asked, his mouth dry. “You’re not going to tell me
I’m betraying my bloodline for wanting to be with her?”

“Love does not know blood status, Draco,” he said simply. “Only people do.”
Draco’s head spun as Snape turned to leave again. “Wait,” Draco called as Snape started to
disappear beyond the curtain.

“Yes?” he replied slowly, not bothering to turn back.

“Theo will need occlumency work too. Every day. Same as me.”

“Fucking hell,” Snape muttered as he disappeared from sight.

***

The next few days passed slowly. Blaise and Theo visited daily, with Theo receiving detention
after McGonagall discovered he was skipping classes to spend time with Draco in the infirmary.
On Draco’s third day in the infirmary, Theo brought him large piece of parchment that Granger had
given him.

“I thought it was her Potions or Transfiguration notes, but it’s a sketch of some weird fucking
contraption,” he had said. “What kind of weird shite are you two into?”

Although he had never seen one before, he knew exactly what it was: a rocket ship.

Pansy never came, which Draco was grateful for. But she had struck Potter with a stinging hex
when she caught him leaving detention one night. At McGonagall’s urging, Snape stripped her of
her prefect status, transferring the status to Millicent Bulstrode.

The pain began to ebb around day four. He regained use of his left arm, and the impossibly bulky,
restrictive bandages were swapped for something that actually breathed. The scar across his chest
was clearly visible through his bandages. Pomfrey said that the scar was likely permanent, but
would fade with age. The wound on his abdomen appeared to have healed completely, leaving no
trace. Pomfrey told him she expected to be able to release him on Saturday.

Granger hadn’t returned since his second day in the infirmary, and he missed her.

***

On Thursday—day five—he fell asleep early and then found himself wide awake somewhere
around midnight. He had felt a peculiar sense of calm since deciding that he wasn’t going to kill
Dumbledore, even though by so choosing he was essentially signing his own death warrant.

But he had Granger. And she was the Brightest Witch of Her Age. If there was someone in this
school that could get them out of this fucking train wreck alive, it was her.

Suddenly, his curtain split open and a small hooded figure entered. “What the fuck?!” he hissed,
scrambling for his wand.

“Shh, shh!” the figure soothed, removing its hood.

Granger.

Before he could move, she had cast a muffliato and dropped her robe, revealing nothing but a loose
fitting camisole and tiny pajama shorts. He felt his jaw drop.

“Get. Over. Here. Now,” he growled. A bright smile bloomed on her cheeks and she crossed the
space between them and crawled into his lap.
For a few breathless moments, they said nothing. Her fingers danced delicately over his remaining
bandages, tracing the outline of his scar across his chest. He did the same, running his fingers
along her silver scar, visible above the low cut of her camisole.

“How are you?” she whispered, peppering light kisses to the sides of his mouth.

“Fucking perfect now, Granger,” he responded, running his hands through her hair and pulling her
on top of him as he laid down.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, trying to shift her weight off of his chest.

“It’s better,” he said softly, pulling her in tighter.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she said in a voice so quiet he couldn’t tell if she had meant for
him to hear. He pulled her head to his, kissing her deeply. She responded in kind, dragging her
hands through his hair.

“When are you getting released?” she breathed against his lips.

“Saturday,” he returned. “Can I see you?”

She broke away for a moment. “I have Professor Slughorn’s Christmas party on Saturday night,”
she replied.

“Oh—right, of course,” he said, hoping to mask his disappointment. “Blaise mentioned that.” He
sighed, “Don’t fucking tell me you’re taking Weasel.”

“No,” she chuckled. “I’m bringing Luna.”

“Merlin, of course,” he groaned, bringing his mouth over hers.

“But Malfoy,” she began, pulling back. “I was thinking we could get together after. Maybe the
Room of Requirement?”

His eyebrow quirked. “Oh? And what do you require, Granger?” he smirked.

“Everything,” she whispered, her eyes dark.

Everything.

Everything.

Everything.

She couldn’t mean…no.

“Everything?” he choked, his own voice echoing in his head. “You mean—.”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“Salazar,” he exclaimed, dropping his head forward onto her shoulder. “You wouldn’t tease a man
with a fractured chest, right? I’m not sure my heart could take it.”

He felt her shake her head. “I want it. And I want it with you, Malfoy,” she breathed.

Stars exploded under his skin.

He pulled her mouth to his, pressing his tongue to hers, and slipped a hand under the waistline of
her shorts.

I’m shagging Granger on Saturday.

I’m going to make her scream my name tonight, and then I’m shagging her on Saturday.

***

An hour later they laid in each other’s arms, watching the moonlight trace patterns across the
infirmary ceiling.

“I have to tell you something,” she said finally. “And I’m hoping you won’t be cross with me—I
really don’t think I had any other option—.”

“Spit it out, Granger,” he said lazily, drawing his fingers through her curls.

“I told Ginny,” she said softly. “About everything. Well—not everything. Not about
Dumbledore.” She took a deep breath. “But she heard me crying when I came in that night, and
she was right there when we were talking to each other in the bathroom.” She sighed heavily. “It
was—it was just going to be worse if I didn’t. I needed to give her something to chew on before
she started her own digging.”

She continued to ramble, “But I trust her, Malfoy. I was worried before—that she would tell
Harry. But after seeing what Harry did—she’s so cross with him, I think they might break up—but
I think she gets how dangerous this all is. So I’m confident that she will keep this to herself, but
—.” She exhaled deeply. “Say something, please.”

“I don’t care,” he said simply, continuing to run his fingers through her hair. “Well—that’s not
true. I care that Potter and She-Weasley are dating because that’s fucking disgusting, but
otherwise I could care less, Granger.”

“Really?” she asked, sitting up to face him.

“Really,” he said, planting a firm kiss to her lips. “I trust you, Granger. And if you trust her, then
fine. You did what you had to do.”

“Oh, okay,” she said doubtfully, curling up next to him again.

“Would you like me to be angry with you?” he asked.

“No, you prat,” she huffed. He chuckled and kissed the top of her head.

“And what was She-Weasley’s reaction?” he inquired.

“Oh gods,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes with her hands. “Let’s see, shock, confusion, anger,
skepticism, disappointment, and I think we maybe reached reluctant acceptance. But she did tell
me to tell you that she’s glad you’re not dead, but she still hates your guts, and might punch you in
the jaw next time she sees you.”

Draco erupted in laughter. “That sounds about right,” he said, pressing a kiss to Granger’s
forehead. “Sacked by three different Weasleys in a single semester—a new low.”

“Three?” Granger asked, popping up on her elbow. “Who else besides Ron?”

“Oh, no one ever told you?” he asked, an amused grin breaking across his face. “Some massive
brute with garishly curly red hair sucker punched me the stomach out on the grounds back in
November.”

“Charlie?!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know his sodding name,” Draco laughed, kissing her. “All I know is he sacked me in the
stomach and told me to stay away from you.”

“And I see you listened,” she mused, dusting kisses to his neck.

“If you think for a second that I would ever listen to anything a fucking Weasley told me to do,
Granger, you’re crazier than I thought,” he responded. She chuckled into his neck, her lips
continuing to dance against it.

“So She-Weasley is up for grabs?” he smirked. “I’ll have to let Blaise know.”

“Blaise? Why?” Granger asked, lifting her head from his neck.

“Oh gods, he’s dying to shag her,” Draco responded, fully anticipating the light smack she laid to
his cheek.

“I will not let another good Gryffindor girl get seduced by another corrupted Slytherin,” she jested.
Draco growled in response, rolling on top of her, and working his hands against her until she was
gasping his name again.

***

“We also need to talk about what we’re going to do—you know—about the whole Dumbledore
thing,” she said when they had regained their breath. “We need a plan that doesn’t end with, well
—.”

“My violent death at the hands of the Dark Lord?” he replied flippantly.

“Yes,” she said tersely, rolling her eyes. “That.”

“We will,” he said capturing her mouth with his. “But let me enjoy tonight. And Saturday.
Especially Saturday. And then I promise I will make saving my own dumb arse from death
priority one.” He kissed her again, her smile pressing against his lips.

“Fine,” she sighed. “I just have one more question.”

“Of course you do,” he groaned. “Go on.”

“Do you know what a horcrux is?”

 Requirement

“Wouldn’t it have made more sense to get ready in your common room?” Luna asked as Ginny and
Hermione arrived, dresses and makeup in tow, at the Ravenclaw common room on Saturday
afternoon.

“Fuck no,” Ginny retorted, breezing past Luna.

“She’s still not speaking to Harry,” Hermione supplied, following Ginny but stopping quickly to
hug Luna. “So we’re not spending any more time than necessary in areas where, well, they may
need to interact.”

“Should we blindfold ourselves at the Christmas party so we don’t have to look at him?” Luna
suggested.

“Have any blindfolds that are long enough to strangle him with?” Ginny asked tersely, hastily
pulling makeup items out of the tote from Fleur.

“Yes,” Luna replied simply. She sat down next to Ginny, rolling a tube of mascara between her
fingers. “Are you fighting about what happened to Draco?”

“What happened—Merlin, Luna. I watched Harry literally split his chest in half because he had
some half-cocked idea—,” she paused, meeting Hermione’s eyes through the mirror she sat in front
of. She let out a frustrated exhale. “It took me days to get all of Malfoy’s blood off of me. So yes,
it’s about that.”

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” Luna said softly, laying her head on Ginny’s shoulder.

Hermione laid down on the couch behind them, trying to erase images of Malfoy’s splintered chest
from her consciousness.

***

“Alright, what’ll it be, Hermione?” Ginny asked Hermione after doing her own makeup and hair, as
well as Luna’s.

“I want it…dramatic,” she said, biting her lip.

Ginny lifted an eyebrow, a suggestive smirk crossing her face. “Coming right up.”

Ginny worked on Hermione’s makeup and hair for what felt like an eternity, but when she wheeled
her around to show her the final product, Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

She looked—she felt…sexy. Ginny had applied smoky makeup to Hermione’s eyes, the outer
fringes of which were dusted with a distinct dark green. Her eyelashes appeared impossibly long,
and her lips were painted a dark red. Ginny had styled her hair into a low messy bun, with some
curls falling out in front, framing her face.

“Ginny,” Hermione gasped.

Ginny bent forward, her face inches from Hermione’s, admiring her own handiwork in the mirror.
“He’s going to lose his fucking mind,” Ginny whispered.

Hermione’s heart pounded as she smiled appreciatively at her friend. Ginny was far from
endorsing Hermione’s association with Malfoy, but she seemed to accept it—and much more easily
than Hermione had imagined. She wasn’t sure if it was Ginny’s horror over what Harry had done,
or whether the trust that Hermione’s admission signaled overpowered Ginny’s raw hatred for
Malfoy.

But in any event, Hermione’s confession appeared to tear down the wall that her earlier lie had
constructed between them, finally giving Ginny room to talk freely about Harry in front of
Hermione again.

And it was a discussion that they needed to have. By Ginny’s telling, Harry’s obsession with
Malfoy that semester was even more erratic than Ron had portrayed. Until Ginny had taken away
his map, Harry had spent entire weekends tailing him. He aired his concern to anyone who would
listen—including multiple times to Dumbledore and McGonagall, both of whom tried desperately
to dissuade him of the notion.

And most importantly—the horcruxes. Harry had attended another meeting with Dumbledore
since Hermione had spoken with Ron, in which they delved into Slughorn’s altered memory and
Tom Riddle had asked about horcruxes. Dumbledore had told Harry that obtaining Slughorn’s true
memory was of utmost importance, but Harry’s obsession with Malfoy was still eclipsing the true
task at hand.

Hermione and Ginny could not discover much about horcruxes; they gathered that they were dark,
terrible magic, but after hours of research, Hermione and Ginny had been unable to find anything
substantive on the subject in the Hogwarts library.

Malfoy hadn’t heard of them either, although he still proved to be a potentially useful resource.

“If they’re dark magic, we probably have books on them in the library.”

“No, Ginny and I already checked the library. There’s nothing, except one book that only provides
a vague description.”

“Not the Hogwarts library, Granger. The library at the Manor.”

“You have a library?”

“Yes,” he had replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Willing herself to focus on non-Voldemort-related things this evening, Hermione sighed and
slipped into her dress, a floor length black gown with sleeves that fell off the shoulder.

***

The Christmas party was…awkward. Slughorn had sat Ginny next to Cormac McLaggen, who
made clumsy advances toward Ginny all night. Under normal circumstances, Hermione was sure
that Ginny would’ve been delighted to employ her bat bogey hex against him, but she appeared to
revel in his attention tonight, likely enjoying the shades of scarlet it turned Harry’s face.

Blaise’s eyes were also on Ginny, Hermione realized, and she winced when she saw the two of
them tucked away in a corner and chatting after dinner had concluded. She probably should’ve
said something to Ginny before the party.

Hermione noticed Snape watching her closely. Malfoy had told her that Snape knew—he had
broken through Malfoy’s occlumency the morning that Harry had split his chest. So along with
avoiding Harry, Hermione took care to avoid Snape as well.
At 9:45PM, Hermione excused herself, making Neville promise to walk Luna back to her dorm,
and warning Ginny not to leave with Blaise. And then she darted toward the Room of
Requirement.

Malfoy wasn’t waiting for her outside the room when she arrived, but the door was there. Would it
work if he was already inside? Breathless and heart racing, her fingers curled around the knob and
pushed the door open.

***

She didn’t see him right away, but she knew he was there. The room was doused in rich navy, the
ceiling enchanted to look like a midnight sky, complete with the constellations she had identified
for him above the owlery weeks ago. A massive four-poster bed was to her left, piled with thick
comforters and plush pillows. Across from the bed was a large fireplace, above which hung a
portrait of a willow tree with Snidgets zooming in and out of the branches. Between the fireplace
and the bed were two navy velvet couches, and…

…Malfoy.

He was sitting on one of the couches, donning an impeccably tailored black suit. His hands were
over his eyes and he appeared to be muttering to himself. He looked…nervous. She smiled.

“Malfoy,” she cooed.

His eyes met hers and his jaw went slack. He rose mechanically and moved toward her steadily.
“Granger,” he gasped when he stood before her, running his hands down her arms, his rings cool
against her skin.

“Gods, you look—,” he paused, bringing his hand to his mouth and sinking his teeth into it. “I
mean, fucking hell, Granger. You really are going to kill me.” She felt her blood crackling under
her skin.

“And what about you, Mr. Malfoy?” she mused, running her hands under his jacket. “You look
very dapper.” He grabbed her wrists and hooked her arms around his neck, pressing her against the
wall.

“Why are you wearing a suit?” she whispered, as his mouth began to move against her neck.

He paused, straightening. “Because I knew you were going to be coming from Slughorn’s party.
You think I was going to show up dressed a fucking shmuck in my school robes?”

She chuckled, as he resumed to press bruising kisses down her neck and onto her collarbone.
“Thank you, Malfoy,” she breathed, snaking her fingers through his hair. “This—all of this is
perfect.”

He lifted his head up to meet her gaze. “All I did was think of you,” he said simply, rubbing his
thumb across her cheekbone. “The room did the rest for me.”

He paused for a moment before capturing her mouth with his. His tongue flicked against hers, his
hand sliding down her leg and hitching it against his. He rocked against her, his other hand pulling
at her waist.

“Malfoy,” she gasped, breaking away. “Wait.” He pulled his head back, concern crossing his
features. “I haven’t done this before.” She sprinted through the sentence so quickly she wasn’t
sure he heard or understood her. “Sorry—I should have said something before, but I—.” The
words died on her tongue.

He paused, releasing his grip on her leg. “Okay,” he said evenly. “Do you still—.”

“Yes,” she answered before he could finish. “But I just wanted to tell you, in case, I don’t know. It
changes this for you.” She shifted uncomfortably.

He laced his fingers through her locks that had fallen loose. “I want you, Granger. All of you.
More than I can remember ever wanting anything. So if you are sure, I am sure.”

“I’m sure,” she said, and squeaked as she felt his arm sweep under her and carry her to the bed.
She landed softly on her back and watched as he tore his jacket off and moved toward her
hungrily. He grabbed her thighs and tugged her to the edge of the bed so her legs dangled over the
end. He bent down and kissed her furiously as his fingers unhooked the buttons on the back of her
dress. She leaned forward, her own hands working against the buttons down the front of his shirt.

She gasped when she saw it—the scar. Uncovered by bandages, it was a deep purple, running
from the top of left shoulder and ending just above the right side of his chest. It reminded her of
her own scar—just running in the opposite direction. She brushed it with her fingertips with the
same reverence she would the spine of an old book.

“Does it hurt?” she breathed, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

“No,” he murmured.

She leaned up and brought her lips to it, tracing it from start to finish. She felt him shiver as her
fingers danced along his ribcage, pulling him in closer to her.

He unfastened the last of the buttons on her dress and slowly peeled the top down. “Merlin,
Granger,” he whispered, his voice thick. He sunk to his knees, continuing to peel the dress off of
her, softly kissing each new area of exposed skin. When he discarded the dress behind him, he
looked up at her, his eyes a burning hue of mercury.

He captured her mouth with his, and then began to work his way down her neck, over her
collarbone, and to her chest. He unclasped her bra, his mouth moving over her breast, his tongue
teasing the peak.

“Gods,” she hissed, her back arching. He moved downward, a trail of sucking kisses down her
abdomen. He paused, his eyes meeting hers briefly before he firmly planted his lips to her knee.
He continued to move along her thigh, her skin tingling under his touch. He paused again and
looked up at her, a mischievous glint in his eye as he pressed his mouth to the lace over her center.

“Malfoy,” she gasped. He ran his teeth along the fabric, a searing spark ripping through her. He
pushed the lace to the side and his mouth was on her skin. “Oh god,” she sucked in a sharp breath,
her legs wrapping against his back. The tip of his tongue moved against in torturously light circles
against her. She reached down to grab a fistful of his hair.

He groaned and the pressure increased, her hips rocking against him. “Please,” she whispered, not
even sure what she was asking for. More. More of everything. He looked up at her as he slipped
a finger inside and she threw her head back. She was drowning in static. His finger dragged along
her spot as he began to suck at her skin.

She collapsed back onto the bed, throwing her hand over her mouth to muffle her screams. That
same lightning bolt ripped through her not two breaths later, leaving her breathless and quivering
on the bed.
Malfoy moved over her, resting on his elbows. “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?” he
growled, wrapping his hand in her hair and kissing her neck. She pulled his mouth to hers, her
hands roaming over his chest and abdomen until they reached his belt. She worked at his buckle,
sliding the belt from under the loops and tossing it to the side.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her lips, as she unhooked the button and rolled the zipper down. He
shucked his pants the rest of the way down, discarding them at the end of the bed. She rolled his
shirt off his shoulders, admiring his sleek but muscular form in the dim lighting. He watched her
watching him for several moments before slipping his arm around her back and rolling her on top
of him, propping himself up slightly on the pillows behind him.

She was straddling him, and she could feel him pressing against her. “I thought—,” she started,
flustered. “I thought you would, you know, be on top.”

“I want you to set the pace,” he whispered, his thumb brushing her cheekbone as he planted a soft
kiss to the edge of her mouth. “It might be…kind of uncomfortable at first. So I just want you
have more control here.” He kissed her deeply, sending shivers through her as he dragged his
fingers along her spine.

“But I have no idea what I’m doing,” she said when they broke apart. “What if—,” she sighed.
“What if it’s no good for you?”

He chuckled, peppering kisses to her jaw. “Don’t worry about me, Granger,” he breathed. “We’ll
figure this out together.”

Her chest swelled. I love you. It was there on the tip of her tongue. But she bit it back and instead
pressed her lips to his as she peeled off their remaining clothing.

His eyes bored into hers as she lowered herself onto him. “Oh, gods,” he groaned as she settled.
“You feel so fucking good, Granger.” He dropped his head to her shoulder, nipping at her neck.
“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she replied breathless. It wasn’t a lie, really. But he had been right—it was tight and
uncomfortable. “What am I supposed to do now?” she asked.

He chuckled into her neck. “Relax,” he said, bringing his head up and kissing her. “This isn’t a
race, Granger.” His tongue pressed into her, as his hand moved down her chest, massaging her
breast. His thumb rolled over the peak, and she began to lose herself in his touch. His light
touches increased in pressure, and the static returned to her brain, drowning everything else out.

She began to rock against him and he groaned, moving his mouth down her chin, to her neck, to her
collarbone, and then to her other breast. Her pace increased as he nipped and sucked at her chest.
There was some discomfort still, but she suddenly craved the friction. Needed it.

His hand slowly traveled from her breast to her center, his thumb rolling slowly against her. “Oh
god, Malfoy,” she moaned, her hips suddenly bucking against him. He groaned and brought his
head up, his eyes fixed on hers. He increased the speed and pressure on her center, the movements
of her hips matching.

“Gods, Granger,” he moaned, dropping his head to her shoulder and sinking his teeth into her. His
hips began to move against her, driving him further into her. She sucked in a sharp breath, a quick,
piercing pain. “Fuck, sorry,” he said softly, stilling his hips.

“No, keep going,” she begged. “Please.” He growled in response, covering her mouth with his and
rocking his hips against her. She could feel it building—the electricity in her veins and the static in
her head. “Draco,” she gasped. “Oh god, I’m—.” His hips snapped against her as he moaned,
going slightly limp against her as she melted down alongside him.

They laid like that for several breaths, a collapsed tangle of limbs.

“For the record, Granger,” Malfoy said, still breathless. “That wasn’t good for me. It was fucking
incredible.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “One hundred points to Gryffindor.”

Hermione laughed, resting her chin on his chest and locking eyes with him. “And ninety-nine to
Slytherin.” He quirked an eyebrow. “What? You don’t expect me to let Slytherin tie with
Gryffindor,” she winked.

“Fair enough,” he replied, rolling on top of her and pulling out. He slid off the bed and picked up
his suit jacket, pulling out his wand. He flicked it at the fireplace, and a fire roared to life.

“C’mon,” he said, peeling back the covers on the bed. “Get in here.”
 Robes

They laid awake until it was nearly dawn, filling each other in on the inconsequential details of
their lives. Favorite vacations, childhood pet names, favorite colors, holiday traditions, birthdays,
favorite books. The slow, easy kind of discussions that lovers have when they’re not positioned on
opposite sides of a brewing war.

She went to space camp when she was ten. Her favorite color is blue. She fell off her bike and
broke her arm when she was six. She doesn’t like strawberries. She got her driving license over
the summer and backed her parents’ car into her neighbor’s mailbox the next day. Her favorite
animals are foxes. She can play the violin. Her first crush was a boy named Bobby Simms.

…Draco hated him.

She fell asleep halfway through telling him about her favorite novel, a book called To Kill a
Mockingbird, written by an American Muggle author.

“It’s really about…injustice and innocence, and…I think…” He watched her lids grow heavy until
they didn’t open back up and her breath grew soft and shallow. Her head was on his chest, her
messy curls splayed across his abdomen. He didn’t know how long he watched her until his own
lids grew too heavy to keep open.

I love you, he thought as he succumbed to sleep.

***

Bright sunrays were spilling into the room when Draco opened his eyes the next morning. Granger
was still asleep, head still perched on his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair, and her eyes
peeled open.

“Morning,” she grinned, her voice thick with sleep.

“Morning, Granger,” he returned, kissing her forehead. He stared into her tawny eyes for several
moments before glancing at his watch.

“Shite,” he hissed, sitting up.

“What is it?” she asked, sitting up.

“It’s 9:45,” he said, rolling out of bed. “Theo and I have occlumency lessons with Severus at
10AM.” He moved throughout the room, picking up his discarded clothing and tugging it on.
“Sorry, Granger.”

“No, it’s fine,” she replied, also rising. “I should get back too.” She paused for a moment, the
color draining from her face.

“What is it?” he asked, buttoning his shirt.

“I forgot my robe,” she whispered, her voice haunted. “The only thing I have is my dress from last
night.”

Draco threw his head back in laughter. “Oh gods, Granger,” he mused.

She palmed her forehead. “Fuck,” she muttered.

“Here,” he said, picking his robe off the couch. “You can wear mine.”

“But it’s a Slytherin robe!” she exclaimed. “Not to mention I’ll be swimming in it.”

“It’s a whole hell of lot less noticeable than you parading around the castle in a floor-length black
gown at 9:45 in the morning on a Sunday, Granger,” he replied, tossing the robe at her. She
grumbled, but put it on.

He looked at her in his robe, hair mussed from their lovemaking. It was like he was branded on
her, and he fucking loved it. Even though he knew it would spell disaster, he wanted the whole
fucking school to know she was his. He crossed the space between them in a step and scooped her
up in his arms.

“Malfoy!” she squeaked in surprise, but wrapped her legs around him as they fell into the wall
behind her. He pressed his lips to hers, sucking and biting on them. Her hands tangled in the
collar of his shirt and pulled him in closer, moaning against his lips.

“Are you going home for the holiday?” he asked when they broke apart.

“No—to the Burrow,” she gasped, her face flush. “On Wednesday morning.”

“The—the Burrow? What in the bloody hell is that?” he asked quizzically, setting her back down
on the floor.

“It’s, uh, the Weasley’s home,” she replied, wincing.

“Oh my—” he groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
You’re spending the holiday with fucking Weaselbee?”

“The Weasley family, Malfoy,” she huffed, her hands on her hips. “They’re my family too. Deal
with it.”

“What have I gotten myself into?” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “Fine. But I need to
see you again before you leave,” he said, planting a final kiss to her lips.

***

Draco ran all the way to Snape’s office, arriving just after 10AM. Theo was already outside the
door, waiting.

“Hey, sorry,” Draco greeted him breathlessly.

Theo scanned him from head to toe. “Why are you wearing a suit?” he asked. “And why is it all
wrinkled?” His face scrunched in disgust. “And where the fuck were you all night—OH.” His
expression turned mischievous, knowing.

“Theo—,” Draco protested. But Theo grabbed Draco’s collar and turned it down, exposing what
Draco imagined were a series of love bites that he hadn’t had the time to apply healing spells to.

“Ah, our Gryffindor has spunk, I see,” Theo mused, as Draco slapped his hand away.

“Come off it,” he muttered.

“Why in the crippling fuck did you wear a suit to a shag date?” Theo quipped, a cackle erupting
from his lips.
Draco rolled his eyes. “She was coming from Slughorn’s Christmas party! Would you have me
show up in my fucking school clothes? That’s Weasley-level shite, Theo,” he said coolly.

“Man,” Theo gasped, shaking his head. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Fuck off,” Draco responded, rapping his knuckles against Snape’s door. Snape appeared
moments later, regarding Draco’s attire the same way that Theo had.

“Dare I ask?” he drawled.

“No,” Theo responded, taking a step forward. “And word to the wise, Sev,” Theo said, putting a
hand on Snape’s shoulder. “Don’t dig too deep in his mind today if you ever want to be able to
look Granger in the eye again.”

“Merlin have mercy,” Snape muttered, putting his hand over his face.

***

Draco and Theo arrived in the Slytherin common room two hours later, exhausted. Snape had
broken through only once with Draco, twice with Theo. But once would be enough.

Draco collapsed onto one of the couches, ready to pass out.

“Oi,” a voice from the other side of the room called.

Blaise.

“The fuck were you last night?” Blaise asked, folding into the couch opposite Draco.

“Infirmary,” Draco supplied instantly. “Had some sort of secondary infection in my chest that
Pomfrey had to clear up for me.”

“Why are you in a suit?” Blaise quickly returned. “And why does it look like complete and utter
shite?”

“I was supposed to be going out with Astoria,” Draco lied, draping an arm over his eyes. “And
they don’t exactly have a wardrobe in which to hang one’s clothes in the infirmary.”

“Yikes,” Blaise responded. “She may be Daphne’s little sister, Draco, but Pansy will kill her
nonetheless—you know that, right?”

Theo finally intervened. “He’s had a rough night, Blaise. I think he needs to sleep it off in the
dorms for a few hours before we dive too deep into Pansy’s insanity.”

“Yeah, let’s contemplate Pansy’s psyche later,” Draco said, rolling off the couch. “Or, you know,
never.” As Draco stood, he caught sight of Blaise’s face. “The hell happen to your eye, Blaise?”

Theo’s head rolled back in laughter. “He walked Ginny Weasley back to Gryffindor last night.
When he tried to kiss her, she socked him right in the face.”

“Fucking gross, Blaise,” Draco returned, as he marched off toward his bed.

***

No sooner had Draco laid down in his bed did he feel fingers digging into his shoulder blade.
“Merlin, what?” he hissed, whipping his head toward the distraction.
“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy,” a trembling first year gulped. “I was asked to give this to you.” He
extended his arm, a piece of parchment tucked in his hand.

“Fine,” Draco huffed, ripping the parchment from the kid’s trembling hand. “Sod off.” The kid
looked at him with anxious eyes and fled.

Tuesday – 9PM – Prefects’ bathroom.

He groaned into his pillow and turned over, drowning in visions of Granger.
 Hands

A horrible odor enveloped Hermione’s nostrils when she crossed into the Gryffindor common
room on Sunday morning. Ginny was the only person in there, arms crossed—waiting for her.

“Ginny,” Hermione gasped. “What on earth is that smell?”

“I set off a dung bomb in here about thirty minutes ago,” she replied plainly, arms still crossed, toe
tapping.

“Why?” Hermione choked, the stench making her eyes water. She had no idea how Ginny could
stand there like it wasn’t assaulting her senses.

“Because when I got home from the Christmas party last night, I noticed that someone had left her
robe on her bed. The same someone who was going off to—,” her voice quieted, “shag Draco
Malfoy.” Ginny feigned a retching sound. “And so I—being the literal best friend you could ever
fucking ask for—made sure the common room was clear for when that someone made her walk of
shame this morning.”

Hermione wrapped Ginny in a fierce hug, nearly toppling her.

“Ugh, gross,” Ginny said, playfully pushing Hermione away. “Don’t touch me while wearing that
thing,” she sighed, pointing to Malfoy’s robe. “God knows what I’ll catch from it.”

“Too bad,” Hermione chuckled, throwing her arms around her friend again. “Thank you, Ginny,”
she whispered. “For everything.”

“Fine, fine,” Ginny responded, waiting a few moments before breaking away from the hug. “I’m
not going to pretend like this feels right, Hermione,” she said, running her hands down Hermione’s
arms. “But you are my best friend, and as long as you keep being honest with me, I will have your
back. No matter what.”

“Thanks, Gin,” Hermione said softly, feeling tears prickling her eyes.

“Alright, now let’s get you out of that disgusting robe and clean up your neck. You look like you
have dragon pox.”

Hermione laughed, following Ginny to the dorms. “Did I miss anything after I left last night?” she
asked.

“Not much,” Ginny shrugged. “Although I did punch Blaise Zabini in the face outside of our
common room.”

***

Ginny, Harry, Katie, and Seamus burst into the common room on Monday evening as Hermione
was finishing a Runes assignment, their discussion frenzied.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, fearing that the time spent together at Quidditch practice had
caused a new disturbance in Harry’s and Ginny’s still-frosty relationship.

“Ron broke his fucking hands!” Ginny exclaimed. “It was like Theo Nott was driving the bludger
straight at his hands.” She let out an exasperated huff as she collapsed onto the couch.
“Theo doesn’t play Quidditch,” Hermione responded matter-of-factly. “How—.”

“It was just a pick-up game after practice,” Katie supplied before Hermione could finish. “He’s
actually quite good—I’m surprised he hasn’t been recruited for their team.”

“He broke his hands?” Hermione said softly.

“Yeah,” Ginny replied, rolling her eyes. “He’s in the infirmary now. Pomfrey said they’ll be back
to normal in a few days—maybe a week. The breaks were pretty bad.”

“Ginny, can I take a peek at Harry’s map?” Hermione sighed.

***

They were in the library. Both of them.

She set off across the castle, trying to douse the flames in her blood before she reached them. She
saw Malfoy first, his silver blonde hair impossible to miss. He was seated at a table opposite Theo,
facing Hermione. He looked up from his parchment, his eyes meeting hers.

“Oh, fuck,” she heard him curse under his breath, as Theo wheeled around to face her.

“Theodore fucking Nott,” she seethed, marching to their table and casting a muffliato.

“You know, Granger, that’s actually not my middle—ah!” he cried as she picked up the spell book
on their table and slammed it against his knuckles.

“Did you break Ron’s hands on purpose?” she hissed.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

“Gods, Theo, what is wrong with you?!” She could feel Malfoy’s hand around her arm, pulling her
back toward him. “Merlin, I could strangle you!”

“Stop exposing my kinks, Granger. You’re making me blush.” He winked at her. “I mean, you
could at least buy me dinner first.”

She lunged for him, but Malfoy wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her back. “Calm
down, Granger,” Malfoy soothed, bringing his lips to her neck as he tugged her onto his lap.
“Weaselbee is fine.”

“His hands are broken!” she exclaimed, wrestling against Malfoy’s grip.

“Oh, please,” Malfoy groaned. “They’ll heal in a couple days. And it wouldn’t have happened if
he wasn’t so shite at Quidditch in the first place.”

“Why?” she huffed. “Why in the world did you do that, Theo?”

“I believe I told you quite plainly that I would break his hands if he touched you,” Malfoy said, his
lips pressing below her ear.

“Which he hasn’t,” she replied tersely.

“And now he won’t,” Theo chimed. “Work smarter, not harder, Granger.” A smug smile
plastered on his face.
Malfoy continued to nip at her neck. “Cut it out,” Hermione clipped. “I’m so cross with you.” But
she felt her anger begin to melt as his lips continued to blaze against her neck.

“I don’t care,” he replied, tucking her hair behind her ear to expose more of her neck. “I want
you.”

“Gods,” Theo groaned. “I’m leaving before I witness something that will give Severus a double
feature tomorrow.”

“Wait,” Hermione breathed, Theo’s words breaking through the static engulfing her senses. “Do
you mean he’s seen—?”

“Don’t think about it too much, Granger,” Theo smirked. “Trust me.”

“Oh, gods,” she gasped, bringing her hands over her eyes.

“Yep, that’s one he’s probably heard,” Theo quipped.

“Malfoy!” she exclaimed, swatting at him.

“Thank you, Theo,” Malfoy groaned, dropping his head to Hermione’s shoulder in defeat as Theo
disappeared from view, cackling the whole way.

***

Hermione paced across the bathroom anxiously. He was late—by almost an hour. Her mind was
racked with memories of his burst chest. His leaden eyes. His greying skin. Visions of Voldemort
torturing him. Hitting him with a sectumsempra when Snape wasn’t there to save him…

She could barely breathe.

The door suddenly swung open, and her head whipped around. She had tried to ward the room so
that only she and Malfoy could get through, but her warding experience was admittedly slim, and
she wasn’t sure if it would actually hold.

A blur of black, green, and silver toppled into her. “Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he gasped, pulling her
into him and moving his lips against hers. “Occlumency with Severus ran over.” He backed her
against the wall, his mouth devouring hers as his hands ran down her sides.

“You can’t fucking do that to me, Malfoy,” she growled, pushing him off of her. Shock and worry
crossed his face as he stumbled backwards. “I feel like I do nothing but worry about you
anymore,” she screamed, feeling her voice grow thick. “All I see is you on that fucking bathroom
floor, and—and Voldemort.” A strangled gasp tore from her throat. “You can’t—you can’t just
—.” She sunk to the floor, covering her eyes with her hands, as if that would block out the images
plaguing her brain.

“Oh gods,” he exhaled, dropping to his knees beside her. He covered her hunched body with his.
“Granger, I’m so fucking sorry. Please.”

But she couldn’t stop. All she could see was his mangled form at the end of Voldemort’s wand.
The punishment that he would suffer because of her. The danger that she had forced upon him.
Violent sobs ripped through her body.

“Granger,” he begged, prying her hands from her eyes. She felt his hands on her face, his lips
kissing away her tears. “Please, gods, listen to me. I’m okay. We’re okay.” Her eyes met his, and
she felt her pulse temper.

“We need a plan, Malfoy,” she choked out.

“Okay,” he soothed, pulling her against him. “Just breathe, Granger. And we’ll talk about a plan.”

She nodded, her ragged breathing starting to normalize. “How did occlumency go?” she asked, her
voice hollow.

“It was great, actually,” he said, his fingers running through her hair. “Severus didn’t get through
either of us. Not once. So, uh, no private moments exposed.” She felt his lips on the top of her
head.

“You call him by his first name?” she chuckled.

“Of course,” he chuckled against her hair. “I’ve known him my whole life. He’s Theo’s
godfather.” His hand moved to her back, his fingers tickling her spine.

“We need to go to Dumbledore,” she sighed. “I don’t see any other way that we can pull this off
without him.”

“You mean—fully defect?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“Yes,” she responded simply. “If you have Dumbledore’s support, the Order will support you.
Protect you.” It was a bit of an exaggeration, she realized. Snape had Dumbledore’s complete
faith, but only Mr. Weasley, Lupin, and Hermione fully trusted him as a true member. But Malfoy
was a teenager. Between her and Dumbledore, certainly other Order members would embrace
him…

“I can’t, Granger,” he whispered. “I can’t publicly deflect.” His head rested on hers. “The Dark
Lord would kill my parents. Theo and Blaise too probably. Maybe even Pansy. He would destroy
anyone who ever meant anything to me.” He planted a kiss to her temple. “I can’t let that
happen.”

“Right—okay,” she said slowly. “But regardless, we need to go to Dumbledore. He will know
what to do. He will keep you safe.”

“Look, I appreciate what he did for me this summer, Granger,” Malfoy responded, his fingers
tickling her waist. “But, Merlin, what makes you so confident that he will know what to do in this
scenario? That the Order would take me in?”

“Because Professor Snape is a member of the Order of the Phoenix,” she replied, catching his gaze
as his world spun out of control.
 Manor

“What?” Draco asked hollowly.

“Professor Snape,” Granger said, her voice steady. “He’s loyal to Dumbledore. Not to
Voldemort.” She sighed. “I mean—there are members of the Order who debate that, but I’m
certain of it. And so is Dumbledore.”

Draco shook his head. He knew his aunt didn’t trust Severus, but she didn’t trust anyone. Not
even her own sister, knowing full well that his mother’s only true loyalties were to her husband and
her son.

“He’s a double agent, Malfoy,” she said simply.

“No,” he replied.

“Yes,” she whispered, her hands moving to his face as she straddled him. He wanted to argue with
her, tell her all the things that he had seen Snape do and witness without protest, but her mouth
began to move against his, and he felt himself begin to melt into her.

“Granger,” he groaned, tucking his hands under her shirt. She rolled against him as his hands
roamed her ribcage. He slid under her bra as he worked at the buttons on her shirt with his teeth.
Her hips rocked against him again as her breath became shaky.

Fuck.

“Up,” he growled, pulling her up with him and rolling her shirt off her shoulders. Her fingers
moved against the buttons on his shirt as he pulled her skirt over her hips and down her legs. She
pushed his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, her hands moving to his trousers.

“I want you in the bath,” he gasped as her fingers rolled his pants down. He grabbed a fistful of her
hair and pulled her head back, latching his mouth to her neck. She peeled off his trunks and
stepped back, maintaining eye contact as she slowly removed her bra and knickers.

Gods, he was going to lose it before they even got started.

She wrapped her fingers around his and slowly led him to the bath. He followed her into the water,
sinking in the bubbles.

“Fucking hell, Granger,” he breathed, pulling her into him and capturing her mouth in his. He felt
her heart thrum against his as she wrapped her legs around him. He walked them to the edge of the
bath, pressing her back against it.

“What do you want, Granger?” he hissed, tucking his head under her ear and working his way
down her neck.

“Everything,” she smirked, positioning herself so that he was right against her center.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pausing before he slid into her. She gasped and he bit her neck as they rocked
against each other.

They were there, in his mind. Shagging in that cottage on that hill covered in heather. Where there
was no Dark Lord or blood purity. Where there was only him and her, melting into each other
completely. Where he could freely tell her that he fucking loved every single infuriating,
inconvenient, incorrigible part of her.

Her nails dug into his back as her hips snapped against his. He wrapped an arm around her lower
back, holding her closer against him. “My gods, Granger, you feel fucking incredible,” he gasped,
imagining he had her pressed against that wood-paneled wall in that kitchen in that cottage on that
hill.

Those little huffy pants against his ear. Merlin, it was enough to drive him to madness. She
moaned and he felt her tighten around him. She was close. He cupped her arse and drove into her
until she screamed his name. Draco.

She used it when she lost control and he fucking loved it. It sent him over the edge—until all he
saw were astral projections behind his eyes. He collapsed into her, resting his head against her
chest as they both caught their breath.

He wanted her to be a Legilimens in that moment, so she could read his mind and know all the
things that he didn’t have the courage to say.

That he was so completely in love with her that every part of him hurt.

That despite everything, they were fucking perfect for each other.

Her, a girl seeking the stars, and him, a celestial body caught in her orbit.

***

Draco and Theo had occlumency with Snape the following morning before they departed for the
Manor. It was grueling—Snape was pushing them both farther than he ever had, starting to
implant false memories in their minds to make them crack. But Snape was still holding back,
Draco knew, as he hadn’t yet employed the one false memory that Draco feared the most: Granger
thrown at the feet of the Dark Lord, exposed as the Mudblood who would end two Sacred Twenty-
Eight bloodlines.

But he and Theo were getting better—that much was clear. Draco prayed it was enough to get
them through the holiday.

“Not terrible,” Snape said as they concluded, Draco and Theo both wiping sweat from their brows.
His eyes rolled over to Draco. “Fortunately, you were successful in blocking out precisely who you
were with last night.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, it appears that the prefect bath will need to be
drained and thoroughly scrubbed.”

Theo threw his head back in a howling laugh, while Draco contemplated crucio-ing himself.

***

The three of them arrived at the Manor via Floo early that afternoon. His mother was waiting for
them, clad in a formal robe and looking noticeably better than she had when she visited Draco in
the infirmary. He figured it was the comfort with knowing that Draco and Theo would be
spending the next week at the Manor, where she could watch over them.

“My heart,” she cooed as she wrapped Draco in a tight embrace. She felt like she might turn to dust
in his arms, a wrenching in his gut. “I love you,” she whispered, leaving a tender kiss on his cheek.

“Love you too, mum,” he replied gently.

“Out of the way—favorite son coming through,” Theo trilled, taking Draco’s mother into a bear
hug. “Looking fantastic as usual, Mrs. M.” A wistful chuckle escaped her lips.

“Thank you, Theo,” she said warmly. Her attention moved to Snape. “Hello, Severus. It’s good
to see you.”

“Narcissa,” he greeted plainly.

“Well, come in. The elves have just finished setting out lunch.” She wrapped her hand around
Draco’s, leading the trio into their informal dining room, where the elves were quickly scurrying to
add final touches to the table setting. They sat down, drifting into the same kind of familiar, easy
conversations they had been having for years.

“I’m finishing up the list for Christmas dinner,” Narcissa stated halfway through lunch. “I have
your father, of course, Theo. And Blaise and his mother, the Crabbes and Goyles, Aunt Bella, you
—of course, Severus. And…” her voice drifted.

The Dark fucking Lord, Draco thought.

“Anyway,” she resumed. “Draco, I wanted to ask if I should invite Miss Parkinson as well.” Theo
choked on his soup, flecks of it spraying across the table. Snape rolled his eyes.

“Uh, no, mum. We aren’t together anymore,” Draco replied, touching his napkin to his lips.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my heart,” she said, reaching her arm out and squeezing his hand.

“It’s a blessing, Mrs. M,” Theo responded brightly. “Trust me. That girl is completely mental.”

“Theo,” she chided, giving him a stern look. She sighed, eyes drifting back over her list. “Is there
someone else then? Who you would like me to invite?”

Draco, Theo, and Snape all silently met each other’s gaze, and sat completely still as if simply
breathing might unearth the big secret. Besides the Dark Lord, Narcissa Malfoy was perhaps the
strongest Legilimens any of them had ever encountered. And while she wasn’t keen to use her
legilimency against her son, she wasn’t above it if she thought she was being lied to.

“Er, no. I’m not seeing anyone,” Draco said. He could feel Snape digging, his fingers tugging at
the bricks. But to no avail. He gave Draco a curt nod and resumed eating his lunch.

“And how about you, Theo? Someone special I should invite?”

“It’d be hard to choose just one, Mrs. M,” Theo smirked. “And knowing what a stickler you are
for manners, I would hate to see some jealousy-fueled donnybrook at your Christmas dinner.”

“Merlin,” Snape groaned as Draco laughed and his mother shook her head, a genuinely amused
smile crossing her face.

***

“What do you think of?” Theo asked, as they drifted through the Manor library. “When you’re
occluding?”

“I don’t know,” Draco responded, scrutinizing the book titles in front of him. “Well, I mean, I
know what I see, but I don’t actually know what it is.” He sighed. “It’s like I’m on this island—
something you’d expect to see in Guernsey or Skye. Rolling hills, sea cliffs, heather. And there’s
this small cottage at the top of this one hill. But I’ve never actually been there.”

He stopped to pluck a book from the shelves, but replaced it once he read the foreword. Not what
he was looking for. “It’s strange, you know? When Aunt Bella first started teaching me
occlumency, she told me to think of someplace safe. I thought maybe it would be our place in
Tuscany, but—,” he paused, turning to face Theo. “My mind took me to this place I’ve never been
before.” He shrugged. “Why? What about you?”

“Here,” Theo said simply. The two friends stood like that for a while, lacking the words to move
on. Draco finally pulled him in for a hug, squeezing his shoulder as they parted.

Theo nodded, shaking the emotion from his face. “Now what is this that we’re looking for?” he
asked.

“Any book you can find on horcruxes,” Draco said softly.

“What the fuck is a horcrux?” Theo responded.

“I have no sodding idea,” Draco sighed.

***

Rather unexpectedly and much to Draco’s horror, the Dark Lord ordered a meeting on Christmas
Eve to announce what he described as an “exciting” development. His mind reached for innocuous
explanations, but returned nothing. Anything the Dark Lord regarded as exciting at this juncture
spelled disaster for Draco.

But whatever anxieties Draco was experiencing, Theo was manifesting them threefold. Draco’s
stomach tightened as he watched his friend pace the length of his room, smoking what Draco
thought was his seventh cigarette in twenty minutes. It didn’t matter how well their occlumency
was progressing—if this is how Theo was going to react under pressure, they were all fucked.

Draco flicked his wand, wordlessly casting a scourgify spell to neutralize the smell of the cigarette
smoke. If his mother knew that Theo was smoking in her home, the Dark Lord’s torture would be
the least of their worries.

“You don’t think it has anything to do with you, right?” Theo asked nervously, taking another drag
of his cigarette.

“Merlin, I hope not,” Draco returned, tugging on his boots. “I’m not sure he would refer to any of
the developments in my life as of late exciting.” Theo nodded in response, but continued to pace.

“Theo, I need you to calm down,” Draco said, grabbing Theo’s shoulders. “This is probably just
some bullshite, okay?” Theo’s eyes met his. “And mate, I’ve got to tell you, I need you to pull it
together. I’ve gotten us into some shite that could get us all killed, and I have to know that if it
gets bad—.”

“Yeah, yeah—sorry,” Theo responded, shaking his head. “I just—gods, I fucking hate that this is
our life now.” He walked away from Draco and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Yeah—me too,” Draco said softly.

“Nip some of your parents’ firewhiskey when you’re coming back from the meeting?” Theo asked,
taking a final drag of his cigarette.
“Happy to,” Draco responded, closing the door behind him as he headed downstairs.

***

Draco took a seat next to Snape, keeping his gaze fixed on the table. “I need you to stay calm,”
Snape whispered.

Oh gods, what?

His eyes shot forward, irrationally terrified that he would find Granger sitting there, trembling and
tears in her eyes as the Dark Lord exposed her as the filthy temptress that sullied the Malfoy and
Black heir. Let’s teach her a lesson, shall we?, the Dark Lord would ask gleefully, his soulless
eyes flicking to Draco as he forced him to watch her be crucio’ed until she was nothing more than a
husk of herself.

But it wasn’t Granger. It was Blaise.

Fuck.

No.

No.

Gods, no.

His throat burned as his vision grew hazy. Those black dots returned and the room started to spin.
He felt Snape squeeze his hand under the table. “You’re okay, Draco,” he breathed. “Get it
together. Now.”

Draco took a deep inhale, feeling the sea breeze on his face and the smell of salt in the air. His
fingers grabbed at the heather below his hands, his gaze landing on the cottage at the top of the
hill. He turned around, pushing against the wall behind him. Nothing budged.

He opened his eyes, his gaze inadvertently landing upon the Dark Lord as he floated into the
room.

I’ll do it, he wanted to scream. Whatever you’re asking Blaise to do, ask me. I can do it.

But he couldn’t risk further exposure anymore. It put Granger in too much danger. His gaze met
Blaise’s, his expression unreadable.

I’m so fucking sorry.

Please forgive me.

I love her.

“Friends,” the Dark Lord began, his voice sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. “I have called us
all here today for a truly special occasion—to welcome a new follower into our midst.” He stood
behind Blaise, his hands grabbing the back of his chair. If Blaise was feeling any sort of emotion,
he wasn’t showing it.

“Blaise Zabini will be taking the Mark tonight, becoming the youngest Death Eater in our ranks,
after Draco,” the Dark Lord hissed. Draco’s eyes reluctantly rolled up to meet his. He felt Snape’s
hand move over his own again, squeezing it.
But the wall was there. He could see it, feel it, and it wasn’t moving.

“Tell me, young Draco,” The Dark Lord continued, drumming his fingers against the back of
Blaise’s chair. “How are you progressing with your assignment?”

“Well, my Lord,” Draco responded evenly, flashing images of the potions and dark magic books
and his prior successful work on those to the forefront of his mind. He followed it with memories
of Dumbledore’s prolonged absences, to explain why he hadn’t employed them yet. “I fully
anticipate carrying it out before the year’s end, per your request.”

“Good, good,” the Dark Lord replied, apparently satisfied by what he saw.

Fuck you, Draco thought as he turned away.

“Now, Blaise, give me your arm,” the Dark Lord commanded.

Draco closed his eyes. He was running up the hill, gulps of salty air filling his lungs, heather
brushing against his body. He reached the door and yanked it open, his eyes desperately searching
for her.

He found her curled on an aging, overstuffed arm chair, engrossed in a weathered book, fire
crackling in a crooked fireplace behind her. “Draco,” she soothed, as her eyes met his. “What’s
wrong?”

“I love you,” he gasped.

“I love you too,” she murmured, capturing him in her arms as he collapsed.
 Horcruxes

The mood at the Burrow that Christmas was tense. While Harry and Ginny appeared to be on
better terms than the preceding weeks, it was unclear whether this was because Ginny’s anger was
actually softening, or because she was attempting to minimize her family’s involvement in their
feud.

Meanwhile, Hermione’s argument with Harry in the infirmary had left their relationship more
fraught than ever. They could scarcely look at each other, let alone feign pleasantries. “The
temperature of the room drops ten degrees any time you two are within three meters of each other,”
George had whispered to her.

And Ron, as usual, was floating miserably in the middle.

By and large, the family went to great lengths to avoid any reference to anything even bordering on
the sectumsempra incident, although Fred and George performed their own imagined re-enactment
of it when they first arrived.

“That’s not funny,” Hermione, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley had snapped in unison.

“Oh, come on, you have to admit, it’s kind of funny,” Fred had whined. “I mean Malfoy is a
complete prat—he’s had something like that coming to him for years.”

Hermione had bitten her tongue so hard that it bled, and she didn’t speak to him for the rest of her
time at the Burrow.

Charlie and Tonks arrived the day after them, further reducing the tension insofar as it allowed
Hermione and Ginny to spend more time away from Harry and Ron.

***

Hermione roused early the morning of Christmas Eve, having yet again another nightmare in
which she watched Voldemort split Malfoy in half while he screamed for her. After unsuccessfully
trying to lull herself back to sleep, she tugged on a sweatshirt and padded down the stairs.

Charlie was already awake and downstairs, brewing coffee.

“Hey, kid,” he said brightly, wrapping her in a bear hug. “What’ll it be? We’ve got coffee, water,
pumpkin juice, and of course my personal favorite—,” he continued, reaching to the top shelf of
the cupboard and pulling down a bottle, “firewhiskey.”

“Coffee would be fantastic, Charlie, thank you,” she chuckled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“How are things for you now, Golden Girl?” Charlie asked, pouring her coffee. “Better than when
I saw you in November, I hope?”

“Much better,” she smiled, taking the mug from his hands. “Thanks.”

“No one’s giving you trouble anymore, right?” he returned, pouring his own cup.

“No,” she chuckled. “But I was told about what you did back in November, Charlie. Thank you.
You certainly didn’t have to, but it means a lot to me that you had my back like that.” She took a
sip of her coffee. “And, well, he’s honestly been nothing but the perfect gentleman since.” She
concealed her smirk behind the rim of her coffee mug.

“Good,” Charlie nodded. “Let me know if he ever needs to be ironed out again. Not that I take
particular pleasure in sacking teenagers, but that kid looked like a fucking tosser. And, Merlin, he
went down like a slab of meat,” Charlie chuckled to himself as Hermione spluttered her coffee.

“Thanks, Charlie. But after what Harry did to him, I would never ask for him to endure further
ironing out,” she said, her voice becoming thin.

“Ah, right,” Charlie replied, an exaggerated grimace stretching across his face. “The pink
erumpent in the room.” He took a swig of his coffee. “I received quite a few owls from Ginny
about that—I had half a mind to come to Hogwarts and give Harry a thrashing of his own,” he said,
scratching his chin. “I still might,” he shrugged, winking at Hermione. “I genuinely like the kid,
but he seems like he needs a swift kick to the arse.”

“You can say that again,” she scoffed. “God, I’m so angry with him,” she sighed, missing the boy
who had saved her from a mountain troll when he was eleven. Who saved her best friend at
twelve. Who traveled through time with her at thirteen. Who saved her life at the Ministry at
fifteen.

The Ministry. Gods, she hated that place.

“I have no idea how we’re ever going to repair this,” she whispered.

“Hey,” Charlie soothed, rounding the kitchen counter and wrapping her in a bone-crushing hug.
“I’ll go kick his arse right now if that’ll help.”

Hermione laughed, steeling herself. “Peace on Earth, good will toward men, Charlie.”

“Fuck that,” he returned, taking another sip of his coffee. “Just say the word, Golden Girl,” he
shrugged, returning behind the counter.

“So, how are things with Tonks?” she inquired, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

Her chest swelled as she watched a wide grin bloom across his cheeks. “I mean, how much mush
can you handle, kid?” he asked in response.

“All of it. Go, Charlie,” she replied, a matching smile tugging at her lips.

“Godric, I love her,” he whispered. “I mean, I physically fucking hurt sometimes I love her so
much.” He sighed, his eyes travelling elsewhere. “It’s funny, you know? I couldn’t stand her
most of the time we were in school together. She was this know-it-all Hufflepuff and I just—,” he
smiled and shook his head. “But we became friends our seventh year when we both had to spend a
week in the infirmary after a Care of Magical Creatures incident.” Charlie raised his eyebrows.
“We lost touch for a bit, but when I saw her this summer at the Ministry…I just knew. Something
shifted in me, and I knew. I know we’re moving fast but,” he shrugged. “Sometimes you just
know, you know?” he asked rhetorically.

Yes, Charlie, I do.

***

Christmas morning arrived with great fanfare. Mr. Weasley and Ginny had awoken early,
wrapping almost every square inch of the Burrow in garland and twinkle lights. Fred and George
enchanted the ceilings to dust fake snow over the family as they gathered in the living room to
open presents. The tension that had lorded over the house for the preceding few days seemed to
melt away—if only temporarily.

Ron gave Hermione a biography on Emile Bronte. It was thoughtful, really—she was Hermione’s
favorite author. Unfortunately, Hermione had read it already. “Thank you, Ron,” she said,
wrapping him in a hug. His hands were still bandaged.

Mrs. Weasley gifted Hermione the traditional Weasley jumper, while Charlie got her a bottle of
firewhiskey (Mrs. Weasley had slapped the back of his head for this—she’s too young for that!).
Tonks gave her a boombox so that she could educate wizards about badass Muggle music, and
Ginny got Hermione what appeared to be a rather gaudy looking purse. That was until Hermione
peeked inside and realized it was full of contraceptive potion vials. Ginny hid her smirk behind her
butterbeer as Hermione shot her an exasperated look.

As they sat down for lunch, an unfamiliar owl appeared at the window, struggling to carry a rather
large and bulky bundle.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, as she shuffled over to the window and plucked the
bundle from the owl. “Oh, Hermione dear, it’s for you.” She handed Hermione a letter and placed
the bundle in her lap. Perplexed, Hermione unfolded the letter.

Miss Granger,

As discussed, please find books related to the independent research project you requested. I am
amazed you have found the time to take this on, but I sincerely hope that these books will provide
you with the information you need to answer all your questions.

Happy Christmas and see you soon,

Professor McGonagall

P.S. Please tell Ronald Weasley to mind his hands so that he doesn’t reinjure them.

Hermione bit back a smile, brushing her thumb over the handwriting.

***

Hermione flew up the stairs to Ginny’s room as soon as lunch concluded, bundle in hand and
dragging Ginny behind her.

“Merlin, Hermione, what is it?” Ginny groaned as Hermione slammed the door behind them.
Hermione tore the wrapping from the bundle, uncovering four books of varying sizes.

“I don’t get it,” Ginny said, picking up two of the books. “These are just standard transfiguration
books.”

“No, they’re not,” Hermione whispered, peeling the jackets from the books. “Ginny—look.” The
books were old—centuries old perhaps—and all were in-depth examinations of various types of
dark magic, including horcruxes.

“My gods,” Ginny gasped. “Hermione, who on earth sent you these?”

“Malfoy,” Hermione responded, delicately dusting her fingers along the spine of one of the books.
“They’re from the Manor library.”
“Mal—is he—.” Ginny’s words caught in her throat. “Hermione, is he defecting?” Hermione
shot her friend a haunted look, and Ginny merely nodded. “Okay then,” she sighed. “Let’s get to
work.”

***

Much to Mrs. Weasley’s chagrin, Hermione and Ginny spent most of the next few days holed up in
Ginny’s room. The tension with Harry provided convenient cover; the family believing the girls
were squirreled away to avoid the broodiness of a teenage boy, all while Hermione and Ginny
began to draft a plan to kill Lord Voldemort.

“He who splits his soul and hides a piece of it outside of his body gains immortality, as even if his
physical form is attacked or destroyed, a piece of him remains earthbound and undamaged,” Ginny
read from the book splayed open in front of her. “But by splitting his soul, he takes away from his
physical form, perhaps permanently affecting his appearance.” She sighed. “That would explain
the disconnect between the Tom Riddle that I saw—the one that Harry saw in the Chamber—and
Voldemort as Harry described him in the cemetery and Ministry.”

“Right,” Hermione agreed, “but the way this book describes a horcrux—‘capable of harnessing a
memory that can then begin to think and act on its own’—it sounds like the diary may have been
one. But Harry destroyed that diary years ago, and Voldemort has only continued to grow
stronger. How is that possible?”

“Maybe he created more than one?” Ginny offered weakly.

“None of these books even contemplate such a possibility,” Hermione sighed, running her hand
through her hair. “But nothing else makes sense.”

“Well, perhaps that’s what Voldemort was asking Professor Slughorn about in his modified
memory. If you could make more than one,” Ginny said.

Hermione nodded. “But Dumbledore must already suspect this, right? So why does he need the
memory specifically?”

“Well, according to this book, horcruxes have to be things of significance to the person creating it,”
Ginny supplied, chewing on her lip. “Which would explain the diary, right? It showed that he was
Slytherin’s heir. So maybe Dumbledore thinks the memory will reveal other things that were
important enough to Voldemort to create a horcrux out of them.”

“Damnit,” Hermione gasped in frustration.

“Wait—no,” Ginny said, her expression contemplative. “I think Dumbledore already knows—or at
least suspects. That’s why he was showing Harry specific memories: Voldemort murdering his
grandfather and taking the ring. And when he murdered Hepzibah Smith and took Slytherin’s
locket and Hufflepuff’s cup.”

“Yes!” Hermione exclaimed, wrapping Ginny against her. “Gin, you’re a genius.” Ginny stood to
take an exaggerated bow, but her expression faltered as she sat back down next to Hermione.

“But Dumbledore knows this already. So why does he need the memory?” Ginny asked. “He
knows about the diary, right? And he would know about the ring. So what does he need Harry to
get from Professor Slughorn?”

“The number,” Hermione whispered. “He needs to know how many there are. He knows about
the diary and the ring, right? And he suspects the locket and the cup. But what if there are more?”
 Cottage

“What about Astoria Greengrass, Draco?” his mother asked, sipping her tea.

“What about her, mum?” Draco asked, taking a bite of his breakfast.

“Well,” she sighed, “I only want to see you happy, my heart. And if you and Pansy are no longer
together, maybe you ought to move on. And Astoria seems like a lovely girl.”

Draco felt his throat and chest tighten. He wished his mother would stop planning his future as if
he had one. He wondered if it was a coping mechanism—that if she could draft a fairytale life for
her only son it would somehow ease the burden of knowing that he likely wouldn’t see his
seventeenth birthday.

“I’m seeing Astoria, Mrs. M,” Theo supplied before Draco could respond. “Well—you know—in
a certain sense,” Theo said, winking. Draco’s eyes traveled to Theo’s. Thank you.

“Theo,” Narcissa scolded, setting her cup in its saucer. “I raised you better than that.” Draco felt
the air leave the room. He glanced over at his mother—she felt it too.

She forgot sometimes, Draco observed, that Theo wasn’t actually her son. That he had a mother
before her, who kissed and cared and loved him. But in Narcissa’s eyes, Theo was just was much
hers as Draco was.

Before anyone could get another word out, an impossibly shabby-looking owl crashed into the
window nearest to Draco. He rose and opened the window, peeling the parchment from the owl’s
leg, watching as it zig-zagged through the sky back in the direction from which it came.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

I write to express my immeasurable gratitude toward your contributions to my independent

research project. The determination and nerve that you displayed in ensuring that this project was
well-sourced has made me wonder whether you wouldn’t have been a good fit for Gryffindor.

I will be back at Hogwarts on the evening of January 2. If you can find room in that busy schedule
of yours, I would like to discuss this project further. But it is not a requirement.

Happy New Year and see you soon,

Professor Slughorn

P.S. I have been told by Professor McGonagall that there has been no further cause for Quidditch
injury this year.

Draco concealed his grin, tucking the letter into his jacket pocket before re-joining his mother and
Theo at the breakfast table.

***

“Want to head to the Great Hall? I’m starved,” Theo asked as they exited Snape’s office having
travelled back to Hogwarts via Floo.

Me too, Draco thought. Although, in a slightly different capacity.

“No, er, I still have loads of Potions reading to get caught up on before class tomorrow,” Draco
responded evenly.

He could feel Theo roll his eyes. “Tell Granger I said hello,” he replied plainly. “And Salazar, tell
her to go easy on you. Sev has seen some shite in his life, Draco, but I think glimpses of your trysts
with Granger are going to actually drive him to St. Mungo’s.” He clapped Draco on the shoulder
and headed toward the Great Hall.

And Draco sprinted for the Room of Requirement.

***

When he wrenched the door open, he was expecting to see the same room from before. But this…

Wood-paneled walls. Well-worn, overstuffed arm chairs. An off-kilter fireplace.

He was in the cottage on the hill.

Before he had a chance to assess it further, she crashed into him like a rogue bludger. He still
couldn’t quite understand how a creature so small could nearly bowl him over. He pulled her into
his arms and he was drowning in honey, lemon, and parchment. He sunk to the floor, knees weak,
as her mouth worked hungrily against his.

“Godric, Malfoy, those books you sent—,” she breathed.

He chuckled against her lips. “And here I thought you were actually pleased to see me,” he mused.

“Well, that to,” she smirked, pulling her head back and brushing her fingertips across his cheeks.
“But those books—.” She launched into a frenzied discussion, babbling incoherently about
immortality, diaries, rings, and lockets.

Gods, I love you.

When her chatter finally quieted, Draco began to drink the room in again, his eyes roving from
perfect detail to perfect detail. “Granger, how did you—.”

“I thought of you,” she shrugged, smiling. “The room did the rest for me. It’s so odd though, you
know—.”

He cut her off, capturing her mouth with his. Yes, yes, I know, he thought. That the spoiled Malfoy
heir would desire nothing more than time with you in a small and shabby seaside cottage.

He picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist and carried her into the kitchen where he
took her against that wood-paneled wall, praying to Merlin that they could just stay in this room
forever.

Safe.

***

“When are you going to talk to Dumbledore?” Granger asked, sprawled across him on the kitchen
floor. Draco reached lazily behind his head to pluck another pumpkin candy from the cupboard.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow after classes, Granger—I promise,” he responded, popping the candy
into his mouth and running a hand through her tangled hair. She had broken down earlier when he
told her he hadn’t gone to Dumbledore yet, sobs pouring from her throat as she detailed the visions
of cracked chests, dead eyes, and cold skin that stole her sleep.

He could see it, if he looked close. The worry wearing on her just as it did for his mother. And it
ground his heart into dust.

So while he had absolutely none of Granger’s confidence that Dumbledore would be the solution
that got them out of this steaming shitheap of a situation that he had gotten them into, he needed to
do it. For her.

He watched as her fingers traced the still-purple scar that bisected his chest, her curls falling to
perfectly frame her face, resting on his chest. A slight smile tugged at her lips as she must’ve
thought of something amusing. He wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to spoil the apparent bliss that
she had stumbled into.

“I love you,” he said before he even realized he was speaking.

He had envisioned this moment before—telling her. And in his visions, he always instantly
regretted letting the confession spill from his lips. But here and now as it actually escaped him, it
felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like breathing. Like those three words had been made
for him to say to her since the beginning of time.

Her head popped up from his chest, her eyes full and brimming. “Yeah?” she asked, her voice
barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replied softly, brushing a piece of hair from her face, his hand lingering on her cheek.

She leaned into his hand, her eyes closing gently. “I love you, too,” she breathed, a tear rolling
down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb. She was quiet for several breaths. “I’m so
scared, Draco,” she gasped, her head falling forward slightly.

“I know,” he said, pulling her tight against his chest, kissing the top her head. “Me too.”

***

They roused early the next morning—Potions was still at 9AM. Draco padded into the bathroom,
his eyes surveying a cramped shower to his left. “Granger!” he called out, listening as the soft
patter of her feet followed.

“Yes, Malfoy?” she asked, hanging in the bathroom doorway.

“Look at this shower,” he said, wrapping his fingers around hers and tugging her toward him.

“I can see it,” she supplied plainly.

“Perfect size for two, no?” he asked, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“We have Potions in thirty minutes,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.

He lowered his head to hers, pulling her in closer. “I think you’ll find I can make that a perfectly
workable timeframe, Granger,” he growled, feeling her loosen under him as his mouth worked
against hers.

He could feel another academic objection bubbling on her lips as he slipped a hand under her
pajama top and over her breast, a shiver rippling through her body.
“You better be a man of your word, Malfoy,” she gasped as she ripped her top over her head.

They hurriedly undressed and he tumbled into the shower after her, wrenching the water on. It was
freezing to begin, and Granger cried out as he picked her up and pressed her against the shower
wall, her back arching against the cold tile.

His mouth moved to her chest as his free hand moved to her center, his thumb moving soft circles
over her. “Malfoy,” she gasped, as he increased the pressure against her. “Oh god,” she gasped as
he pushed a finger inside, her hips rocking against him and her nails digging into his back.

“And you thought I couldn’t work with thirty minutes, Granger?” he smirked. “Please.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, biting down on her lip.

The room began to steam as Draco lowered her onto him, gasping and biting into her neck as she
bucked against him. “Oh gods,” he whispered into the crook of her neck, as they rolled against
each other.

He could hear those little huffy pants again, dragging him closer to the edge. He nipped at her
collarbone as he pressed further into her and she moaned his name. Draco.

“Gods, I love you,” he groaned, bringing his mouth to hers as they both fell apart in that perfect,
tiny shower in that perfect, tiny cottage.

***

It was the occlumency session that Draco had been dreading. He had come far enough along that
Snape finally employed the image that Draco always knew he would: Granger brought before the
Dark Lord.

Only, gods, it was so much worse than he had imagined.

Her body already bruised and battered as she was brought in, the dying light of defiance burning in
her honeyed eyes as she was thrown at the Dark Lord’s feet. Someone kicked her in the stomach,
and the Dark Lord emitted a high-pitched squeal of delight. He dragged her upright by her hair,
that defiant glint still in her eyes.

Stop, Draco begged in his mind. It’ll be worse if you don’t act scared. But it was useless. His
lioness refused to cow to their intimidation.

And then the Cruciatus. She fell against a stone floor, a sickening thud as her head made contact.
She started screaming, and Draco wanted to flay his flesh from his bones.

The Dark Lord paused—contemplative. And then his eyes slid to Draco. “Young Draco, it’s your
turn now.”

In Snape’s office, Draco collapsed, a pool of vomit forming under him. He could feel his whole
body shaking, violent sobs escaping his throat. He was vaguely aware of the voices floating above
him, but it wasn’t until he felt Theo pull him up and wrap his arms around him that his senses came
back into focus.

“That’s enough, Severus,” he heard Theo hiss, pulling Draco away from their professor.

“This is nothing, Theo,” Snape growled back. “I am not doing this because I enjoy it. But you
both need to understand how bad this could get, and be prepared for it.”
“He’s had enough tonight,” Theo spat.

“No,” Draco mumbled, slowly regaining his faculties. “He’s right, Theo.” Draco’s eyes met
Snape’s. “Hit me again.”

***

It was late when they exited Snape’s office, and Draco felt as if he could collapse and fall asleep in
the hallway. Theo was quiet—upset, perhaps even angry.

“I’m sorry, Theo,” Draco whispered, as they progressed toward the Slytherin common room.

“For what?” Theo responded, his voice thin.

“For dragging you into this. I—.” Draco stopped, grabbing his friend’s shoulder. “I was terrified
—am terrified. And I couldn’t do this without you.”

Theo nodded, whatever frustration or anger he had been holding melting away. “I’m with you,
Draco,” he said softly. “Always.”

Draco wrapped him in a quick embrace. “Alright,” Draco sighed. “Time to throw myself at the
mercy of Albus Dumbledore.”

“Good luck,” Theo murmured, squeezing Draco’s shoulder before he disappeared down a dark
corridor.

Draco turned to face the entrance of Dumbledore’s office, muttering the phrase that Granger had
earlier told him was the password to enter. It worked, and Draco ascended the stairs.

The room was massive and littered with sculptures, books, trinkets, and portraits—the latter of
which appeared to regard him with much scrutiny. He could hear them murmuring to each other as
he progressed through the room.

But Albus Dumbledore was nowhere in sight.

“Headmaster?” Draco called out, his voice hollow.

He heard a shuffling of robes as Dumbledore appeared at the top of a set of stairs.

“Ah, welcome, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore greeted, as if he wasn’t surprised to see him at all.

***

“I would like to reiterate my position that this is a monumentally foolhardy idea,” Snape said dryly,
pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Your opposition is noted, Severus,” Dumbledore said slowly. “But Mr. Malfoy has made his
choice—one which I happen to believe is correct.” Dumbledore sighed. “The day after his
seventeenth birthday, Draco and I will meet at the top of the astronomy tower and engage in a duel
that will result in Draco’s death. He will then be moved to the safe house and come under the
protection of the Order.”

Draco’s head fell into his hands as Snape let out another exasperated exhale. “Please,” Draco
begged. “I want to be able to tell my mum that I’m still alive.”

“We’ve been over this, Draco,” Snape sighed. “Her occlumency just isn’t good enough anymore to
risk her knowing the truth.”

“But you have trained Theo and me!” Draco shot back, jerking his head toward Snape.

“Because I had no choice,” Snape snapped. “You had already plunged yourself neck-deep in shite,
and ad hoc occlumency was your best chance of not getting yourself or Miss Granger killed. Not to
mention, I taught you with the knowledge that you and Theo would be spending no more than
several hours in the Dark Lord’s presence every few months. He is living in the Manor, Draco. I
cannot teach your mother the level of occlumency necessary to deal with that.”

Draco dug his palms into his eyes in an attempt to stem the flow of tears. “She’ll kill herself,” he
gasped. “I know it. She won’t survive it.”

Snape sighed, his posture softening. He squeezed Draco’s shoulder. “I will watch her, Draco,” he
said, his voice stripped of his trademark sarcasm or annoyance. “And if it seems that things are…
dire,” Snape paused, his eyes meeting Dumbledore’s, “I will intervene. I will tell her.”

“Draco,” Dumbledore’s soothed, his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I can offer the same protection to
your mother than I am offering to you. If you believe that she would defect as well.”

Draco’s eyes traveled to Snape’s, his gut wrenching when he saw the same doubt in Snape’s
expression as he felt in his heart.

“I don’t know,” Draco gasped. “She might. But she also might stay for the same reason that I’m
leaving.” He buried his head in his hands again, wondering how many people he would have to
destroy to get out of this situation alive.

“Okay,” Dumbledore said. “It’s settled then.” Draco could hear Dumbledore moving to his side
and kneeling beside him. “You’re doing the right thing, Draco. You were presented with a life
that encouraged you to make all the wrong choices, and yet—.”

“Don’t,” Draco spat. “Don’t try to boost me up like I’m making some sort of grand sacrifice. I’m
here because I was too weak to stay away from Granger and now—,” he shook his head. “Now
everything is just completely fucked.”

“Love,” Dumbledore said, leaning on Draco slightly as he stood, “is the greatest weapon we have
against Tom Riddle, Mr. Malfoy. And you have it now.”

You’re so fucked, old man, Draco thought.

“So, what now?” Draco asked.

“Enjoy your life, Draco,” Dumbledore responded. “Spend time with your friends, your mother.
With Miss Granger. Because things are going to become difficult come June.”

***

And so he did.

Months breezed by; winter turned to spring. Draco and Theo continued occlumency with Snape,
growing stronger with each session. Draco began regularly studying with Granger and Theo in the
library, finding a particularly reclusive room in the restricted section where they could remain
relatively secluded from other students.

Eventually a reluctant She-Weasley joined their study group, apparently enticed by the horcrux
research resourcing that Draco and Theo had been able to supply over the holidays. She and Potter
were back on speaking terms—gross—and she seemed to genuinely enjoy Theo’s company. But
she still hated Draco, refusing to address him as anything but “fuckface.”

Meanwhile, Potter, as usual, did fuck-all. The Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the wizard who
was supposed to save them all literally did nothing but sharpen his hard on for Draco. According
to Granger, She-Weasley moved Potter’s map around daily to ensure that he couldn’t find it, but
Potter nonetheless always seemed to find Draco—watching him.

The only place he could never find him was the Room of Requirement, which was where Draco
spent weekends with Granger. The setting changed depending on who first opened the door—the
decadent navy room or the seaside cottage—but Draco loved them both.

And Granger. He loved Granger. He loved that wild, unruly hair. He loved that silver scar. He
loved that twitch in her smile when she knew she was about to say something clever. He loved
that crazed, babbling tone when she started telling him about something she thought was
interesting. He loved that sound she made when he pressed into her.

And those three words. Those three words that were made for them, which they said with
increasing frequency and urgency as June grew closer and Potter came no nearer to that memory.

***

Finally, on a warm afternoon in late May, Granger burst into their study room, eyes wild.

“He did it,” she gasped, throwing herself in Draco’s lap, her mouth covering his. “He finally
fucking did it.”

Draco groaned against her lips as her hands traveled under his shirt. He cupped her arse and held
him tight against him, her hips starting to move against his.

“Hello—it is I—the third person in this room,” Theo chimed in.

Granger chuckled into Draco, removing her hands from under his shirt.

Gods-fucking-damnit, Theo, he thought.

“Sorry, Theo,” she responded lightly. “It’s just—Harry finally got the memory. We know how
many horcruxes there are!”

“And?” Draco and Theo supplied together.

“Seven,” she supplied brightly, as if this was somehow welcome information.

Gods, we’re so fucked.

 Hermione

“Why don’t you seem happier about this?” Hermione asked as the room grew quiet and Malfoy’s
eyes drifted from hers. “We’re that much closer now.”

Malfoy shook his head, scoffing. “How much closer, Granger?” he hissed, his eyes snapping back,
hard against hers. “Hmm? We’re crawling on our fucking elbows here while the Dark Lord is
amassing new armies of supporters every goddamn day.”

Hermione shrunk into herself as she felt him grow rigid underneath her, his hands falling from her
sides.

“I mean, do you hear yourself? You are literally the smartest fucking person I have ever met, but
you’re sitting here, asking me to be excited because after months—literal months—of doing
absolutely fuck-all, Potter finally did the bare fucking minimum, and all it did was confirm how
completely and utterly fucked we are.”

“Draco,” she soothed, bringing her hand to his face. But he grabbed her wrist and pulled it away,
his eyes again moving away from hers.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, still refusing to meet her gaze.

“Look,” Hermione said defiantly. “I know it’s perhaps not the answer we wanted, but at least we
have it. It’s something. And—.”

“It’s something?” Draco spat, cutting her off.

“Draco,” she heard Theo whisper.

“No,” Draco shot back, his eyes looking past Hermione to meet Theo. “Don’t fucking act like I’m
being the irrational one here.” His eyes finally met Hermione’s again, cutting into her like steel.

“Do you have any idea what I have done?” he growled, his hands tightening around her wrists. “I
have sacrificed everything—everything for you. My father, my mother—,” his voice broke a bit,
and he closed his eyes. “My mother, who will probably become completely fucking catatonic—
and you have the gall to waltz in here and ask me to be excited that your dumbarse friend asked an
ego-obsessed professor a single fucking question. No. No.”

She wanted to protest—to hit him and scream at him that none of this was her fault either. That
they were all just working within the bounds of a supremely shitty situation, and assuming that
they were doomed from the start served no one.

But he was right.

Whatever unfractured bits of her heart remained, shattered when he pushed her from his lap and
strode for the door. “Bring my stuff to the common room later, will you, Theo?” he asked coolly
as he left the room without so much as a backwards glance.

***

He avoided her the rest of the week. There were no notes passed in Potions, no subtle smirks in
Transfiguration, no brushes against her knuckles in Runes. He didn’t even look at her.
She knew he was angry, but they were running out of time. His birthday was the following week.

Several days after their row in the library, Ginny and Ron told Hermione that Harry had traveled
with Dumbledore to a sea cave where Dumbledore believed Voldemort had hidden the locket.
They had been successful in retrieving it, but it had been a fake. The locket, Ginny explained, was
not the same as the one Harry had seen in the pensieve, and a note inside the locket confirmed that
someone with the initials R.A.B. had stolen and hidden the true horcrux.

Hermione cried herself to sleep that night.

She was the first to arrive at the Room of Requirement on Friday evening, the salty air greeting her
like an old friend. But something about the cottage was off—missing. A certain warmth was had
left it.

She strode into the kitchen, opening the bottom cupboard. The pumpkin candies weren’t there.
She sunk to the floor.

He’s not coming.

***

She wasn’t sure how long she laid there, on the kitchen floor. She tried to summon some of her old
spark—that Gryffindor determination—but found none there. She was tired. And she was
fractured without him.

Her head jerked up when she heard the door open and footsteps cross the threshold.

“Granger?” a familiar voice rang out.

Theo.

His face fell a bit when he saw her, a crumpled mess on the kitchen floor. He strode toward her,
curling on the floor next to her when he reached the kitchen.

“Granger,” he chided softly. “This is peak Hufflepuff shite. Very unbecoming of Gryffindor’s
princess. And I, for one, won’t stand for it.”

She chuckled wistfully. “I’m tired, Theo. I’m so tired.”

“I know,” he said, grabbing her hands and pulling her into a sitting position. “But I need you to
wake up, Granger. Because he needs you.”

“He’s so angry with me,” she sighed, her eyes falling to the floor.

“He’s Draco Malfoy,” Theo replied simply. “He’s always in a snit about something.” She felt
Theo’s hand under her chin, bringing her gaze to meet his. “And he’s not angry. He’s a spoiled
teenage boy who is too proud to admit that he is terrified, okay?”

Hermione nodded, tears pricking the back of her eyes.

“Good,” Theo said resolutely, standing. “Now let’s go.” He extended his hand toward her.

“Where are we going?” she asked, letting him pull her up.

“Our Slytherin prince is currently brooding in the dorms. He’s the only one there—given that
everyone else is studying for exams. And I took the liberty of clearing the common room with the
assistance of a dung bomb from one Miss Weasley.” He smirked, tugging Hermione out of the
room.

***

The dung bomb that Theo had used to clear the Slytherin common room was particularly rancid.
Fortunately, the smell appeared to die at the threshold of the dorms, which Theo assured her were
clear of everyone except for Malfoy. Holding her breath, she pushed open the door and glided
inside.

He didn’t notice her at first, but the sight of him left her breathless. He was in a simple tee shirt
and trunks, his arm resting on a hitched knee, book in hand. She craned her neck to read the title as
he turned a page.

To Kill a Mockingbird.

The blood in her veins buzzed to life as she ran to him.

“Granger, what the—,” he spluttered as she reached his bedside.

“Shh,” she soothed, her mouth moving over his. She felt him relax under her hands, and then pull
her closer into him.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, as their mouths continued to work against each other. His hands cupped
both sides of her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. “I love you. I love you so
much.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I love you too. So fucking much.” He pulled her into his bed and under
him, slowly unbuttoning her shirt as his mouth moved over her chest and down her abdomen.

“Draco,” she moaned as that familiar buzzing returned. She closed her eyes and bit into her hand
as she felt him slowly drag her skirt and knickers from her, tossing them under his bed. His mouth
was against her center, swirling and sucking. Her hands tangled in his bedsheets, the rest of her
trembling.

Electricity ripped through her as she came. He slid back over her, pressing into her before she even
had a chance to catch her breath.

“Fuck, I love you,” he groaned, capturing her mouth with his. He bent her leg and pulled it against
his, driving deeper into her. “Gods, you feel amazing,” he gasped, bringing his lips to her neck.

She was melting down; her blood catching fire. She snaked her fingers through his hair as he
continued to nip at the tender flesh on her neck.

Suddenly she felt him go rigid, his head snapping to the door.

“What?” she whispered, the static dulling as her senses returned. And then she heard it.

“Leave him alone, Blaise. I told you he’s not feeling well and he’s being a foul git about it,” she
heard Theo exclaim.

“I don’t care,” Blaise responded. “This is Gods-level gossip. It can’t wait.”

Malfoy’s eyes shot to hers, his expression horror-stricken. In one quick movement, he grabbed
ahold of his bed sheets and comforter, pulling them over his head as he covered her body with his.
“Don’t say a fucking word,” he hissed.

“No shite, Malfoy,” she responded flippantly.

She heard the door burst open, followed by frenzied footsteps. “Oi, Draco, get up,” Blaise said, his
hand smacking the comforter, hitting Malfoy between the shoulder blades.

“Fuck off, Blaise,” Malfoy responded through gritted teeth. “I feel like shite, okay?”

“Well, you’re going to feel worse when you hear this,” Blaise returned, appearing to sit on the edge
of Malfoy’s bed. “I have it on good authority that Ron Weasley is shagging Astoria.”

Hermione felt her eyes bulge as Malfoy’s hand clapped over her mouth.

“That’s foul, Blaise,” Malfoy replied, his eyes still glued to Hermione. “God knows what she’ll
catch from him. That fucking hovel his family lives in is probably crawling with doxies.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and he smirked back at her.

He’s enjoying this.

“And you’ve seen him in Quidditch, the fucking tosser doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Can’t be any better with his cock.”

You can be such a fucking arshehole, Malfoy.

Blaise chuckled. “No argument there,” he said. “But I thought you were shagging Astoria, no?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes further at him and licked the hand covering her mouth. He rolled his
eyes.

“No—I was, uh, unsuccessful in that venture, Blaise,” Malfoy responded.

“C’mon, mate, I can’t believe you’re not more fired up about this,” Blaise said. Hermione watched
in horror as there was movement toward the top of the comforter.

“Stop,” she heard Theo’s voice ring out again. “Let him be. He feels like shite, okay?”

“What are you, his mother?” The movement returned to the top of the comforter. “C’mon, Draco,
stop being such a fucking twat about it.”

“Cut it the fuck out, Blaise,” Theo said, his voice harsh.

“What—,” Blaise began, and then stopped. “Wait.” Another pause. “No. No fucking way. Is he
with someone under there?”

The comforter began to peel back and Malfoy curled his head over her face. She squeezed her eyes
shut as she stilled her breath. Things were impossibly quiet for a moment until a resounding crack
ripped through the stillness. It was followed by a toppling and a rustling on the floor, bodies
bumping against the foot of the bed.

“Theo, what the fuck,” Blaise hissed.

Theo had punched Blaise. Gods, I love you, Theo, she thought.

She cautiously opened her eyes, unable to see much through Malfoy’s hair draped over her face,
but it looked as though Blaise had not been successful in peeling back the comforter beyond the top
of Malfoy’s head.

Sounds of the scuffle moved farther and farther away until it had clearly moved from the dorms
into the common room.

“Oh my fucking gods,” Malfoy exhaled, dropping his head into the crook of Hermione’s shoulder.

Despite herself, Hermione burst into laughter, with Malfoy quickly following suit. They remained
that way for a while—laughing, tears falling from their eyes.

“Ron and Astoria,” Hermione finally gasped. “Gods, how on earth did that happen?”

“You’re one to talk, Granger,” he mused, kissing her deeply. “And Granger,” he said when his
mouth broke from hers. “If you ever, ever mention fucking Weasel’s name while I’m inside you
again, I’ll fucking crucio him.”

She chuckled as he captured her lips with his and his hips began to rock against hers.

***

Malfoy spent his birthday with his mother at the Manor, but returned that evening. “Can you go in
first?” he asked when they reached the Room of Requirement. “I—I would like it to be the
cottage.” His voice was paper thin—barely there.

“Of course,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his before she opened the door and stepped
inside.

He loved her slowly and deliberately that night. His fingers explored every inch of her—but not in
the hungry, lustful way that she had grown accustomed to. He studied her, mapped her, like he was
going to have to recreate her from memory.

Maybe he would.

Great, heaving sobs escaped her multiple times that night. He said nothing, merely wrapping
himself around her each time and kissing the tears from her cheeks.

This was truly the best outcome she could have hoped for—a secret defection. But the prospect of
the following day still terrified her. A haunting she felt in her bones.

What if something went wrong? What if the Order didn’t accept him? What if Dumbledore’s
protection was not as ironclad as she believed? What if in her effort to save him, she was
inadvertently leading Malfoy to his death?

Morning came too early. She watched him as he slowly dressed, holding her gaze the whole time.
He rounded to her side of the bed and bent down, his hands caressing her face as he kissed her
without an ounce of selfishness.

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered as they broke apart. “And I’ll see you soon.”

When she heard the door close behind her, she collapsed on the bed, wondering if she could create
a horcrux in this moment as she felt her soul split in half.

***
Hermione’s eyes were glued to the clock in the Gryffindor common room. 8:55PM. In five
minutes, Dumbledore and Malfoy would stage a duel at the top of the astronomy tower, after
which it would be announced that Malfoy was killed when his avada—intended for Dumbledore—
struck one of the telescopes, bouncing off of it and striking him in the chest.

She felt simultaneously numb and freezing, her teeth chattering. “Hey,” Ginny whispered, her
arms wrapped around her. “It’s going to be okay, Hermione. He’s with Dumbledore and Snape,
and then he’s going to the safe house. He couldn’t be safer.”

Hermione nodded absently, watching as the hand on the clock ticked to 8:56PM.

“Harry,” Ron began, striding into the common room from the dorms. “I just found your Marauders
Map under my trunk—weird.”

“Well, that would explain why I haven’t been able to find it for months. That is strange,” Harry
replied, looking up from a book that he was reading. He took the map from Ron’s hand. “Well, at
least we’ll be able to keep tabs on Malfoy more easily now.”

No.

No.

No.

No.

Hermione felt Ginny lunge for the map. But it was too late. Harry had seen it.

“Oh my fucking god,” he gasped, shooting up from his seat and sprinting for the portrait hole.

“Harry, NO!” Ginny and Hermione screamed in unison, scrambling after him.

“What in the bloody hell is going on?” Ron cried, his mouth full of food. Hermione could hear
him thundering after her and Ginny.

“HE’S IN THE ASTRONOMY TOWER WITH SNAPE AND DUMBLEDORE!” Harry screamed
as he plunged forward, his voice frenzied. “I knew it! I fucking knew it!”

The four students sprinted through the corridors, all shouting and screaming over each other.
Hermione reached for her wand, realizing she left it in the common room. Her eyes shot to Ginny,
who merely shook her head.

Oh, gods, please let them be gone already, Hermione prayed as she watched Harry ascend the
stairs to the astronomy tower, unsheathing his wand.

But, alas, luck was not her side that evening.

***

Malfoy and Dumbledore were standing opposite each other, wands drawn. Snape stood behind
Malfoy, his wand also drawn. All three of them turned in unison when they discovered the
presence of the four intruders.

For a moment, everything was still. For a moment, Hermione thought it might be okay.

But then she heard him say it.

“Avada kedavra!” Harry bellowed, his wand leveled at Malfoy’s chest.

Hermione felt herself scream and collapse to her knees as she watched a spray of green erupt from
the tip of Harry’s wand. Her eyes met Malfoy’s for just a moment, but then she closed them,
lacking the courage to watch as the light left his eyes.

She heard Ginny let out a scream so pained that Hermione felt her blood turn icy. She squeezed
her eyes shut tighter, traveling back to the cottage that morning—his hands on her face, his lips on
hers.

I love you, Hermione.

And I’ll see you soon.

Ginny kept screaming, and she felt Ron’s hand on her back. “Hermione,” he gasped. “Oh gods,
Hermione, what do we do?”

She cupped her hands over her eyes, digging her fingernails into her forehead. She pitched
forward, her head connecting with the cool, stone ground. Ron was still talking, but she could
barely hear him.

I love you, Hermione.

And I’ll see you soon.

She screamed so loudly that her throat burned. And then again. And again. And again. She felt
moisture against her cheek, and she thought perhaps her throat had actually started bleeding. But
then she realized she had vomited.

I love you, Hermione.

And I’ll see you soon.

She felt Ron trying to pull her up, but she resisted, clinging to the ground with all of her might.
“No!” she wailed. “I can’t, Ron, I can’t. Please, gods, don’t make me look at him. It’s all—it’s all
my—.”

But it was too late. Ron had already pulled her to her feet, her eyes inadvertently falling on the
place where Harry had shot his avada.

Her knees gave out and she collapsed against Ron.

Malfoy was still standing there, trembling and chest heaving, horror painted across his face.

And Albus Dumbledore was dead at his feet.

 Mission

Dumbledore’s pale blue eyes stared up at Draco. Fixed. Unmoving. Dead.

A high-pitched whining ricocheted across his skull, his ears ringing and his teeth on edge. Breath
escaped him in hitches as his blood ran cold. He was drowning again; lungs burning, chest seizing,
head pounding.

No one dared move—as if the faintest shift might cause the ground to crumble out from under
them. Draco was suddenly aware of sharp screams and wails—Granger and She-Weasley. But he
couldn’t tear his gaze from Dumbledore’s eyes: fixed, unmoving, dead.

“Because Dumbledore would rather see himself dead than you.”

It took Draco several minutes to realize he wasn’t standing on his own. His knees had buckled and
Snape was holding him upright, his arm around Draco’s torso and his breathing ragged in against
Draco’s ear.

“What do we do now?” Draco finally choked out, his voice barely audible. Snape said nothing, but
released his hold on Draco. They both knelt, and Draco watched as Snape delicately closed
Dumbledore’s eyes, his fingers drifting to Dumbledore’s shoulder, where they remained for several
moments.

“What we must,” he responded, his tone haunted.

A shuffling noise in front of them. Potter was moving—advancing on them slowly, wand still
drawn. Snape cloaked a protective arm around Draco, pushing him behind him. He rose steadily
to his feet.

“Potter,” Snape said in an eerily calm voice, drawing his wand.

Potter looked crazed, his eyes glowing and wand arm twitching. But Draco’s attention shifted
behind Potter to She-Weasley, who had stopped screaming and was now progressing fixedly
toward Weaselbee and Granger. Draco’s breath caught in his throat as he watched She-Weasley
reach into her brother’s robes, and in one fluid movement, wrench out his wand and aim it at
Potter’s back.

“Stupefy,” she said flatly, as Potter crumpled in front of Draco and Snape. She calmly turned back
toward Weaselbee and replaced his wand, her expression unreadable.

She was, Draco thought, perhaps even more terrifying than Granger.

“Ginny, what the fuck,” he heard Weaselbee whisper, as his grip on Granger loosened and she fell
to the ground, her eyes still fixed on Draco. She brought a quivering hand to her mouth and sobbed
into it.

Draco moved from behind Snape and stepped toward her, kneeling and pulling her into his lap.
She said nothing—just grabbed fistfuls of Draco’s shirt, pressed her head into his chest and
bawled.

“I know,” he soothed repeatedly, resting his chin on her head and rocking her.

Snapping out of some sort of trance, Weaselbee turned toward Draco and Granger. “What the
bloody—get your hands off—.”

She-Weasley cut him off, grabbing his arm. “Ron, stop,” she said firmly.

“Ginny—what the fuck is going on?” Weaselbee exclaimed.

She-Weasley sighed, her eyes meeting Draco’s. He gave her a curt nod in reply. They had no
choice at this point.

“He was defecting, Ron,” She-Weasley whispered. “Malfoy and Dumbledore were staging a duel
during which they would fake Malfoy’s death and hide him at the safe house.”

“What? Ginny…no,” Weaselbee breathed, expression even more clueless than normal. “No.”

“Yes,” She-Weasley said. “Those horcrux books that we showed you and Harry—the ones we said
we stole from the restricted section,” she shook her head. “They were from Malfoy Manor. He
sent them to Hermione.”

“Oh, gods,” Weaselbee groaned, sinking to his knees.

“They’re together,” she supplied. “Malfoy and Hermione. They have been for months.”

Weaselbee had no further response, other than to drop his head into his hands and rock back and
forth.

Granger’s sobs began to soften, her swollen eyes rolling up to meet Draco’s.

“Hi,” he whispered, feathering a kiss to her forehead. Her hand reached up, softly tracing his jaw
to his ear, his ear to his nose, his nose to his hairline. Her fingers tangled in his hair.

“You’re okay,” she stammered, as if she were trying to convince herself.

He burrowed his head in her shoulder. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Granger.” His lips
moved tenderly along the curve of her neck.

Snape joined their circle, Potter’s limp form draped over his arms. “We’re on borrowed time
now,” he said evenly. “We need to move quickly.”

Shaking herself from her anguish, Granger spoke up. “We need to modify Harry’s memory,” she
said plainly, her gaze turning toward Snape. “Harry is the only one who can find the horcruxes
because of his connection with Voldemort.” She sighed. “He won’t be able to live with himself—
won’t be able to even come close to defeating Voldemort if he knows what he did.” She shook her
head. “He blamed himself for Sirius, and that was nothing compared to this.”

Their circle grew quiet, absorbing the gravity of what Granger had said. Snape sighed and
nodded. “Yes, Miss Granger,” he drawled. “I agree.” Snape too kneeled, placing Potter’s
unconscious body in front of him.

“I want it to be me,” Draco supplied.

“What?” Granger asked quietly, her face rolling back up toward his.

“In the memory,” Draco said, his attention directed toward Snape. “I want it to be me who killed
him. I want that to be the story. Draco Malfoy killed Albus Dumbledore.”

“Draco,” Snape began. “The Dark Lord thinking that you killed Albus Dumbledore comes with
consequences. I would not advise—.”

“I don’t care,” Draco snapped. “If he thinks I did this for him—if this is the story, then it earns me
some of his respect—his trust. And that protects me. Which then protects her,” he nodded toward
Granger. Snape was quiet, his eyes boring into Draco. “You know I’m right, Severus.”

“It won’t protect you forever,” Snape said softly.

“Then let’s hope we kill him before the protection wears out,” Draco returned.

Snape continued to stare at Draco, his face oddly expressive—pained. With a reluctant sigh, he
pressed the tip of his wand to Harry’s temple.

“When Mr. Potter awakes, his memory will reveal that Draco ambushed him in the tower. A duel
erupted. And when Dumbledore discovered them and tried to intervene, Draco killed him with an
Unforgiveable Curse.” Snape exhaled. “And that is the story we must all endeavor to believe and
repeat as well.”

Draco felt Hermione whimper, pressing her face back into his chest, tears soaking through his
shirt. He kissed the top of her head.

Snape withdrew his wand, tucking it back into his robes. “Weasleys, please take Mr. Potter to the
infirmary and inform Madam Pomfrey as to what has happened.” His eyes turned to Draco.

“I need you to get to my office as quickly as possible. But don’t run. I don’t want you drawing
attention to yourself if there’s anyone in the halls. And then Floo to the Manor. Have your mother
put up more wards—anything and everything she can think of. Aurors are going to be turning this
country upside down looking for you.”

Draco nodded stiffly.

“Miss Granger may accompany you to my office so that you can say goodbye.” Draco’s gut
wrenched, and he wrapped his arms tighter around her.

“And in ten minutes, I will go to Professor McGonagall’s quarters to tell her what has happened. I
need you to be out of here and back at the Manor before then, Draco, or you’ll be spending the rest
of your life in Azkaban.”

A silent sob ripped through Granger, her body shaking against his. Draco pulled her in even closer,
continuing to rock her and feather his lips to the top of her head.

“Draco,” Snape said, gripping his shoulder. “You need to go. Now.”

***

They moved quickly and wordlessly through the castle, which was mercifully deserted given the
late hour and end of term departures. They slipped silently into Snape’s office, Draco closing the
door behind them. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the back of the door.

Fuck.

We were so close.

He sighed, squeezing back tears as he turned to face Granger.

Oh gods, the look of her. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, her shoulders hunched as if she
were trying to fold into herself. That untamed hair he loved so much fell loosely around her face.

Her eyes met his.

“Don’t go,” she begged, her voice raw and pitiful. “Oh god, Draco, please. Please. I can’t do
this.”

“Granger,” he whispered, taking a knee in front of her. He was still nearly as tall as her.

“You are the bravest person I have ever met, you know that?” He brushed his thumb over her lips
and across her cheekbone. “Truly. I know Potter gets all the credit, but it’s you.” He leaned his
head up, dusting his lips over hers. “And a woman I greatly admire once wrote that true courage is
knowing you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter
what.” He kissed her again. “That’s you and me, Granger. Fucking impossible—but we’re going
to try like hell anyway.”

She collapsed into him, some combination of chuckling, crying, and frenzied I love yous while she
laid bruising kisses to his lips and cheeks. He picked her up and pressed her against the wall, his
mouth against hers. He moved down her neck, his senses flooded with her. “Granger,” he
groaned, trying to absorb as much of her onto himself as possible. She pulled his face back up to
hers kissing him deeply.

“I need to go,” he breathed, the words searing a hole through his core.

“I love you, Draco Malfoy,” she hushed against his lips.

He set her down, his fingers still laced through hers as he stepped into the fireplace. He cupped
both sides of her face, resting his forehead on hers. He closed his eyes. “I love you, Hermione,”
he whispered, brushing his lips against hers. “And I’ll see you soon.”

He stepped back, dropping a handful of Floo powder. “Malfoy Manor.”

***

He was surprised to find his mother sitting in the drawing room when he arrived. She was staring
absently into a glass of wine, her form hauntingly pallid and gaunt.

Her head wrenched toward him as the fireplace roared upon his arrival.

“Draco,” she greeted, her voice a mix of concern and relief. She stood and wrapped her arms
around him, pulling him into her like she was afraid he would disappear again before her eyes. “I
wasn’t expecting you back for several more days.”

No, you weren’t expecting me back at all.

“It’s done,” he said tersely, pulling away from her embrace. “I did it. I killed him.”

Despite her efforts to conceal them, a series of emotions played out on his mother’s face, each
more heartbreaking than the next. Shock, relief, horror, disgust.

His mother had liked Dumbledore—that much he knew. She of course would never say as much in
front of most company, but she told Draco once when he was much, much younger and anxious
about his upcoming years at Hogwarts.

“You may not hear it much around here, Draco, but the Headmaster is a kind, kind man,” she had
soothed, pushing his hair back. “Remember when I told you that my sister, Andromeda, used to
help me with my spell work after class?”

Draco nodded.

“Well, she also told the Headmaster about my shyness in class. And you know what he did?”

Draco shook his head.

“He gave me private lessons twice a week to help boost my confidence—and you know what? It
worked.”

It was from there that Narcissa Black rose to become one of the top witches in her class.

And gained the attention of Lucius Malfoy.

Who then poisoned her against the people who sought to help her the most.

“Draco,” she breathed, bringing a hand to her mouth, her head falling into his chest. “Oh, my
heart, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped her in his arms and dropped his forehead against the top of her
head.

He could feel the tension in her bones. That shattering realization that the little boy she used to
watch delicately capture and release fireflies on Manor grounds had just admitted to murdering an
innocent man.

It’s still me, mum. I’m still here.

***

Draco found the firewhiskey that Theo had stashed under his bed at Christmas and took a swig—an
attempt to erase the sound of the Dark Lord’s cackles upon hearing that Dumbledore was dead.
And that Draco had killed him.

But the response had been exactly what Draco had wanted.

“Draco, my son. You have proved yourself worthy in ways that your father never could. Our
movement is indebted to your service.”

He collapsed onto his bed, closing his eyes and reveling in images of her honey eyes, unruly hair,
and silver scar. Her biting wit. Her recalcitrance. Her huffy pants.

He took another gulp of firewhiskey and moved to his desk, rifling through it until he found clean
parchment.

GINNY, he wrote in big letters, knowing full well that she would not be home for several more days
and hoping that by properly branding her mail, no one else would read it.

I need her Muggle address. Please.

Reluctant regards,

Fuckface
 Mission

It’s when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no
matter what.

The words replayed like loops in her head. The words that Atticus told to Jem in an effort to
remind him that courage was not about raw physical strength—it was about persistence through
difficulty. The words that she loved so dearly even before she came to Hogwarts and was sorted
into a house defined by its courage and determination.

And yet, there she laid in a self-pitying heap on the floor of Snape’s office, unable to move because
a piece of her had been carved away—and she no longer felt like she could function without it.

She wasn’t sure how long she was there—curled in front of the fireplace—before Snape arrived
back in his office and grabbed her arms, pulling her upright. “I can’t,” she protested weakly, but he
ignored her.

“He is not dead, Miss Granger,” Snape said matter-of-factly. “And neither are you. Stop acting
like you are.” He tucked a finger under her chin, bringing her eyes to meet his. “Go back to your
dorm. Rest. Recover. We have work to do.”

***

News of Dumbledore’s death had spread quickly. Throngs of remaining students filled the
corridors, all headed the opposite direction as Hermione. Wails, cries, sobs, and frantic chattering
as Hermione passed them, stone-faced and empty.

“I heard it was Draco Malfoy,” Hermione heard a Ravenclaw girl hiss. “My mother said the
Ministry is already scouring the country looking for him—he’ll get the Dementor’s Kiss for sure.”

Hermione jerked around, electric sparks seizing her body. Venom dripped from the tip of her
tongue as she opened her mouth. But another force captured her, urging her forward.

“Hermione, no.”

It was Ginny, her hand grasped tightly around Hermione’s arm, brusquely dragging her onward
toward the Gryffindor dorms.

The common room was predictably empty when they arrived, a bone-chilling reticence heavy in
the air. Hermione slowly moved toward the arm chair in which she and Ginny had been sitting,
watching the clock, and plucked her wand from the end table.

She rolled it between her fingers, resisting the urge to snap and splinter it. It was silly, really. It
wasn’t the wand’s fault—it was hers. But she suddenly loathed it anyway.

“C’mon,” she heard Ginny’s soothe, wrapping an arm around her and leading her toward the
dorms. She helped Hermione out of her clothes and into her pajamas, peeling back the covers on
Hermione’s bed as she shuffled under them. Hermione watched Ginny with curiosity as she
gathered the clothes Hermione had been wearing and tucked them into an empty pillowcase, tying
it at the top.

“Why are you doing that, Gin?” Hermione asked, her voice hoarse.
“You can smell him on your clothes from when he was holding you,” Ginny replied simply, any
lingering Malfoy disdain absent from her voice. “I thought you would like to hold onto that for a
little longer.”

Tears flooded Hermione’s eyes and she merely nodded, unable to find the words to express the
overwhelming love and gratitude she felt for her best friend.

Ginny crawled into Hermione’s bed with her, tucking her arms around her. It was still for several
moments before Ginny began to sob into Hermione’s back. Hermione turned over to face her, the
sheer pain in Ginny’s face pulling the air from Hermione’s lungs.

“Oh, Ginny, I’m so sorry,” Hermione gasped, pulling her friend in closer to her and rubbing her
back as she bawled. Hermione had been so consumed by her grief over Malfoy that she had
overlooked that Ginny had just lost someone too.

***

Hermione, Ginny, Ron stayed at Hogwarts through Dumbledore’s funeral. Harry was released
from the infirmary the day before the funeral, and Hermione began making herself scarce, unable
to face him and pretend like he hadn’t just murdered one man and condemned another.

She could no longer see Harry for who she had always believed him to be—a loyal, loving, brave,
forthright friend. Instead, she saw the monstrous result of someone who had let grief and rage
twist him into someone—something—unrecognizable.

She was sure that the true Harry was still in there somewhere—buried, trapped. But Hermione
could no longer be the one to dig down to find him. That had to be Ginny now.

Which is precisely what Hermione told Ginny when Ginny would come to her despairing and
desperate—struggling to find the strength to still embrace this impossibly broken man who had let
his grievances consume not only his own life, but also the lives of those around him.

But Ginny did it. With remarkable grace and tenderness, she comforted and encouraged a
desperately destroyed Harry, who believed he had just seen his last remaining father figure
murdered by the person he hated most.

***

The day after Dumbledore’s funeral, Professor McGonagall summoned the four of them into her
office, where Scrimgeour was waiting for them. Apparently, Dumbledore had willed each of them
something that Scrimgeour couldn’t make heads or tails of—and neither could they.

To Ron, he left a Deluminator. To Ginny, a book entitled The Tales of Beedle and the Bard. To
Harry, the golden snitch that he caught during his first Quidditch game. Dumbledore had also
intended to leave the Sword of Gryffindor to Harry, but Scrimgeour resisted, insisting that the
Sword was not Dumbledore’s to give.

At a different time, Hermione would’ve argued with Scrimgeour, but she frankly didn’t care.
Harry didn’t deserve to have it.

Hermione’s willed item was perhaps the most perplexing: it was just a rather large and bulky
envelope that had Hermione Granger written across the front it. She didn’t want to open it in the
presence of the others—particularly Scrimgeour or Harry. Scrimgeour tried several times to goad
or pressure Hermione into doing so, but finally relented after Ginny tried to bat bogey hex him,
forcing McGonagall to intervene.

When they returned to the dorms, Hermione and Ginny toppled into her bed, tearing into the
envelope.

And it contained a series of smaller envelopes. Hermione turned them over in her hands,
examining the script on each one:

Mary Malone

Shield of Hibernia

3 Dún Mor Road

Roundstone, Co. Galway, Ireland

Alexandre Durant

Abraxan Society

47 Rue de la République

Honfleur, France

Annike & Ernst Weber

White Rose Regulation

21 Würzburger Str.

Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany

Lucia Rossi

Sword of Cittadini

1 Via Rosario Romeo

Tivoli, Rome, Italy

Piotr Rusev

Krali Marko Resistance

5000 Pencho Slaveykov Pl.

Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria

“I don’t get it,” Hermione said simply. “What are these? I mean, they’re envelopes—letters—
obviously, but why would he leave these to me?” she let out a frustrated sigh.

“If memory serves,” Ginny began, picking up one of the envelopes, “I think that these are
organizations similar to the Order—a defense against dark wizards. From what my parents have
told me, the Order is not unique to the UK—there are groups like it in different countries.”

Hermione’s breath stilled in her throat. She slowly turned over the letter addressed to Mary
Malone and delicately slid her finger under the seal. She was loathe to open someone else’s mail,
but it felt justified in this instance. Dumbledore must have left these to her for a reason, right?

She gingerly removed the letter and unfolded it, greeted with Dumbledore’s familiar scrawl.

My dearest Mary,

If you are reading this, it means that I am no longer earthbound and that Lord Voldemort has
returned. I am delivering this letter to you by way of two trusted associates, whose names I have
omitted from this letter for concern of their safety. But please heed my words when I say they have
my full confidence, and are worthy of yours.

I fear that Voldemort has returned stronger and with greater numbers than he did before. While
my sincerest wish is that we are able to defeat him before a true war begins, I hope that should the
time come, the Shield of Hibernia will fight alongside us. While Voldemort will, of course, start in
the United Kingdom, make no mistake—should we fail, he will continue his zealous campaign for
power across all of Europe, and perhaps even the world.

I have enclosed with this letter a fake Galleon under a Protean Charm—a method of
communication that one of my trusted associates before you cleverly devised when she was only
sixteen. If the time should come that we require your assistance, the Galleon will alert you as to
the time and place that your assistance is needed.

My greatest regrets that I am not here to inform you of this in person, or that I even have to inform
you of this at all. Please watch over my two associates while they are visiting—they are incredibly
important to me.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

“Oh my gods, Hermione,” Ginny breathed. “This is…it’s incredible.”

Hermione was speechless for several minutes, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. He knew.
Dumbledore knew how fractured her relationship with Harry had become, and that if Harry set off
on the hunt for the horcruxes, Hermione would not be able to join him. That it would have to be
Ginny instead.

But he still found a mission for her. He wasn’t letting her get left behind.

“But who’s the second person?” Hermione gasped. “It can’t be you, Gin, and obviously not Ron.
Perhaps Luna or Neville?” Hermione shook her head—no, neither of them seemed to fit.

“Could he have intended it to be Malfoy?” Ginny suggested gently.

Hermione’s heart seized at the thought. “I don’t know, Gin,” she replied. “But I don’t think so.
Malfoy is incredibly distinctive and his family has ties all over Europe. Even in different
countries, I think eventually someone would’ve recognized him and his cover would’ve been
blown.”

Ginny huffed in agreement. “Well, you’ll figure it out, Hermione. You always do.”

***

Hermione travelled home the following day to spend several weeks with her parents before she
returned to the Burrow to join the Order.

She tried to preoccupy herself with Muggle activities: cooking, laundry, watching television, and
trying desperately to not cause any further damage to her parents’ car.

But despite her efforts at distraction, Draco Malfoy still consumed her. His hair in her hands. His
fingers tickling her ribs. His eyes glinting as he delivered a sarcastic remark. His lips against her
neck. His voice in her ear telling her how much he loved her.

Sleep evaded her most nights. Those gruesome images of Malfoy at the end of Voldemort’s wand
that had haunted her so mercilessly before Malfoy had gone to Dumbledore returned in spades—
but this time supplemented with visions of Malfoy dead at Harry’s feet, his silver eyes fixed on
Hermione, cold and unblinking.

A foolish part of her wished he would write—if only just to tell her that he was alive and okay. But
she also knew she would be cross with him if he did, the risk of interception enormous.

She was, of course, also preparing. She had rummaged around in her mother’s closet until she
found a sturdy shoulder bag, which she promptly placed an undetectable Extension Charm over.
She filled it with things that Harry, Ron, and Ginny would need while they hunted down the
horcruxes, including the four books that Malfoy had gifted them.

She still hadn’t determined who Dumbledore had been intending her to travel with to deliver his
letters. She kept toying with the idea of Luna or Neville, but neither felt right. They were both
skilled duelers and incredibly bright, but Hermione just didn’t have the type of trust in them that
she needed on a mission like this. Dumbledore would’ve known that.

There were of course the other Order members: Fred or George (gods, no); Mr. or Mrs. Weasley
(seems unlikely); Charlie or Bill or Lupin (perhaps); Tonks—

Tonks.

It had to be.

***

The night before Hermione was set to return to the Burrow, a loud thud at her window woke her
around midnight. She padded over to the window, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her heart
stuttered when her vision came into focus.

Pressed against her window was a note with only four words. Four beautiful, breathtaking,
earthshattering words: Open up. It’s me.

She threw open the window, a shock of silver blonde coming into view. He hovered there at her
window on his broom, his hair tousled and cheeks ruddy.

“Well, you gonna invite me in or what, Granger?” he mused, that devilish smirk that she loved so
much toying at his cheeks. “I’m a wanted man, so I would greatly appreciate not having to loiter
out here for too much longer.”

“Get in here, now,” she responded instantly, her blood already simmering.

He struggled to get through her admittedly small bedroom window, and proceeded to knock nearly
every item off her desk as he tried to wrangle his long legs through the window, over the desk, and
to the floor. “Shite, Granger, cast a muffliato, will you?” he hissed, as her lamp clattered to the
floor. She reached for her wand, wordlessly casting a silencing spell.

“Merlin,” he groaned as he finally got through her window and over her desk. He threw his broom
to the floor and scooped her into his arms, pressing her to the wall behind her. His mouth moved
roughly against hers, his tongue tangling with hers. His lips moved down her jaw and neck,
nipping and sucking with such pressure that it left her nearly breathless.

“You’re such a sodding idiot, Malfoy,” she gasped as his hand slipped under her shirt. “You know
that?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, undeterred from his work on her neck. His thumb teased at the peak of
her breast, sending shockwaves down her spine.

“You could’ve been seen—captured,” she breathed, the static already drowning her senses.

“I had to see you,” he whispered, wrenching Hermione from the wall and carrying her to her bed,
placing her on the edge of it. “I’m losing my fucking mind without you.”

He knelt between her legs, his pace slowing as his lips lowered to her knee. “Granger,” he hushed,
his gaze holding hers as his lips brushed against her thigh. He nipped at her flesh as he moved
along, the tips of his fingers running up the back of her legs.

Her whole body shuddered.

He moved deliberately toward her center, tracing the tip of his tongue along her thigh. He paused,
his eyes catching hers as his thumb rolled circles against her and his teeth nipped at her thigh.

“Oh god,” she moaned, arching against him.

His hands travelled under her nightshirt, rucking it over her hips. She bucked against him when his
mouth moved over her center, teasing it with agonizingly delicate nips and swirls.

He increased his pressure at torturously patient increments, the anticipation causing a flurry of
sparks in her veins. “Draco, please,” she pleaded, as the static overwhelmed her. “I need—.” He
increased the pressure again, tearing the breath from her throat.

“What do you need, Granger?” he breathed into her.

“More,” she gasped.

He broke away for a moment, his eyes meeting hers. “I have no idea when I will get to see you
again, Granger,” he said, his voice thick. “So I will be taking my time tonight, understood?”

She bit her lip and nodded, desperate for him to resume.

His eyes held against hers as his lips again moved haltingly across her thigh and toward her center,
his tongue feathering her when he got there. Her hips rocked against him as he continued to taunt
her with a barely-there touch.

“Draco, please,” she groaned, her hands snaking through his hair.

He ignored her, his mouth continuing to move against her deliberately. Slowly he built the
pressure, his subtle nips and sucks becoming more impassioned until she felt herself beginning to
melt down.

But then he pulled back. “Not yet, Granger,” he murmured, his lips blazing another trail across her
inner thigh.

He brought her to the brink and back four times before he finally allowed her to finish. Teasing,
torturous, and absolute nirvana.

She collapsed back on her bed as she watched him undress and move his body over hers, pressing
into her. “Gods,” he moaned, resting his head to her chest and peppering it with kisses. “I fucking
missed you.”

She chuckled, planting a kiss to the top of his head as he moved in her slowly, taking the same
approach to release. A slow build—a live wire building to a lightning strike.

***

“I have something I want to show you,” she said later.

“Oh?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow mischievously.

She rolled her eyes, reaching into her nightstand to retrieve the envelope Dumbledore had willed
her. She showed him each of the envelopes contained therein and read him the letter to Mary
Malone.

“It took me awhile to figure out who the second person is. I was worried that perhaps it was Luna
or Neville—don’t get me wrong, I love them both but—,” she sighed. “They just don’t feel right
for this.”

“You regard Albus Dumbledore as one of the greatest wizards to have ever lived and you
seriously think he would send you on an international wartime mission with Captain Quibbler or
Sailor Shite-for-Brains?”

Hermione shot him a withering look. “I will have you know that Neville and Luna are both
excellent—.”

Malfoy captured her mouth with his before she could continue. “Shut up about your dumbarse
friends, Granger,” he murmured against her lips. “Who’s the second person?”

“Tonks,” she responded, breaking her mouth away from his. “At least, I’m almost certain it is. No
one else makes nearly as much sense.”

“Are you sure?” Malfoy replied, a peculiar, knowing glint in his eye.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, hearing the doubt creep into her own voice. “It’s Tonks. It has to be.”

“It’s not Tonks, Granger,” he whispered, kissing her forehead.

“How do you—.”
“It’s Theo.”

***

“Back in March, I met with Dumbledore again,” Malfoy explained, wrapping his arms around
Hermione and pulling her back into his chest. “I had just come from a meeting at the Manor where
they discussed plans for—,” he inhaled sharply, pausing, “for when they take the Ministry. And
chief among those plans is to establish—.”

A longer pause. She could feel him go rigid behind her.

“A Muggle-Born Registration Commission.” Another pause. “And they’re going to start with
Hogwarts students.”

Something collapsed within Hermione. It was her ribcage, maybe, caving in on itself. Or perhaps
her heart, plunging into her stomach. A succinct sinking feeling that gutted her. She endeavored to
muffle the sob that accompanied the sensation, but she felt it rip through her frame, her body
shaking against his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, dropping his head onto her shoulder. “Gods, I’m so fucking sorry,
Granger.” His arms tightened around her.

They remained that way for several breaths before he continued. “I went to him because if the
Ministry falls, I needed a way to get you out of here. I knew you wouldn’t just go into hiding—
that fucking Gryffindor complex of yours.” He feathered a kiss below her ear, and despite herself,
Hermione chuckled lightly.

“So I asked if there was something you could do that would serve the Order but still get you the
fuck away from here. And this was it—travelling across Europe to rally the troops.” He sighed
loudly. “Are you angry?”

Hermione took a moment to try to assess what she was actually feeling. Overwhelmed, for one.
Stunned. Anxious. Grateful.

But not angry. Definitely not angry.

She turned so that she was facing him, still curled in his lap. “No,” she said plainly, cupping his
face and pressing her lips against his. “Thank you, Malfoy,” she whispered, leaning her forehead
against his.

“But Theo,” she interjected several moments later. “How did Dumbledore pick him for this?”

“He asked me,” Malfoy shrugged. “I told him Theo is the only person in this world that I trust to
protect you like I would. With everything,” he said, his voice low. “And I also need to Theo away
from the Dark Lord.” He sighed again. “I swear to Merlin, Granger, I’ll avada Voldemort myself
before I let him do to Theo what he did to me.”

Hermione’s chest swelled, her skin buzzing and blood sparking. She ran hands ran through his
hair, pulling him into her as she struggled to process the love she felt for this boy, named for a
constellation that burned brighter than all the others.

***

“Theo and I are going to have to stage our deaths, aren’t we?” Hermione asked later, her head
against Malfoy’s chest.
“Yes,” he replied, his tone even. His hand tangled through her hair, tickling her ear.

“I hate that,” she responded simply, turning over so her chin was against his chest, her eyes locking
on his.

“I know,” he breathed, his thumb grazing her face. “But it’s the only way. If you just disappear,
people will be looking for you high and low. Theo maybe less so, but there would still be
questions. And even if you’re in different countries—it’s not enough. They can’t be looking for
you. Period.”

Hermione felt emotion clotting and swelling in her throat.

“Granger, look at me,” he commanded, his hands on her face. “You can tell She-Weasley and
Weaselbee, okay? Gods know they’re already neck-deep in this with us. And they need to have
their heads on right if they’re even going to have a prayer at finding the horcruxes. But that’s it.
No one else.”

She nodded.

“It won’t be a stretch. If the Ministry falls, they’re going to be targeting Muggle-borns first. And
your proximity to Potter—,” he paused, appearing to silence a strangling noise in his throat. “It
would make you an appealing target.” He shook his head, his eyes turning glassy. “And Theo—
well, Theo Nott dying prematurely wouldn’t shock the Death Eater community, given who his
father is and their fraught relationship.”

He cleared his throat, his expression evening.

“Severus and I are tinkering with a potion—it’s less potent but more long-lasting than Polyjuice. It
can make small tweaks to physical appearance: hair color, eye color, freckles. Shite like that. We
think with that potion, you and Theo are relatively safe from any potential recognition given that
you’ll both be outside the UK.”

Her eyes grew hot. She buried her head in his chest, embarrassed to be breaking down in front of
him yet again. But Merlin, she was tired.

“Fuck,” Malfoy gasped, pulling her into him. “Granger, please,” he begged as he tilted her head
back up toward his. “This is the fucking impossible part, okay? The part where we’re sure we’re
licked, but we’re going to see it through anyway.” He kissed the top of her head. “Okay?”

She looked up at him, his silver eyes holding hers.

“Okay,” she breathed, her lips against his.

***

“I hate to say this,” Hermione whispered as she realized that the sky was lightening into a cruel
shade of indigo. “But you need to go.” Malfoy groaned, rolling on top of her and planting his lips
to hers.

“You sure about that?” he asked, his kiss deepening.

“Yes,” she huffed. “The sun is going to start to come out soon. I don’t want you flying back when
it’s not dark.”

He ignored her, his mouth moving to her neck.

“I’m serious, Malfoy,” she said, bringing his head up to meet her gaze. “If you were to get caught
—.”

“I’m very good on a broom, Granger,” he replied, rolling her on top of him and continuing his
assault on her neck.

“Oh really?” she quipped. “Is that why Gryffindor has beat Slytherin in five out of the six past
match ups?”

“Oh, you’ll pay for that one, Granger,” he retorted, bringing his hands to the ticklish spots between
her ribs. She cried out and squirmed against him as he feathered his lips against her jaw. “And I’ll
have you know—that first match doesn’t count. I wasn’t on the team yet.”

“Arse,” Hermione responded, swatting his chest. She paused, and then leaned down to kiss his
cheek. “But you do need to go. Flying skills aside, my parents will be awake soon.”

He smirked. “This not how you envisioned your parents meeting me, Granger? Naked and well-
shagged in your childhood bedroom?”

“Definitely not,” she replied, rolling off of him. “Now get up.”

They dressed quietly. Malfoy leaned against her desk and pulled her into him. His hands cupped
her face, his thumbs tracing circles in her cheekbones. “It’s still the plan, you know. If the
Ministry falls, you and Theo are getting out of here and delivering those letters so we have a
fucking chance in hell at defeating the Dark Lord.”

She nodded.

“No,” he said, his tone sharp. “I want to hear you say it, Granger. I’m not letting you stay here if
it all goes wrong. I don’t care if I have to fucking imperio you myself—I will.”

“I will go,” she repeated. “If the Ministry falls, I will leave with Theo to deliver the letters.”

He leaned down to kiss her one last time before he turned and squeezed himself out of her
window. He hung there for a moment, holding onto her windowsill.

“I love you, Hermione,” he grinned. “And I’ll see you soon.”

 Wedding

Hermione arrived at a bustling Burrow the following afternoon. Much to Mrs. Weasley’s and
Ginny’s chagrin, Fleur and Bill were set to be married there in a little over a week. For the time
being, the Burrow had become Order headquarters, consistently stacked with members assisting
with preparations for the wedding and, of course, the War.

In addition to the wedding, Harry’s seventeenth birthday was in two days, further adding to the
fanfare. In turning seventeen, Harry lost the protections of his house in Little Whinging, so Lupin
was scheduled to retrieve Harry and transport him to the Burrow via apparition.

Hermione dreaded Harry’s arrival, still finding herself unable to temper her resentment toward
him. She used the two days she had without him to fill Ginny and Ron in on what she had
discovered about her mission and provide them with the supplies she had compiled for their
horcrux hunt.

Neither Ginny nor Ron were enamored with the idea of Hermione potentially staging her own
death and running across Europe with Theo Nott in an attempt to recruit Order allies to join them,
but Ginny was markedly more understanding—unsurprising, given the six-month lead she had on
Ron regarding Hermione’s relationship with Malfoy and friendship with Theo.

***

She woke early on the morning of Harry’s birthday, the pink hue of sunrise barely peeking through
Ginny’s window. Inexplicably anxious, Hermione pulled herself out of bed and padded down the
stairs, delighted to find a burly, curly-haired redhead rustling coffee in the kitchen.

“Charlie,” she breathed.

“Golden Girl!” he exclaimed, wheeling around to wrap her in a crushing hug. He squeezed her
shoulder as they separated. “How are you, kid?”

Hermione hesitated, unsure how to respond. She nudged herself into one of the stools at the
counter and shrugged. “I don’t know, Charlie,” she replied honestly. “I’ve been better.”

He leaned on the counter toward her, taking her hands in his. “Remember what I told you last
year? About not knowing how good things are in the moment? It’s still true. We’re here,
together, alive,” he sighed. “So let’s try to enjoy it.” He squeezed her hands and turned, reaching
behind him. “I’ve always found that this helps,” he finished, placing a bottle of firewhiskey before
her.

“Stop trying to get Hermione to drink with you before noon, Charlie,” a sleepy voice behind
Hermione drolled. Tonks appeared beside her, draping an arm over her shoulder and planting a
peck on her cheek. “Sorry,” she said, addressing Hermione. “We got in late, so we just crashed on
the couch.”

Tonks’s eyes moved to the coffee mug in Charlie’s hand. “That’s for me, right?” she asked,
grabbing the mug from him and taking a sip.

“Oi, look,” she said, nodding toward the window in the kitchen. Hermione’s eyes followed
Tonks’s gaze, landing upon a sleek owl perched against the window. It pecked impatiently upon
the glass.
“What the—a bit early for post,” Charlie muttered as he opened the window. The owl screeched
and bit at him as he moved to untie the letter from its leg. “Fucking shite,” he exclaimed, as his
fingers attempted to dodge the owl’s repeated pecks and nips.

“Charlie!” Tonks chided as Charlie gave the owl a stout jab to the chest—a distraction as he pulled
the parchment from the owl’s leg. It screeched at Charlie one final time before launching itself
from the windowsill.

“What?” he shot back, bringing his mouth to the bites on his fingers. “Damn thing was a menace.
I mean who in the bloody has an owl like that?” Charlie examined the envelope. “And after all of
that—delivered to the wrong address. This is for a Scout Finch.”

Hermione choked on her coffee, a shot of adrenaline to her heart. “No, Charlie, that’s for me,” she
supplied instantly. He paused before handing her the envelope, his expression bewildered.

“It’s a long story,” she chuckled, trying to temper the trepidation in her bones as she slowly opened
the letter.

Scout,

I hope you are having a good summer. I’m sure you’re using this free time to further your Runes
mastery. As you know, Runes was never my dapartment of expertise. I don’t have much to report
on my end—my friend Atticus and I are contemplating a trip to Lyon, but we are unsure of what
method of transpertation we want to use. I would like to go by way of the Chunnel, while he would
like to travel by plane. It’s an unfortunate disagreement, but I will let you know when we have
comprimised.

I love you and will see you soon,

Boo Radley

Hermione frowned. This letter didn’t make any sense. And it contained a number of blatant
spelling errors that she couldn’t imagine Malfoy making. Was he drunk? Had he been hit with
some mind-altering spell? Inhaled some toxic fumes from a potion gone wrong?

She reread the letter several times.

And she finally saw it. The misspelled words.

Department. Transportation. Compromised.

Death Eaters had infiltrated the Department of Magical Transportation. It was compromised. The
Order could no longer use magic to move Harry from his home in Little Whinging to the Burrow.

“Charlie, is your dad awake?” she asked, straining to keep her voice and face even.

***

While Mr. Weasley expressed some apprehension at Hermione’s unwillingness to reveal how she
had come across such critical information, he, as Hermione expected, accepted her plea that he
simply trust her and inform the Order.
After a brief consultation, it was decided that several members of the Order would travel to Little
Whinging on brooms, where they would ingest Polyjuice potion to appear as Harry in case they
were intercepted by Death Eaters while en route to the Burrow.

They all arrived back at the Burrow without incident that evening, just as Mrs. Weasley was
setting out a cake for Harry.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Hermione said, handing him a small package that contained a compass.
It would completely useless to him given that they had magic to help guide them, but it felt right
when she saw it.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said, returning a tight smile.

They didn’t speak again for the remainder of their visit.

***

“Gods, I can’t believe Bill is actually going through with this,” Ginny lamented on the afternoon of
the wedding. She was doing Hermione’s makeup, again using the tote that she had duped Fleur
into buying her.

“I don’t know, Gin, she’s a member of the Order now and she did Polyjuice herself to help make
sure Harry made it here in one piece. Maybe she’s changing—becoming more Weasley-like,”
Hermione offered.

Ginny made a retching sound. “Don’t make me vomit all over your hair. I just spent thirty
minutes perfecting it,” she replied, brushing another layer of eye shadow over Hermione’s lids.

As the two friends debated the merits of the soon-to-be Weasley, a lithe, silver form trotted into
the room, taking seat next to Hermione.

A fox Patronus.

Hermione couldn’t be sure, but she had a pretty good idea whose it was.

“Scout.”

Malfoy.

“It’s just me and Ginny, Malfoy,” Hermione quickly supplied. “Are you okay?” She instinctively
reached her hand out, realizing how silly it was as her hand merely passed through the silver plume
in front of her.

“It’s happening. I don’t know when exactly, but soon. Yaxley has dozens of Ministry officials
under an Imperius.”

Beside her, Ginny whimpered. That now familiar combination of shock, fear, and grief settled into
Hermione’s bones as she knelt closer to the fox. “Malfoy,” she whispered, pausing before
continuing. “I wanted more time.”

“I know, Granger, me too,” he replied softly.

“What if—what if the Order goes to the Ministry and—.”

“And what, Granger? Engages in an all-out battle with an unknown number of Ministry officials
without even knowing which ones are imperio’ed? You’re smarter than that, Granger. It’s too
late.” He sighed. “Both of you need to keep your supplies on you all the time now.”

“Okay,” Hermione replied, her voice thin.

“I’ll come for you, Granger. When it’s time to go.”

“I know.”

The fox turned to leave. “I love you, Hermione.” He left off the and I’ll see you soon. Because
that was no longer a good thing.

He paused briefly. “She-Weasley, good luck. Don’t fuck this up.”

And then he disappeared.

***

Hermione slipped out of the reception early, seeking refuge in the Burrow kitchen. She simply
couldn’t find the energy to act joyful or celebratory anymore.

Not only was she consumed with anxiety and grief over Malfoy’s earlier revelation, she found
herself particularly unable to stomach such a public celebration of love. Not when she was
increasingly confronted with the possibility that she and Malfoy may never get anything more than
stolen moments in secret rooms.

If given the choice between Malfoy and anyone else, she would choose Malfoy over and over again
—no matter how impossible the odds—but gods, this fucking hurt.

“Hey,” a soft voice greeted. It was Charlie, hanging in the doorway, a firewhiskey-warm smile
blooming across his face. “Hiding out?”

“Something like that,” Hermione responded.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his smile hardening to concern.

“Uh,” Hermione began, feeling the shakiness in her voice. “No, Charlie, not really.” He crossed
the kitchen in an instant, wrapping her in a fierce hug as she let herself weep into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, kid,” he whispered, planting a peck to the top of her head. “It’s been a completely
shite year for you. For all of us, really. But you’ve really been through the ringer, kid.” He
sighed. “Not to mention, I heard from Ginny that Ron is seeing some Slytherin.” The last word
rolled off his tongue with disdain. “He’s such a fucking tosser sometimes.”

“Yes, he can be,” Hermione agreed, chuckling. She pulled back, smiling wistfully up at Charlie.
“But don’t be hard on him, Charlie. I don’t think Ron and I were ever right for each other, as much
as we wanted to be.” She sighed, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes. “But you and Tonks—
perhaps we’ll have another wedding soon?”

“Ah,” Charlie said, biting back a smile. “Can you keep a secret, Golden Girl?”

“Of course,” she replied brightly.

“We’re already married. We eloped last week. Didn’t want to say anything yet that would steal
away from Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but with everything going on,” he shrugged, “it felt right.”

“Charlie!” Hermione exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “You sneak! That’s—.”
A loud ruckus outside drew their attention to the window.

“Godric,” Charlie groaned as he peered out, “how much you want a bet Fred and George set the
bleeding tent on—.” He stopped suddenly, his body tensed.

“Charlie?” Hermione asked. “What is it?”

“No,” he gasped, and sprinted from the kitchen.

Lead poured through Hermione’s veins. It’s happening.

She hurtled after Charlie as he barreled toward the front door. But a loud crack in front of him
stopped him dead in his tracks.

It was Dolohov.

“Incarcerous!” Charlie bellowed, a streak of light blasting from his wand. Dolohov deflected,
spitting back a series of hexes and curses, all slamming against the protego shields that Hermione
and Charlie were both casting.

Hermione felt Charlie’s arm wrap around her, pushing her behind him as he backed away from
Dolohov’s advancing spells. She ducked under Charlie’s arm and fired a stunning spell at
Dolohov, but he again deflected it.

Hermione heard another crack behind her. She whipped around to find herself face-to-face with
Amycus Carrow.

Fuck.

She and Charlie were sandwiched in a narrow hallway between two Death Eaters. They couldn’t
duel like this. She had to move. She glanced up at the dry, aged ceiling above her and launched a
blasting spell into it, slipping under Carrow’s wand arm as the ceiling caved in, raining splintered
wood and debris onto them.

She sprinted through the house with Carrow close behind her, spells, curses, and hexes missing her
by inches. She wheeled around to face him when she reached the living room. “Alarte
ascendare!” she screamed, her heart sinking when she missed him by a hair, instead launching a
nearby chair into the air.

A streak of silver shot from Carrow’s wand. Hermione threw herself to the floor as the spell ripped
through the couch behind her, a plume of feathers engulfing the room. She realized she could see
Carrow’s feet under the coffee table.

She slid her wand under the table and shot him with a Stickfast Hex. She popped up and leveled
her wand at his chest. “Stupefy!” she roared as he collapsed in front of her. She winced when she
heard his femurs snap. She realized that the Stickfast Hex had glued his feet to the floor such that
when the dead weight of his body had slumped to the floor and his feet didn’t give, his legs had
broken.

She petrified him for good measure, and then raced across the house to find Charlie.

Charlie and Dolohov’s duel had moved to the front room, which was now completely destroyed.
Splintered wood, bursting walls, torn and smoking upholstery.

Charlie launched a Weakening Hex at Dolohov, but he counter-cursed it mid-stream. Charlie was
an excellent dueler, but Dolohov was better.

“Expulso!” Hermione howled, a blue light shooting from her wand. Dolohov caught this one too,
flinging it through a window, shattering it.

“Crucio,” he returned, his voice cold. The shock of actually hearing the word leave his mouth
momentarily stalled Hermione’s mind.

And that was all it took.

She was on the ground, writing and screaming. Her blood turned to poison, scorching her veins
and arteries as it flowed through them. Blazing soldering irons poking through every square inch
of her skin. A tearing in her brain, claws trying to dig their way out of her skull.

Suddenly, there was a crushing weight on top of her and the agony lessened. Her eyes squinted
open, but all she could see was a blurry hue of scarlet.

Her vision sharpened. It was hair in her eyes. Scarlet hair.

Charlie.

Charlie had thrown himself on top of her to absorb Dolohov’s crucio.

Oh gods, his screams. Pitched and agonizing—his head against her ear, his anguish pouring into
her bones. She turned her head, her eyes madly searching for either of their wands. She saw hers,
inches from her grasp.

She walked her fingers forward, stretching for it. Charlie’s wails grew fevered, erratic. “Oh gods,
Charlie, please,” she begged, turning her head back toward him. She pressed her forehead to his in
a naïve attempt to temper his torture.

Her fingers frantically scraped against the floor, desperate to feel vine wood beneath them. She
felt her middle finger brush against it.

Please, just a little closer…

A sickening crunch as a searing pain ripped through her arm. She whipped her head back around
to find Dolohov’s shoe grinding into her elbow. She was almost certain she was screaming, but if
she was making any noise at all, it was simply fading into Charlie’s tormented howls.

“Time to finish what we started at the Ministry, you little bitch,” Dolohov hissed, his face now
next to her ear. But then there was a pause, and she felt his head shift forward. “What are you—.”

“Avada kedavra.”

With a dull thud, Dolohov’s face was next to hers again, eyes wide. She had never had the chance
to notice his eye color before—hazel. Not much lighter than hers.

Charlie stopped screaming and went limp against her. The stillness of the room was shattering; the
only sound her and Charlie’s hearts thudding against each other.

She felt hands under her arms, dragging her out from under Charlie and wrapping her in teakwood,
mahogany, and spearmint.
 Liverpool

“Granger.”

Her eyes were glued to Dolohov’s body.

“Granger, look at me,” Draco said, kneeling before her and ducking his head under hers to obstruct
her view. “Where else are you hurt besides your arm?” He gently supported her shattered elbow
with one hand while the other scoured her body for any further injuries.

“You killed him,” she said, her voice distant.

“He was torturing you, Granger, of course I fucking killed him,” he said plainly. “I’d like to do it
again, if I’m being honest.” Her eyes still managed to look past him. “Look at me,” he growled,
finally grabbing her chin and pulling her head so her eyes met his. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

She shook her head.

“Good. Can you support your arm? I need to deal with ginger beefcake over here.”

She wordlessly put her hand under her injured elbow, her focus shifting to the Weasley brute.
Draco walked over to him and grabbed his shoulder, struggling to turn him onto his back. “Merlin,
what did they feed this bloke when he was growing up?” he groaned as he finally got him on his
back.

Granger knelt beside the Weasley, delicately pushing back the curls that were matted to his face.
She leaned down and placed her ear against his chest.

“He’s alive, Granger,” Draco responded.

“I know,” she said. “I just needed to hear it.” Her eyes bulged as she saw Draco press the tip of
his wand to the Weasley’s temple. “What are you doing?” she asked, her tone panicked.

“Modifying his memory. It’s time, Granger. Time for you and Theo to disappear.” He brushed
her cheek with his thumb as her eyes grew slick.

“How are you modifying it?” she whispered, her expression still frantic.

“He’ll remember the duel as it was up until the moment that Dolohov crucio’ed you. Instead of a
crucio, it was an avada. Dolohov killed you. And he killed Dolohov in return.”

“Charlie would never use the Killing Curse on someone,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“The man just turned himself into a human shield to protect you against the Cruciatus Curse,
Granger. I assure you he would.”

“That memory will destroy him, you know. Watching me be killed.”

“Granger,” Draco said slowly, catching her eyes with his. “You’re kidding yourself if you think
anyone is coming out of this fucking war intact.” The spell completed, Draco stood and stepped
over the Weasley, pulling Granger up to her feet. “It’s time to go,” he said.

“You can’t be serious. We can’t leave him here unconscious, Malfoy!”

“We’re not. I’m going to rennervate him as we’re leaving.”

“He’s just been crucio’ed, Malfoy! He needs help! Even if you wake him—he needs medical
attention!” she screamed. “No. I’m not leaving him.” She attempted to drop back to her knees
next to the Weasley, but Draco pulled her upright.

“This isn’t up for fucking debate, Granger,” he replied, hitting the Weasley with a reviving spell as
he pulled Granger into his chest and apparated.

***

Granger’s palm connected to his cheek with a devastating crack. “Fuck you, Malfoy!” she wailed.
“How could you just fucking leave him there? After what he just did for me?” Her eyes were
blazing, her face six shades of scarlet.

She slapped him again. Theo appeared behind Granger, ready to restrain her. Draco shook his
head. “Let her, Theo.” Granger’s head snapped around, her gaze meeting Theo’s.

“Miss me, Granger?” he quipped, flashing her a smile. She said nothing; simply turned back
toward Draco, her chest heaving and eyes still wild.

“Hit me, Granger. Hit me if it’ll make you feel better.” And she did.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each strike less fierce than the last, her anger quickly melting into grief, tears spilling down her
cheeks. She collapsed into Draco, slowly sliding toward the floor. Theo reached out to brace her.

“Careful,” Draco said, wrapping his arm around her back as he sunk to the floor with her. “Her
elbow’s broken.”

Granger pressed her forehead to the floor and screamed. She clapped her hand over her mouth and
sobbed into it as Draco rubbed her back and laid on the floor next to her. Theo crouched down too,
as they waited out the storm together.

***

“Where are we?” Granger asked softly some hours later.

“Liverpool,” Draco responded, absentmindedly running his fingers down her spine. “We rented a
flat for the night.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You and Theo are getting on the Dublin
ferry tomorrow morning. And from there, the Sword of Hibernia safe house.”

She remained curled on the floor for several more minutes, neither moving nor speaking.

“Yes, Theo,” Granger finally said, drawing herself into a sitting position with her good arm. Her
face was streaked and puffy—but those honey eyes were still the most beautiful gods-damned
things Draco had ever seen.

“Yes what?” Theo asked.

“I missed you,” she mused, a tired smile spreading across her cheeks.
“No shite, Granger,” Theo replied, putting an arm around her and drawing her into him. “How
could you not?”

Draco chuckled, lacing his fingers through Granger’s and dusting his thumb over her knuckles.
Granger’s eyes settled on his, her expression warm. I love you, he mouthed.

I love you, too, she replied.

***

Granger ordered “takeout” for dinner, which was a first for Draco—and an utterly bizarre concept,
if he was being honest. And she had ordered Indian food—another first for him. While Granger
assured him that she had ordered the mildest dish on the menu, he wasn’t sure he believed her.
Granger and Theo, however, got much amusement in watching him stretch the limits of his palate.

Theo worked on healing Granger’s elbow throughout dinner. “Gods, this break is fucking
horrific,” he muttered as cast another brackium emendo. Draco’s jaw clicked as he fought the urge
to apparate back to the Weasley home and avada Dolohov a dozen more times.

“This is as good as I can get it for now,” Theo said, fastening her arm against her with a sling.
“We’ll work on it more tomorrow. I think it’s just going to take a couple days to fully heal.”

“Thanks, Theo,” Granger responded, squeezing his hand.

After dinner, Draco and Theo showed Granger the appearance-altering potions that they had
brewed with Snape. By their best estimation, the potions lasted for a week or more at a time, and
they had brewed and bottled enough to last for at least several months.

“Is it the same appearance each time?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Theo said. “It changes with each dose—greater protection that way.” Granger nodded and
tucked them safely into her bag with the extension charm.

Theo had also transfigured new fake identification documents for them, charming them such that
the pictures on them would change when the potions altered their physical appearances.

“Katrina Walker of Oxfordshire,” Granger read from hers. “Why Katrina?”

“Draco thought it sounded hot,” Theo supplied, biting back a smile.

“Merlin, Theo,” Draco groaned, swatting him in the back of the head.

Granger chuckled. “Okay, fine, Katrina it is,” she said, shooting a suggestive look toward Draco.
“Let me see yours, Theo.”

She burst out laughing when she saw Theo’s. “Theo, my gods, where did you get this name?” She
wiped a tear from her eye.

“A Muggle newspaper,” he shrugged. “He’s some bloke in a movie. It seemed like a generic
enough name. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, wheezing laughs still escaping her. “It’s just an incredibly popular
Muggle movie. The name is generic but everyone is going to associate it with this movie.”

“Hmm,” Theo said, inspecting his ID. “You’ll have to tell me about it.”
“Maybe once we’re off the ferry, Jack Dawson,” she replied.

***

Draco drew Granger a bath and helped her out of her dress. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but it
seemed wrong given everything that happened,” he whispered, delicately kissing her shoulder.
“But you looked fucking beautiful today.”

“Thank you, Malfoy,” she said as he helped her into the tub. He crouched at her side and laid his
head on the edge of the tub. His eyes traced along her form, from the top of her head, over the
slope of her forehead, across her button nose, down her lips, onto her chin, and along her delicious
jaw line. And her eyes. Those fucking eyes. He wanted to map them in the stars.

“I’m going to go clean up in the kitchen,” he whispered, running the back of his hand along her
cheek. “Holler if you need something?” She smiled and nodded.

He hadn’t been gone five minutes when he heard her call his name. He stepped into the bathroom
and burst out laughing. Her hair was jutting out at impossible angles, half full of soap.

“Malfoy, I need help,” she laughed.

“I can see that,” he mused.

“I tried to wash my hair but I can only use one arm. I can’t quite do it.” She reenacted her failed
attempts as Draco laughed.

“Alright, scoot forward, Granger,” he said, peeling off his clothes and sliding into the tub behind
her. He pulled her back against him, lingering there for a moment, his head in the crook of her
neck. “I love you,” he breathed.

“I know,” she replied softly, leaning her head against his chest. “I love you too. More than I could
ever express.”

He kissed her cheek. “Alright, hand me the shampoo.”

He lathered it onto his hands and massaged his fingers against her scalp and through her hair. He
could feel her body relax against him; her shoulders dropping and her head growing heavy in his
hands. He slowly trailed his lips down her neck and shoulders while his fingers continued to work
the bubbles through her hair.

“Lean your head back,” he whispered, taking a handful of water and washing it over her head,
watching as it ran through her hair and down the curve of her neck and shoulders. He kissed her
behind the ear as he gathered another handful of water to pour into her hair, his lips capturing the
streams of water as they trickled across her skin.

His mouth continued across her shoulder and down her uninjured arm, pausing when he felt her
head turn toward him. His gaze met hers for a few halting moments before she laid her lips to his.
She shifted, turning around to straddle him, and loved him until the bathwater grew cold.

***

Morning arrived with devastatingly speed. They dressed, ate, and packed, with Granger pulling the
first two vials of the potion from her bag.

“Bottoms up,” Theo chimed, clinking his vial to hers. Draco watched as Granger’s curls
straightened and her hair darkened to a deep, rich brown. Her eyes also darkened considerably and
freckles spread across her nose and cheeks.

Theo, by contrast, gained some curl to his hair as it grew into a light brown color. His eyes shifted
from an impossible shade of blue to a dark green.

The changes were relatively subtle; anyone who truly knew them back at Hogwarts could almost
certainly recognize them. But they were betting—praying—such a scenario would never
materialize.

“It’s time, mate,” Theo said softly, squeezing Draco’s shoulder. Draco pulled Theo in, each of
them nearly crushing the other with the voracity of their embrace. “Love you, mate,” Draco
whispered. “Be careful, please. And take care of my girl.”

“I’ll protect our girl with my life,” Theo whispered back. “I love you, Draco.” Theo clapped him
on the back as they pulled apart.

Draco felt tears burning in the backs of his eyes when his gaze landed on Granger. She was
already crying, those heavy brown eyes strikingly emotive. He pulled her up against him,
breathing in every last trace of honey, lemon, and parchment. “Gods, I love you,” he whispered
into her neck. He could feel her tears against his cheek.

“I have a parting gift for you,” he said when he set her down. He reached into his pocket and
pulled out a Galleon, placing it in her hand.

“I don’t understand,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

Draco knelt in front of her. “I’ve been given a new task by the Dark Lord.” Panic flashed across
her face. “It’s okay,” he quickly supplied. “I mean, relatively speaking. He has asked me to travel
across Europe and meet with other dark wizards—to reestablish ties and form alliances so that
when Voldemort is ready to move beyond the UK, he has existing allies in other countries.”

Granger’s expression was still worried, anxious. “This,” Draco said, pointing to the Galleon, “is
also under a Protean charm, so that if during my travels, I come within 100 kilometers of you, it
will flash and send you my location. Mine will do the same for you. So we can see each other.”

Her eyes grew wide and she flew into his arms, nearly bowling him over as she peppered kisses to
his lips, cheeks, and neck.

“I hate to break this up,” Theo said. “But it’s time to go, Granger. Our ferry leaves in thirty
minutes.”

Granger placed one last, lingering kiss to Draco’s lips before she stood and joined Theo at the
doorway.

“I love you, Draco,” she said. “And I’ll see you soon.”
 Roundstone

Original Character Casting

Shield of Hibernia (Ireland)

Mary Malone – Aislin McGuckin

Hugh Malone – Tom Hughes

Michael Malone – James Norton

Jack Malone – Tom Brittney

Tommy Malone – Jonathan Tucker (The Black Donnellys)

Bridie Malone – Olivia Cooke

Ewan Reilly – Idris Elba

Niamh O’Donnell – Olivia Wilde

Hermione winced as she watched Theo heave another mouthful of sick over the ferry railing.
“Merlin’s ball sack,” he groaned, turning around and sinking back against the railing.

“I’m so sorry, Theo,” she said, biting back a chuckle as she kneeled beside him. His eyes rolled to
hers, exasperated. She handed him a tissue. “I didn’t even think about this—that you’ve never
been on a boat before. I would’ve brought some Dramamine.”

“Fucking what?” he asked, wiping the tissue across his mouth. “Gods, Granger, are you serious
that you don’t feel this at all?” He looked at her crossly before his eyes went round and he flipped
over, emptying more of his stomach into the Irish Sea.

Hermione rubbed his back. “We’re almost to Dublin, Theo,” she soothed, rubbing his back. “Only
another twenty minutes or so.”

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to railing. “Oh, I’ll be dead by then, Granger. Just
kill me.”

“I suddenly understand where Malfoy gets his dramatics from,” she responded, wiping a tissue
under his mouth.

His gaze met hers. “If Draco was on this ship, he would confrigo the entire thing. If you think I’m
dramatic, Granger, you’re in for a wild ride.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as Theo continued to vomit over the side of the ferry.

***

“Okay,” Hermione began as she and Theo ducked into the rental car. “From my reading of the
map, we’re about three and a half hours driving—.”

“Just try not to kill us, Granger,” Theo responded. “Draco told me you have difficulty avoiding
large moving shapes like bins or mailboxes. And now you’ve only got one sodding arm to work
with.”

“Malfoy’s never driven a fucking car in his life,” she responded, whipping the car from its parking
spot. “And neither have you. So unless you would like to walk to Roundstone, Theo, I recommend
trying to engage in a bit more pleasant conversation.”

“Salazar, he’s rubbing off on you, Granger,” Theo groaned.

***

“Damn, this shite is catchy, Granger,” Theo commented, swaying in the passenger seat. He
popped open another bag of crisps. “Who did you say sings this?”

“Spice Girls,” Hermione chuckled. In addition to the essentials, Hermione had packed a series of
CDs, tapes, movies, magazines, and her boombox. She figured now was as good a time as any to
give Theo a crash course in Muggle culture, and quite to her surprise, he was taking to it well.

Maybe too well.

She shook her head as Theo pressed the repeat button again before he propped his feet up on the
dashboard and emptied the remainder of the crisps bag into his mouth.

“Theo, do you think that at some point during this drive, we can change the song?” Hermione
asked gently. If her count was correct, Theo had hit the repeat button fourteen times.

“Are the rest of the songs as good as this one?” he replied.

“Um, well, it’s hard to say, Theo. You’d have to, you know, listen them yourself to decide that,”
she supplied.

A contemplative look crossed Theo’s face. “I don’t know, Granger. I really like this one.” He
leaned forward and pressed the repeat button again.

She stared straight ahead, grinding her teeth and wondering if this was not actually some twisted
prank that Dumbledore and Malfoy had concocted after sharing one too many firewhiskeys.

***

The drive had taken nearly twice as long as projected. Hermione blamed it largely on the fact that
she was a mediocre driver on a good day, let alone the day after a man had crushed the bones in her
dominant arm under his boot.

But it was also the case that after they got off the motorway the roads became impossibly narrow
and winding, with absolutely no shoulder to the road and the sides of the road populated by free-
ranging sheep.

By the time they got into Roundstone, early evening was upon them. Hermione managed to find a
bed and breakfast with a vacancy, deciding that it was better to wait until morning when she and
Theo were both fresh to meet with the Shield of Hibernia members.

They were given an austere room overlooking Dog’s Bay, fixed with two beds, a private bath, a
wardrobe, and a television. She was particularly grateful that there were two beds—she knew
embarking on this mission that there might be some uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, but she
was happy to not confront that scenario on the first night. Not that she didn’t trust Theo
completely, but she wanted more time to adjust to the general cohabitation before they actually had
to share a bed.

“Why are Irish wizards not part of the Order?” Hermione asked, rummaging around in her bag for
her pajamas. “I mean, Irish wizards go to school at Hogwarts, no? Why do they have their own
organization?”

“Some are in the Order or go to Hogwarts, Granger,” Theo responded, flipping through a magazine
he had fished out of her bag. “But there’s also a segment of Irish wizarding society that sided
pretty heavily with the Muggle Irish independence movement in the early 1900s. They’re still
allies, but they want to be recognized as separate from the UK wizarding community.”

“That makes sense,” Hermione said, pulling her nightshirt from the bag. “So do they have their
own Ministry and school?”

“Yeah—I forget what the school is called. It’s tiny, but effective apparently. I’ve heard that Irish
separatist witches and wizards tend to be some of the most skilled you’ll find,” he shrugged.

Hermione nodded and ducked back into her bag. It took her a few minutes to find what she was
looking for. “A-ha!” she exclaimed when her fingers dusted over it, dragging it out of the bag with
her. “Down for a movie night, Theo?” she asked brightly.

***

“But you agree with me, right?” Theo asked the next morning over breakfast in the bed and
breakfast’s cramped kitchen. “I mean they both definitely could’ve fit on that door.”

“Yes, I agree, Theo,” she chuckled, spreading marmalade on her toast. “It’s quite the debate in the
Muggle world, as well.”

They finished breakfast, graciously thanking the innkeeper who provided them with handwritten
directions from the inn to 3 Dún Mor.

Theo slung his arm over Hermione’s shoulder as they strode through the streets of Roundstone. It
was typical of Ireland’s fishing villages—quaint but breathtakingly beautiful and rugged.
Hermione made a mental note that she would like to return here someday—if they survived.

3 Dún Mor was a non-descript two-story, white stucco house with a black clapboard roof on a
quiet street lined with nearly identical houses. Hermione’s eyes met Theo’s as they arrived on the
doorstep, and he gave her a reassuring nod. “Well, here we go,” she said softly, politely knocking
on the door.

It was quiet for a moment or two, but then there was a shuffling behind the door and it slowly
opened. A slender woman that Hermione guessed to be about fifty years old with fair skin, pale
eyes, and auburn hair stood before them. She looked at them evenly but didn’t say a word,
apparently waiting for them to explain their presence before deciding if she was going to greet
them.

“Hi Ms. Malone, my name is—,” she paused, wondering if she should use her real name. Yes, you
dolt, these are allies, she scolded herself. “Hermione Granger. And this is Theo Nott,” she said,
resting her hand on his arm. “We were sent here by Albus Dumbledore to deliver you this letter.”
She fished the letter from her bag and handed it to her. Mary opened it wordlessly.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Malone—I opened it earlier. I wasn’t snooping, I just needed to understand what
the mission was. You see, we didn’t receive it until Dumbledore had died, so we didn’t understand
what he was asking us to do until we actually read your letter.”
Hermione glanced nervously at Theo as Mary silently read the letter and took the Galleon from the
envelope, rolling it over in her hand.

“You used a Protean charm as a means of surreptitious communication when you were only
sixteen?” she asked in a thick brogue.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione replied.

“She’s been called the Brightest Witch of Her Age since she was twelve,” Theo quickly supplied.

“Theo,” Hermione quietly admonished.

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Clever girl,” she commented. “And I can’t say I wasn’t expecting
this.” She sighed. “Well, come in then.” She opened the door wider as Hermione and Theo
ducked inside.

The house was modest and warm, with low ceilings and crowded rooms that almost reminded
Hermione of a less chaotic version of the Burrow. They followed her into a cramped kitchen
where four men sat at a table eating breakfast. Hermione aged them all to be in their twenties or
early thirties.

“We have company,” Mary said matter-of-factly as she strode into the room. “Members of the
Order of the Phoenix, here on instruction from Albus Dumbledore. Hermione and Theo. I’ll let
you sort who’s who.”

Mary turned toward Hermione and Theo. “These are my boys, in order of birth and not favoritism:
Hugh, Michael, Jack, and Tommy,” she said, pointing to each of them in turn.

“Just so you know, if she did it in order of favoritism, I would come first,” Tommy quipped.

“In what world, Tommy?” Michael retorted as Jack punched him in the shoulder.

“Merlin’s beard—it’s the fucking Weasleys,” Theo whispered in Hermione’s ear. She quietly
elbowed him.

“It’s nice to meet all of you,” Hermione said. “We apologize for the intrusion.” She noticed that
Hugh hadn’t moved since Mary introduced them. His eyes were fixed on them, his expression
hard.

He reminded her of Malfoy somehow, although not in his looks. He was older, for one. Hermione
guessed he was perhaps in his early thirties. His hair was dark and wavy and fell loosely into his
eyes, which were a deep and piercing hue of blue. But there was a silent intensity to him that
captivated her—drawing her in and refusing to release her.

He simply looked at Hermione like he was tired of her already.

A girl not much older than Hermione came tumbling down the stairs, clad in boots, ripped jeans, a
Ramones t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Her hair was as wild as Hermione’s once was.

“Has anyone seen my bloody—.” She paused mid-sentence, her gaze falling upon Tommy. She
brusquely reached across the table and ripped the beanie from his head.

“Stop stealing my shite and stay out of my sodding room, Tommy, or I swear to Merlin I will hex
your hands into prawn claws.” Tommy merely shrugged and resumed eating his breakfast. The
girl turned to Hermione and Theo. “Who are you?” she asked, regarding them for the first time.
“This is Hermione and Theo,” Mary responded for them. “Members of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“More or less,” Theo grinned.

“Sweet,” she said simply, pulling out a chair and plopping down at the table. “I’m Bridie.” She
reached across the table to grab the muffin off of Michael’s plate and took a bite before placing it
back on her own plate.

“Need our help defeating Voldemort then?” Bridie queried brightly, swinging her leg over the low
back of the kitchen chair.

“He’s proving to be a bit of a pesky bugger to get rid of,” Theo grinned. “Like a doxy infestation
or a musty smell.”

Hermione smiled and rolled her eyes. Bridie and a couple of the boys laughed. Hugh, however,
remained stone-faced, his eyes barely moving from them still.

“Nott…Nott…” Mary said, lost in thought and drumming her fingers along the kitchen counter.
“That’s a British Sacred Twenty-Eight family, no?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Reformed Death Eater at your service,” he said, bowing slightly.

At this, Hugh stood sharply, nearly knocking Michael’s plate onto his lap. Hermione felt herself
put a protective arm around Theo. “Let me clarify,” she said slowly, her eyes locked on Hugh.
“Theo never took the Dark Mark. He’s on the run with me to avoid it—serving the Order.” Her
clarification had little effect on Hugh, who still stood rigidly at the table, grinding his jaw.

Just as the tension in the room was beginning to make Hermione’s teeth ache, Michael sliced
through it. “Hey, you’re both in today’s Prophet.”

Theo looked at Michael quizzically. “You get the Prophet?”

“We like to stay informed about what’s going on. Everywhere,” Mary replied simply.

Hermione felt her hand tremble as she reached across the table to take the paper from Michael.
She saw Theo’s first—a full obituary. Theodore Nott Jr., Son of Revered Theodore Nott Sr., Takes
Own Life at 18. Hermione’s head whipped to face him as her blood ran cold.

“Salazar, I wish they had used a different picture,” he grumbled nonchalantly. “I always hated this
one.” He sighed. “Let’s see if you got a better one, Granger.” He flipped to the previous page
where there was an extended article regarding the valiant efforts of Death Eaters to eradicate
Mudbloods and Blood Traitors following the collapse of the Ministry.

“The late, heroic Antonin Dolohov is believed to have successfully slayed the Mudblood Hermione
Jean Granger, known confidante, ally, and former lover of Undesirable Number One, Harry James
Potter. Her death comes as great news to the movement and the Dark Lord himself.
Unfortunately, Antonin Dolohov was later cruelly slaughtered by Charles Prewett Weasley, who
remains Undesirable Number 12. Any information on his current whereabouts is rewardable up to
600 Galleons,” Theo read. “Hmm, bummer. No picture, Granger.”

A flood of relief rushed to Hermione’s heart in receiving confirmation that Charlie had made it out
of the Burrow after Malfoy revived him.

“Is that where you got that?” Mary asked, nodding toward Hermione’s sling. Hermione nodded.
“Michael will fix that for you. He’s a healer. The best one there is.”
“Come, sit,” Michael calmly beckoned, shooing Jack from his seat to make room for Hermione.
Hermione watched in awe as Michael healed her bones wordlessly and perfectly in a matter of
minutes. It was one of the most remarkable displays of magic she had ever witnessed.

But before Hermione could question him about it, Bridie piped in. “So…you shagged Harry
Potter?” she asked, a devilish glint in her eye.

“No,” Hermione responded shortly, continuing to thumb through the paper again. “Rita Skeeter is
a louse with no journalistic integrity. And she particularly hates me because when I was fifteen I
discovered she was an unregistered Animagus—a beetle. So I captured her in a jar and kept her
there for a few months.”

“Okay—that’s fucking hot,” Tommy commented, as Bridie threw her head back in laughter and
Michael and Jack rolled their eyes. Mary cocked her head, an appreciative glare in her eyes.

Hermione’s lungs collapsed when she turned to the front page of the Prophet. She pressed her
fingers to her lips to prevent the whimpers in her throat from spilling out. She felt Theo go rigid
behind her as he squeezed her shoulder.

“Breathe,” he whispered imperceptibly.

It was a nearly full-page picture of Malfoy, his mother, and his recently-released father. Malfoy
was sandwiched between them, each with a hand on his shoulders. He was dressed in an
impeccably fitted black suit; his expression cold and vicious. Hermione barely recognized him.

Draco Lucius Malfoy, 17, Becomes the Dark Lord’s Third in Command; Parents “Insatiably
Proud.”

“Breathe, Granger,” Theo repeated, “that’s not him.”

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Mary said, observing Hermione’s reaction. “To take them so young. It’s
brainwashing.” She flicked her wand and dishes started moving toward the sink. “He’s just a boy
who will now be hated and demonized for doing things that he had no choice over.”

Hermione felt her eyes grow heavy with tears as her gaze met Mary’s. Where had this compassion
been at Hogwarts? If just one professor had shown Malfoy this kind of understanding…

She felt Theo’s fingers wrap around hers and pull them away from the newspaper. She realized she
had been brushing her thumb against Malfoy’s cheek as she would if he were standing in front of
her, promising that he was every bit the caring and courageous man she knew him to be.

“You know him, I assume?” Mary asked.

Hermione nodded weakly. Theo squeezed her shoulder again. “I’ve known him my whole life,
Mary,” Theo said softly. “And you’re right. He fought so hard for this to not become his fate
but,” Theo shrugged, “help came too late.”

Every cell in Hermione’s body was screaming. Torturous, scratching, frantic screams. But she
swallowed against the emotion building in her throat and wiped her eyes, nodding alongside Theo.

Mary watched them, a certain softening in her posture. “I will request a Council meeting tonight to
discuss Albus’s letter,” she said plainly.

“Ma!” Hugh shouted, nearly toppling the table as he edged around it. “We need to talk before you
do this.”
Mary put a hand up, stopping Hugh in his tracks. “You may see yourself as the head of household,
Hugh, but you are not. The Council makes decisions for the Shield, and you are not a Council
member. You can attend the meeting, but I’m not going to talk to you about this outside of the
Council setting.”

Hugh’s chest heaved as his eyes cast daggers toward his mother. But he seemed unwilling to cross
her. He stormed out of the room, shoulder-checking Theo on the way out, and slammed the front
door behind him.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Excuse him. This is a delicate subject for him. For all of us, really, but for
him in particular.” She sighed and rested against the counter. “We have a spare room upstairs.
Why don’t you two bring your bags up there and after maybe Bridie can show you around town?
The rest of my children are actually gainfully employed.”

Bridie stuck her tongue out at her mother, but nodded enthusiastically at the prospect of showing
Hermione and Theo around town.

“Muggle-heavy spots only, Brides,” Mary said. “If they’re supposed to be dead, I want them as far
away from the wizarding watering holes as possible, got it?”

***

“Sorry about Hugh,” Bridie said absently as she skipped along the pavement. “Our da died in the
First Wizarding War, and he’s still pretty damaged by it. Hugh was the only one of us who was
old enough to actually fight last time—I mean, barely. He was about fifteen at the tail-end of it.
But he went with my parents and the rest of the Shield,” she shrugged, taking a sip from the juice
box she had swiped from the fridge. “So he’s pretty anti-interventionist now. But Ewan and
Niamh—the other members of the Council—they’re fantastic. I’d be shocked if the Shield didn’t
sign on.”

“I’m so sorry, Bridie,” Hermione replied. “That’s awful.”

“It’s fine, really,” Bridie responded. “I was a toddler when he died. I barely remember him. It’s
different for the boys—they remember him. But Hugh is the only one who still has an iron rod up
his arse about it.”

“So where are you taking us?” Theo asked.

Bridie wheeled around, walking backwards, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips. “Muggle
central, Theo.”

***

It was a skate park. Well, more of a makeshift skate park.

Theo watched in awe as skaters launched skyward, flipping over their boards mid-air. “What in
Merlin’s name,” he gasped.

“Hey babe,” a tall, dark-featured skater with multiple piercings and tattoos greeted Bridie. He
dipped and kissed her with such ferocity that Hermione felt she should look away. Beside her,
Theo chuckled. “Who are your friends?” he asked, as they broke apart.

Bridie looked to them, waiting for them to supply their names.

“Jack and Katrina,” Theo supplied, wrapping an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Just visiting
from England.”

“Wicked,” the tall stranger said. “I’m Aidan. You skate?”

“No, but I’d love to fucking learn,” Theo responded instantly and enthusiastically.

“Theo,” Hermione tempered.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Aidan returned. “Let’s go, mate.”

“Fuck,” Hermione commented as she watched Aidan lead Theo off toward the makeshift jumps
they had constructed.

“Don’t worry,” Bridie said, draping her arm over Hermione’s shoulders and laying her head upon
them. “Michael almost always gets off of work early on Friday, and as you’ve seen, he’s quite the
gifted healer.”

“Your boyfriend is a Muggle?” Hermione responded, ignoring Bridie’s earlier comments.

“Yeah, of course,” she responded. “I’ve got no use for the wizarding world.” She sighed. “Don’t
get me wrong, Hermione, if it comes to a war against Voldemort, I’m all in. But after that, I’m
done with this shite. It’s toxic. Always has been, always will be.”

***

As Bridie had predicted, Michael arrived back at 3 Dún Mor fairly early in the evening. It was
fortunate, as it gave him time to repair what Hermione predicted was a broken shoulder on Theo
before the rest of the Council arrived.

Theo had actually been surprisingly adept on a skateboard, but his natural talent goaded him into a
particularly arrogant trick resulting in a bone-splitting crack that made everyone in the park cringe
and gasp.

But just as he had with Hermione’s break, Michael healed Theo’s near instantly and wordlessly.
Hermione gasped, admiring his handiwork. “Michael,” she gasped, “this is…truly some of the
most incredible magic I have ever seen. How did you learn to heal like this?”

He shrugged, his eyes clear and honest. “I could tell you that I studied hard at school and always
minded my homework diligently, but it’s more than that. The Irish were brutalized and isolated by
the English for centuries. And in that, I think there was a self-reliance and resilience that was
melded into our DNA. We knew we had to depend on ourselves, even when we had nothing to
work with. So when I heal, I do with the mindset that I’m perhaps the only person who is going to
tend to someone and I may have to do so with the bare minimum available to me.”

Gods, we need them, she thought.

***

There were three Council members for the Shield of Hibernia—Mary Malone, Ewan Reilly, and
Niamh O’Donnell. Ewan was an impossibly dashing man who appeared to be in his early fifties,
Niamh a striking witch in her late thirties. They both cautiously embraced Theo and Hermione, but
were clearly less than pleased with the request that they carried with them.

“We sustained heavy losses in the First Wizarding War, Hermione,” Ewan said softly. “And we
weren’t exactly a large population to begin with. It took a lot to rebuild.”
“And we’ve heard fuck-all from the Order since,” Hugh supplied, his voice razor sharp.

“Hugh,” Mary said, her tone gentle but resolute. “You’re not part of the Council.”

“No, but I am a member of the Shield. And of this family, every member of which is part of the
Shield. So I get to have an opinion. And I’ll be damned if I am going to sit here quietly while the
newest generation of the Order try to lead us into another deathtrap.”

“I know we are asking a lot, and that you have already sacrificed tremendously. And I’m so sorry
for that. But I believe we are in a far superior position than we were in the last War. We now have
an understanding of what makes Lord Voldemort so powerful,” she said, launching into an
explanation of horcruxes, “and we’ve already destroyed two of them. We believe we know what
most of the remaining horcruxes are. That is what Harry is searching the country for—and he’s
connected to Lord Voldemort in such a way that he gets glimpses into his mind. He will find them
and destroy them—I’m sure of it.”

“That’s it?” Hugh scoffed. “A couple kids scouring the country for a handful of discrete items that
need to be destroyed before we even have a prayer of defeating him?”

“It’s not nothing,” Niamh commented.

“And it’s not all,” Theo said, clearing his throat. He looked at Hermione, and she nodded. “Two
of Voldemort’s most trusted and highest-ranking followers are double agents. They serve the
Order.”

“Now that is something,” Ewan replied, scratching his chin. Hermione thought she even saw
Hugh’s eyebrow raise. “You’re sure of it?”

“With all of my heart,” Hermione said.

***

The Council had failed to reach a decision. They needed unanimous consent, and despite Mary’s
consternations that Hugh was not a member of the Council and therefore had no say in the matter,
her eldest son’s adamancy seemed to sway her enough that she asked for a follow-up meeting the
in several days to give her more time to think about it.

“We need to convince Hugh,” Hermione said as Theo came back into their shared room from the
bathroom. “I know Mary acts like she’s in complete control, but she obviously has tremendous
regard for his opinion. And I can understand why, given what they went through together.”

She stared back down at the Prophet. The picture of Malfoy shattered her, but she couldn’t look
away. Gods, she loved him something awful.

“Well, if anyone can turn the heart of a cantankerous prat, it’s you, Granger,” Theo said, shaking
the remaining droplets of shower water from his hair. “History has shown that.”

Hermione barely heard Theo. She wanted to dive into the Prophet picture and wrench Malfoy
away from his parents’ grip. Throw him behind her and scream at them for not protecting him
from this. Wail that she would’ve allowed herself to be crucio’ed for a thousand years before she
let Voldemort within meters of the silver-haired Slytherin with a heart of gold.

“I’ll sleep on the floor, Granger,” Theo supplied, dragging her from her reverie.

“Huh?” she responded, looking up from the paper. “Oh.” The spare room that Mary had
graciously provided to Hermione and Theo was tiny and contained only one bed.

Despite her trepidation about such a sleeping arrangement the night before, she found herself
suddenly craving that kind of closeness. Someone to wrap their arms around her to make the
heaviness within her feel less crushing.

“Actually, Theo, would you mind sleeping in the bed with me?” Hermione asked carefully. “I’m
sorry,” she said, feeling the tears begin to sting the back of her eyes. “I know it’s terribly awkward,
so please feel free to say no, but,” she sighed, looking down at the Prophet picture. “I just—.”

He moved wordlessly to her side, wrapping an arm around her and using the other to peel the
sheets back and pull her into bed with him. He tangled his limbs in hers, crushing his body against
hers. It was exactly what she needed.

Gasping sobs tore from her throat. “I miss him, Theo,” she bawled. “Oh gods, it’s been a two days
and I want to rip my skin off I miss him so much. Everything fucking hurts. I can’t stand it.”

“I know,” he breathed, tucking his head into the back of her neck. “It gets easier, Granger. I
promise.”

And that’s how they fell asleep—two broken friends melded against each other in an attempt to
make themselves whole.
 Thestrals

The next day passed slowly. Hugh didn’t come by the house at all, as if he knew that Hermione
was waiting for an opportunity to speak with him about joining their cause. Mary wasn’t much
better, insisting that Hermione, Theo, and Bridie follow her around Roundstone running errands
while she chattered on about miscellaneous things, absolutely none of which even came close to
being War-related. When Hermione tried, Mary chided her as she had Hugh, refusing to speak
about it outside of the Council’s presence.

“Be patient,” Theo whispered. “We have time. You’ll wear them down. You always do.” He
winked as Hermione rolled her eyes.

Evening rolled around, and much to Hermione’s chagrin, Hugh did not make an appearance
dinner. Conversation remained light and airy, ranging from Bridie’s latest tattoo to Jack’s newest
girlfriend, who the family apparently preferred enormously as compared with the last one.
Hermione could barely stomach her food, consumed with grief and worry over Malfoy, Ginny,
Ron, and even Harry.

When dinner concluded, she resigned herself to having to confront Hugh a different day and began
to trudge up the stairs. But Bridie grabbed her arm, stopping her mid-step.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” she smirked.

“Bed, Bridie,” Hermione chuckled forlornly. “It’s been—well, it’s been a long day.”

“Guess again, Gryffindor,” Tommy beamed, with Michael and Jack bearing similar grins behind
him.

“It’s fucking 9PM on a Saturday. And that means one thing,” Bridie said, her eyes lighting up.
“We’re going out.” She paused. “After you change, of course.”

“What on earth is wrong with my clothes?” Hermione queried, as Bridie tugged her up the stairs
after her.

“Besides everything?” Bridie deadpanned as Theo howled.

***

Bridie dressed Hermione in torn and tight black jeans, motorcycle boots, a Nirvana tee shirt, and a
loose-fitting flannel. Bridie called it “grunge light” and Hermione called it insane. It was a look
that Bridie could pull off, but Hermione…not so much.

Theo doubled over when he saw her.

“Think Malfoy would approve?” Hermione jested, shaking her head at her appearance.

“Draco once chastised me for thirty straight minutes because I incorrectly folded an Italian
cashmere jacket of his and misdirected the nap,” Theo replied. “So, no, Granger, I’m not sure he
would fully grasp this—look.”

“You did what to the what?” Hermione stammered incredulously.

“Never mind, Granger,” he said, slinging his arm over her shoulder and planting a quick peck to
her temple. “Let’s go.”

***

Michael, Jack, Tommy, Bridie, Theo, and Hermione stepped into a small, crowded pub that reeked
of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. There was a live band playing traditional Irish instruments,
and a small dance floor across from the bar that the patrons were making full use of. Hermione’s
eyes continued to scan the room, coming to a skidding halt halfway across the bar top where Hugh
sat, sipping a beer.

His eyes were on her already, fractured shards of ice piercing through her. He slowly raised his
mug to his lips, his stare still fixated on her. Hermione shivered, the coldness in his glare prickling
her bones.

Composing herself, she took a step in his direction, but Theo grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he
whispered. “Let him keep drinking, then talk to him. And if I’m being honest, Granger, which I
always am—you could afford to loosen up too.” He winked as she swatted him.

“Well what’ll it be?” Tommy asked, setting off toward the bar.

“Shot of whiskey, beer back,” Theo responded. “Granger?”

“Do they have butterbeer?” she asked.

“Do they—do they have—oh my word. The saints preserve us.” Tommy threw his hands up in
exasperation, bringing them back down to rest on his hips, shaking his head.

“You won’t be drinking any of that shite while you’re here, kid,” Michael said, ducking his head
down next to her shoulder. “She’ll have the same as Theo,” Michael hollered. “Hell, same for all
of us.”

Hermione tried to protest, but Bridie clapped her hand over Hermione’s mouth. “Live a little,
Hermione. Unwind. You might enjoy it.”

They headed over to a small table near the dance floor, Hugh’s frozen eyes never leaving her.

Tommy arrived minutes later, carrying a tray of beer and whiskey. He dropped it roughly on the
table, some of the liquid sloshing together. They all reached for their glasses enthusiastically, save
for Hermione, whose hands remained in her lap.

“The girl sorted into a house branded by their bravery,” Theo mocked, “afraid of a little whiskey.
Merlin, Granger, if you’re going to be such a pansy about it—.” He reached his free hand toward
her glass, but she cut him off, grabbing her glass and throwing the whiskey down her throat in one
fluid motion.

Everyone at the table cheered and Theo’s eyes glittered with triumph. There was a sudden burning
in her throat and churning in her stomach. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she gasped. “That was awful.”
And the table erupted with laughter.

“Sláinte!” the rest of the group cheered, clinking their glasses together and taking their shots
without commentary. Hermione was still wincing.

“Drink your beer, Granger,” Theo said. “It’ll help.” He stood, walking toward the bar.

“Oi! Where are you going?” Bridie quipped.

“Tch, getting another round of course,” Theo responded. The rest of the table cheered, while
Hermione tried to convince her stomach that she didn’t need to vomit.

***

“Miss Granger,” Tommy began, standing in front of her and offering her his hand. “May I have
this dance?”

Hermione’s eyes bulged. The two whiskey shots and beer had created a welcome airiness in her
otherwise anxious mind, but not enough to convince Hermione that she wouldn’t completely
humiliate herself if she tried to dance to this music.

“Oh, Tommy, absolutely not,” she laughed, waving her hand and taking another sip of her beer.
“Trust me, you don’t want to dance with me.”

“She’s right, you know,” Theo supplied, taking another shot of whiskey. “You should’ve seen her
at our Yule Ball during Fourth Year—looked like someone hit her with a Knee-Reversal Hex.
Bloody embarrassing.” Bridie slapped his chest, but Theo merely laughed. “I’m serious, mate,
she’ll grind your toes into dust.”

“I think it sounds like she just had the wrong partner,” Tommy mused, grabbing Hermione’s hand
and pulling her into him. She caught a glimpse of Theo stiffening and his eyes narrowing, but
Tommy whisked her onto the dance floor before he could say anything more.

They galloped across the dance floor, and whether it was the whiskey or Tommy’s learned leading,
Hermione found herself actually able to match his steps. He laughed and pulled her in closer as the
fiddle and bodhrán picked up speed, their feet moving faster to match.

“Not too bad for someone with backwards knees,” Tommy whispered, spinning them in tighter
circles as the tempo continued to increase. “Looks like I was right—it was just the wrong partner.”

Suddenly, Theo swung past with Bridie in his arms. “Theo!” Hermione exclaimed, observing that
Theo was leading. “How do you know the steps?”

“Sacred Twenty-Eight, Granger. They teach you everything,” he responded as Bridie feigned a
gagging noise. Theo’s eyes moved to Tommy. “Mind your hands, mate. They move any lower
and I’ll snap them off so clean that not even your prodigy of a brother can fix them.” He flashed a
grin as he wrapped Bridie in closer and they twirled away.

Tommy chuckled. “Are you two together?” he asked as they continued to keep pace with the
music.

“Theo and I? Oh gosh, no,” Hermione laughed. “He’s just…protective. A good friend.” Her eyes
fell upon him from across the room, laughing and dancing with Bridie. “Probably the best you
could ask for.”

“Oh! Look alive,” Tommy quipped as she felt his grip on her break and she twirled on her own
before bumping into Michael, who proceeded to wrap his arm around her—albeit at a much higher
angle—and whisk her across the dance floor.

“I’ll try to talk to Hugh,” he whispered, their pace slowing even though the music had not. “Hugh
is,” he sighed, “perhaps one of the greatest people on this earth. But he can also be selfish,
intractable, and arrogant. He’s almost impossible to break through to, but once you do,” Michael
sighed again, “there is nothing that he wouldn’t do for you.”
With each word, Michael sucked more and more air from her lungs.

Malfoy. He’s describing Malfoy.

Hermione felt herself stop moving and Michael’s grip on her went slack. “I’m sorry, Michael, I
think I just need some air.” He nodded and watched as she marched straight to the bar instead of
outside.

***

“Two whiskey shots,” Hermione said stiffly as she pulled out a seat next to Hugh.

He scoffed, emptying the remainder of his beer into his mouth. “If you think shite like that is
going to win me over, you’re even dumber than you look.”

He turned, and his eyes were against her again, an unspeakable harshness embedded in them. But
not one with which Hermione was unfamiliar.

“I couldn’t care less what you do, Hugh,” she said defiantly, grabbing both shot glasses as the
bartender set them down. But Hugh’s hand wrapped over hers, pulling the glass up and dipping
the whiskey back into his mouth while she was still holding it, his eyes glued to hers the entire
time.

“Yes, you do,” he said, his hand still wrapped around hers as he delicately placed the glass back on
the bar top. “You need me, Hermione Granger. Desperately. And it’s so pitifully obvious that
you are not used to not getting the things you want.” A malevolent grin tugged at his lips as his
sipped a new beer that the bartender had set before him. “But count me amongst them. Because
I’ll spend every last breath I have convincing my ma to keep the Shield and my family as far away
from your bullshite as possible.”

A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine. She was correct—Hugh was absolutely Malfoy. But he had
about fifteen additional years of anger and resentment coursing through his veins.

Even so, she refused to believe she could be outmatched. “Innocent witches and wizards will die,
Hugh. And Voldemort will be here next. Only you won’t have us to help you.”

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. “If you lot manage to completely fuck it up and allow him to
advance, I will worry about it then. I will lay myself down to die for my family and the Shield.
But not for you.”

“How can you say that?” Hermione hissed. “I mean you fought in the last War at fifteen with your
mother and father—.”

Hugh whipped toward her, grabbing her wrists with such pressure she feared that he would break
them. He dragged her toward him until she was only inches from his face. “Do not ever, ever
speak about the last War to me,” he growled.

Hermione felt herself shrinking in his presence, realizing suddenly that she hadn’t appreciated what
an additional fifteen years of self-destruction would’ve done to Malfoy. She opened her mouth to
respond—to backtrack, really—when Hugh’s head jerked to the right, a fist connecting squarely
with his jaw.

Theo.

She could feel his arms around her, pulling her from Hugh’s grip. Hugh barely flinched, his glacial
eyes still digging into her.

The rest of the family materialized, standing in between Hugh and Theo and Hermione. “We
should go,” Michael said softly.

Theo tugged her toward the door, her last glimpse his haunting blue eyes.

***

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione gasped as they burst outside. “I didn’t mean—Theo, tell them you’re
sorry.”

“I’m not sorry,” Theo retorted, wrapping his arm around Hermione’s waist and pulling her in close
to him. “He’s nearly twice her age and he was grabbing her. He’s fucking lucky I didn’t crucio
him.”

“Theo!” Hermione wailed.

“No, he’s right,” Jack said, turning to face them. “Don’t apologize.”

“Hugh is—,” Michael began.

“A fucking arsehole,” Bridie finished for him.

“He’s been through a lot,” Michael corrected, shooting a withering look at Bridie. “And he’s
terrified. He can’t stomach the idea of losing someone again. He’s going to stave off the idea for
as long as he can, no matter how illogical it is.”

The group arrived to Dún Mor Road tired and sobering. As they descended the hill to the
Malone’s house, pitched and eerie cries began to fill the air. Soft at first, but steadily increasing in
volume.

“What is that?” Theo hissed, bringing his hands to his ears. Hermione watched the others, their
expressions growing panicked.

“Banshees,” Jack gasped, pulling Theo and Hermione backwards, such that their backs were tight
against everyone else.

“What?!” Theo exclaimed, as they all drew their wands.

Hooded figures descended upon them from the sky. They were almost like dementors, but more
corporeal. From beneath the robes there were arms with flesh and not just bone, although it
appeared almost translucent. Hermione observed that they were all female; long, curly locks of
copper hair rustled in the wind from under their robes. There had to be at least twelve of them, all
shrieking and wailing at a decibel that made Hermione’s skin crawl.

“What do we do?” Hermione gasped, her pulse reverberating against her skull.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Michael blared, a silver owl cascading from his wand. It flew up
against the banshees, spreading its wings and squawking, but it seemed unable to actually drive
them away in the same way that it would a dementor. It appeared that it could only keep them at
bay.

The rest of them followed suit: a wolfhound racing from Tommy’s wand, a cobra from Jack’s, and
a lioness from Bridie’s.
Hermione closed her eyes, her mind envisioning cottages and rooms dressed in navy. His hair
through her fingers. His lips on her neck. His chuckle against her ear.

I love you, Hermione.

And I’ll see you soon.

Silver light blasted from her wand, her otter swimming through the night sky and wrapping itself
around the banshee closest to her, preventing it from advancing. Hermione looked to Theo, who
appeared to be struggling to summon his Patronus.

“Don’t touch them!” Bridie screamed.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Theo hollered back. “Why in the sodding fuck would I touch
them?!”

“They draw you in,” Jack replied. “Their cries will turn into a song—the most beautiful voice
you’ve ever heard. You’ll want to go with them.”

“But if you touch them, they’ll suck out your soul,” Bridie supplemented, her tone anguished.

“They’ll WHAT?!” Theo exclaimed.

The increasingly fevered screaming and bawling from the banshees tore like claws against
Hermione’s bones. Suddenly, she was back with Harry, standing at the edge of the lake, waiting
for his father’s Patronus to save them. She’s screaming that his father isn’t coming, but he’s
adamant. His father will save them. When she tells him he’s wrong, his head wrenches toward
hers, venom running down his chin. And then she’s in the bathroom, kneeling in Malfoy’s blood,
Ginny trying to push his chest together. She’s laying in her own vomit after Harry tried to avada
Draco, Ron yanking her upward and forcing her to look at his dead body. Charlie’s tortured wails
and his body going limp against her. Her own screams echoing in her skull.

But a soft voice pierces through the veil, beckoning her forward. Comforting her. Lilting the
lullaby her mum sang to her as a child. Hermione steps forward, extending her arm. A beautiful,
porcelain face comes into view—the source of the sound. Hermione reaches for her, their fingers
inches apart.

And suddenly, it’s shattered—the wails and cries once again shredding her senses.

Theo wrapped himself in front of her, wand drawn, his other arm shielded around her. “EXPECTO
PATRONUM!” he bellowed, and Hermione watched as the silver light exploding from his wand
formed into a long neck, wings, a spiked tail.

A dragon.

It roared along with Theo, its massive wings fanning out to block them from the banshee’s sight or
grasp. It whipped its spiked tail at another advancing banshee, sending it tumbling a few meters
backward. Flames spewed from its mouth as it continued to push the two banshees further away
from Theo and Hermione.

Hermione was breathless as she watched it move against the banshees, strikingly more effective
than any of the other Patronuses, fire continuing to pour out of it, shoving them further and further
away.

But it still couldn’t drive them away completely, nor did its reach extend beyond the banshees
immediately threatening Hermione and Theo.

“How do we get away from them?!” Hermione cried.

An ear-splitting crack and violent flash of light ricocheted across the landscape, shattering
windows and rendering the banshees motionless.

Hugh stood before them, wand pointed skyward, raging eruptions of silver light pouring from his
wand as an entire herd of Thestral Patronuses thundered through the sky, carrying the banshees into
the night, their wails growing distant until there was nothing but deafening silence surrounding
them.

And for the third time in as many days, Hermione was convinced she had just witnessed the
greatest display of magic she or anyone else had ever seen.

***

“It’s not good,” Mary said, sitting at the kitchen table and nursing a glass of whiskey. “If the
banshees are back in numbers like that.” Her eyes fell on Hugh, sitting across from her. “We need
to do something.”

Hugh’s expression didn’t falter. And he said nothing.

“I’m sorry, can you explain to us what this means?” Theo asked incredulously. “As in, what the
fuck was that and what the fuck is going on?”

Bridie rolled her eyes. “Banshees can only exist where there is dark magic. They were prevalent in
Ireland during the First Wizarding War. You catch an odd one every now and again, but in the
numbers we saw tonight,” she paused, looking around the table, “it means Voldemort’s movement
is spreading here.”

“I’m going to bed,” Hugh said simply, rising from his seat and walking from the table.

“Hugh,” Mary protested, reaching for him. But he slithered out of the room and up the stairs, out
of sight.

***

Hermione didn’t sleep. She didn’t even try. She knew if she did, she would only be awakened by
visions of banshees, Malfoy’s split chest, Dolohov’s dead eyes, the avada shooting from Harry’s
wand, Charlie’s pained wails, or any of the other atrocities that she had been forced to endure over
the past year.

She shuffled out from under Theo’s arms and quietly opened the nightstand drawer, removing the
Prophet article, and slipped silently down the stairs. She crawled onto one of the kitchen chairs,
tucked her knees under her chin, and stared at Malfoy’s picture.

She hated how vicious he looked—not a trace of compassion in his expression. But she also loved
him so much that her bones ached, and it wasn’t until she saw the article that she realized she
didn’t have so much as a picture of him. So this would have to do.

She sat at that table, brushing her thumb over his cheek and told him about everything that had
transpired over the past three days. Gods, had it only been three days? She chuckled when she
imagined his responses, telling her what a fucking tosser Hugh was and what an absolute moron
Theo was for breaking his shoulder.
“I love you, Draco,” she whispered. “And I’ll see you soon.”

She was rising from her seat when she realized she wasn’t alone. Hugh was leaning against the
wall opposite the table, his eyes boring into hers. She screamed, but no noise came out. He had
cast a silencing spell on her.

Without words.

And without a wand.

He pulled out the chair opposite Hermione and sat down. “It’s him, isn’t it?” he asked, pointing to
Malfoy’s picture. “He’s one of the defectors that Theo referenced the other night.”

Hermione, of course, said nothing, but narrowed her eyes at him.

Go fuck yourself.

“And you’re in love with him?” he inquired. It was more of a statement than a question.

Hermione felt her lip curl as her eyes narrowed even more.

I hate you.

She felt the silencing spell lift without so much as a blink from him.

“Tell me, Hermione Granger, how far are you willing to go?” he asked, crossing his arms and
leaning back in his chair.

“I would raze heaven itself if it meant saving him,” Hermione replied, a darkness in her voice that
she didn’t recognize.

“And him?” he asked.

“He’s already travelling through hell for me.”

“Okay,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “Okay.” He rose from his seat and quietly exited the
room.

***

The following day the Shield of Hibernia officially joined the Order of the Phoenix in its crusade
against Lord Voldemort.
 Unrequited

Original Character Casting

Abraxan Society (France)

Alexandre Durant – Mahershala Ali

Germaine Bisset – David Berry

Fosette St. Martin – Jenna Coleman

Hildy Laflamme – Mamie Gummer

“What are you doing?” Theo asked the next morning as he watched Hermione gather things from
their room and tuck them back in their bag.

“Packing, Theo,” she responded simply. “What does it look like?” She paused, checking her
watch. “If we leave now, we can get to the airport in Shannon by early afternoon and a flight to
Caen from there. We can probably be in Honfleur by nightfall.”

“Granger,” Theo said steadily, placing his hand over hers. “We can’t leave. Yet.”

“What? Why? The Shield agreed to join the Order. Mission accomplished. Time to move onto
the Abraxan Society.”

He shook his head and chuckled wryly. “You know, for being one of the kindest, most selfless
people I have ever met, you can really have some shite interpersonal skills sometimes.” Hermione
looked at him quizzically. “Granger, these people just agreed to potentially sacrifice their lives—
for Mary, her children’s lives—and you’re just going to waltz out of here the next day like it was
nothing?”

Hermione paused. “We don’t know how much time we have, Theo. We need to get around to the
other organizations as quickly as possible.”

“You think Potter and the Weasley duo have found and destroyed the remaining five horcruxes
in…four days?” His eyes glimmered and a smile tugged at his lips, knowing that he was right.

Hermione huffed and sat on the bed. “How long?”

“Two weeks seems fair.”

“Two weeks?!” she spluttered, shooting back to her feet. “Theo—no. That’s way too long.”

“It’s not, Granger,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her onto the bed with him, her head
coming to rest in the crook of his arm. “You said yourself you think it’s going to take them
perhaps months to find and destroy the horcruxes. We need to spend some time with these people
if we want them to truly show up and fight with us.” He sighed. “And you could stand to take
some time to breathe.”

***

And so they stayed. In that non-descript house with cramped rooms and low ceilings and a family
of loving and kind and protective witches and wizards who came to regard Hermione and Theo as
their own.

They watched movies, sang along to Hermione’s boombox, discussed the celebrities in the Muggle
magazines, read books for fun, and…laughed. A lot.

Theo continued his skateboarding lessons with Aidan, while Hermione received additional
impromptu dancing lessons from Tommy and Michael. Bridie and Hermione tried to teach Theo to
drive a car—a mistake—and Michael and Hugh worked with Hermione on her wandless magic.
They ate dinner together each night, which was almost always followed by beer, whiskey, and
endless ribbing between the siblings.

For two weeks, Hermione and Theo got to be teenagers. Something neither of them had been in a
very long time.

Hermione’s heart was heavy as the two weeks came to a close, reluctant to again face the reality
that they stood at the precipice of a War that certainly not all of them would survive.

The image-altering potion that Malfoy and Theo had brewed wore off on their final day in
Roundstone. Their second dose left Hermione with shoulder length light brown hair and green
eyes, Theo with near-black shaggy hair and hazel eyes.

The Malones gathered in front of their house, each embracing Hermione and Theo in turn.

“I got you something, arse,” Bridie said to Theo as she broke away from their embrace. She turned
and reached behind her, handing him a skateboard. Theo laughed, but Hermione could see the
emotion behind his eyes as he was confronted with a kind of tenderness and thoughtfulness that
Hermione guessed he had never known before. Hermione smiled and dabbed at a tear she could
feel slipping down her cheek.

“Hermione,” Hugh said, his gaze still able to carve a hole through her. “I got you a parting gift as
well.” He produced a small, junky-looking device that Hermione didn’t quite know what to do
with.

“Hugh, thank you—,” she began, trying to cover her confusion.

“It’s a pirate radio,” he supplied. “You’ll be able to pick up Order-allied broadcasts. They’ll give
you actual news—not that shite that the Prophet is peddling.” Hermione’s eyes welled again, and
just as she was about to throw her arms around Hugh, he interrupted her again.

“And also this,” he said, handing her a small frame, inside of which was a moving picture of
Malfoy sitting at a table next to Blaise. The picture captured Blaise saying something to Malfoy,
who threw his head back in laughter and then looked at the camera, beaming. Not an ounce of
viciousness in his face. Hermione’s eyes met Hugh’s, tears freely spilling from her eyes.

“I saw it in a paper out of Killarney,” he said softly. “A bit nicer than the other picture, no?” he
asked. Hermione didn’t say anything for fear that if she opened her mouth she would start
sobbing. Instead she merely nodded and collapsed into him. He chuckled a bit, wrapping an arm
around her.

“Be careful. And good luck. We’re here for you.”

***

“Oh gods, Granger,” Theo whispered frantically. “Oh, Merlin fuck, I cannot do this. You have to
let me up.”
Hermione winced. She was afraid of this. They could’ve taken a ferry from Dublin to Cherbourg,
but after Theo’s experience on the relatively short ferry ride from Liverpool to Dublin, she had
opted for air travel.

And it was very clearly a mistake.

“Granger, I’m fucking serious. I’m going to vomit,” he said in a hushed but panicked tone.

“Well in that case,” Hermione replied, handing him the vomit bag. “Better keep this handy.”

“What in the crippling fuck is this?” he gasped, bringing his hand over his increasingly pallid face.

“A bag,” Hermione said simply. “For your puke.”

A whole-body shiver ran through him. “Oh fuck.”

“Theodore Nott,” Hermione said sternly, pulling his hand from his face. “I have seen you racing
on a broom seventy feet in the air. Do not tell me you are seriously afraid of a measly airplane
ride.”

“That’s exactly what I’m fucking telling you, Granger,” he hissed. “There’s a difference between
cruising around the Quidditch field and being launched into the sky in a metal tube. I can’t—oh
gods, I think I’m having a heart attack.” He brought Hermione’s hand to his chest. “Don’t you
think?”

“Merlin,” Hermione groaned, pulling her hand away from Theo’s chest and rummaging through
her bag. “Have some of this,” she said, smacking a vial of sleeping draught into his chest.

He ripped open the vial and threw back his head. He was asleep before the plane took off.

***

They arrived at the airport in Caen without further incident, hailing a taxi from Caen to a hotel in
Honfleur. They had again arrived in the evening, deciding to wait until morning to meet with the
Abraxan Society. Hermione was particularly grateful that they had reached that determination as
she watched Theo react to the French cabbie drive on the right side of the road.

Their hotel room in Honfleur was roomy and modern, fitted with two beds, two wardrobes, a
luxurious bath, and a rather large television. Theo ordered room service while Hermione fished
around in her bag until she found a movie that they had not watched yet: The Goonies.

***

Theo cackled loudly, bringing his wine glass to his lips. “That poor prat,” he commented, pointing
to Chunk. “Reminds me of Weasel.” Hermione rolled her eyes and paused the movie.

“Ron is not fat,” she retorted.

“No,” Theo observed, taking another drink. “But he is a daft arsehole. A total git.”

Hermione let out an exasperated exhale. “When are you and Malfoy going to get over your
animosity toward Ron? I mean, Merlin, Ron is covering for Malfoy as we speak.”

Theo shrugged. “I’ll get over it when Draco does. And Draco will never get over it.” He poured
another glass of wine for himself and Hermione.
“I don’t understand why he hates him so much,” Hermione whined.

“Well, there’s the fact that Weasel is a slob and an undeniably shite wizard. We’re not convinced
he’s not a squib,” Theo said, taking another swig of wine.

“He’s not a—.” But Theo cut her off.

“So that bothers him.” He took another sip. “And maybe he’ll look past that one day. But what
Draco really hates about Weasel is that there were perhaps certain—,” Theo cleared his throat,
“activities you engaged in with Weasel before Draco.” Theo shrugged again. “And I don’t know
if you’ve noticed, but some of Draco’s leading qualities are his possessiveness and his pettiness.
So, no, he will never get over that.”

Hermione shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Theo. Ron and I snogged once for like
thirty seconds. That’s a ridiculous thing to hold a grudge over.” She flopped back down on her
bed.

“Oh,” Theo said slowly. “Hmm. He was under the impression that perhaps you two had gone a
bit further.”

“I mean, I had—but not with Ron,” Hermione replied, smirking.

Theo choked on his wine, his mouth going slack. “Fucking spill, Granger!”

“Viktor Krum,” she shrugged, laughing as Theo’s face lit up.

“Granger, you tart!” he exclaimed. “Oh gods, Draco would go completely barmy. Please,
Granger, let me tell him.”

She chuckled, sitting up again. “If the occasion calls for it, Theo, you can tell him.” Theo shot his
arms up triumphantly. “And what about you, Theo?” she quipped. “Who were you seducing in
the halls of Hogwarts?”

“Nuh-uh, Granger,” he said, shaking his head. “Theo Nott does not kiss and tell.”

“Bullshite, Theo!” she returned. “I told you mine and I gave you permission to tell Malfoy. Tell
me!”

He shook his head slowly again and sipped his wine. “Too many to remember, Granger,” he
replied plainly.

Hermione paused, a sudden realization breaking over her. Her gaze met Theo’s, a certain darkness
clouding his expression. The words started to bubble from her lips before she could stop them.
“Theo, are—.”

Stop, her mind chastised her. You’re out of line.

But his eyes held hers determinatively, as if something in him was shifting. They remained like
that for several breaths—eyes locked, Theo’s chest moving steadily in and out.

“Ask me.”

“No, Theo, it’s not really any of my business. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—.”

“Ask me, Granger.”

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath, praying that this wasn’t a colossal error in judgment.
“Theo, are you gay?” she asked softly.

He stared at her for a while, his expression hard. Hermione had her answer, but she held her
breath, waiting for him to move.

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

A sound quite unlike anything Hermione had heard before tore from his chest, as he clapped his
hand over his mouth and dropped his elbows to his knees to steady himself.

Hermione rushed to him, dropping to her knees at the side of his bed, running one hand through his
hair and squeezing his hand with the other. “Breathe, Theo,” she soothed. “It’s okay. You’re
okay. It’s just me—you’re safe here with me, okay? You can tell me anything.”

His eyes opened, brimming with tears. He nodded but said nothing, silent sobs wracking his body.
Hermione cast a silencing spell and pulled Theo’s hand from his mouth. “Let it out, Theo. It’s
okay.”

Bone-shattering wails escaped him as he slipped from the edge of the bed and buried himself into
Hermione. She wrapped him in her arms, her teeth cutting into her lip to keep herself from bawling
alongside him.

She wasn’t sure how long they sat there on that hotel room floor, breaking, mending, healing.

“Sorry,” he said, breathless and swollen when he finally pulled away from her to lean against the
side of the bed.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Theo,” she responded gently, resting her head on his shoulder.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever told. Ever even thought about telling.”

A poignant swelling filled Hermione’s chest. “Really?”

A mirthless laugh escaped Theo’s throat. “You think the only thing Death Eaters are prejudiced
against is blood status, Granger?” He shook his head. “A Pureblood wizard who has no prospect
of producing his own heir is as useless to them as a Muggle-born,” he said, sniffling. “Merlin, my
father would torture and kill me in ways I can’t even imagine if he knew.”

He let out another scoffing laugh. “And it certainly didn’t help that half the Death Eaters I know
are Legilimens. I had to bury that shite so deep I didn’t know if I would ever find it again. When
Bellatrix started giving me occlumency lessons last summer—gods,” he gasped. “It was like I
could start to breathe again.”

Tears spilled down Hermione’s cheeks as she moved in front of Theo and brought her forehead to
his. “I’m so sorry, Theo.”

He sighed, and a comfortable silence settled between them.

“So you’ve never told Malfoy?” she asked.

“Gods, no,” he replied, roughly wiping his eyes. “I think he would’ve maybe suspected something,
you know, because I had never been with any of the girls at school, if it weren’t for the fact that he
and Blaise always took up all the air in the room.”
“He loves you, Theo. So much. I’m sure it wouldn’t change anything if you told him,” Hermione
offered.

“Maybe,” he said lightly. “But maybe not. Let’s not pretend like Draco Malfoy has been a
particularly tolerant person his whole life.”

Hermione’s gut wrenched at the thought that there still might be lingering prejudices in the man
whom she loved so deeply.

“So, you’ve never had a relationship? A boyfriend?”

He chuckled wryly. “After I started learning occlumency, I would go to Muggle London

sometimes. You know,” he shrugged. “But attaching any sort of emotion to anything like that was
way too dangerous. And anyone in the wizarding community was completely out of the question.”

“But you certainly must have had a crush on someone at school, no?” she teased.

“Granger—,” he started.

“What about Cormac?” she said. “I always wondered about him.”

He chuckled and shook his head, but otherwise said nothing.

“Oh, c’mon Theo. I told you—you can tell me anything. I’ll take it to my grave, scout’s honor,”
she mused.

His eyes met hers, any lingering amusement at their conversation gone. “Don’t make this any
more complicated than it has to be, Granger.”

She stared back at him for several breaths, confused. “Theo, what—,” she started. And then the
air froze in her lungs.

“He’s so fucking worth it.”

“It gets easier, Granger. I promise.”

The dragon Patronus.

“I love you, Draco.”

Oh, Theo.

Tears welled in his eyes as he watched the revelation unfold on her face. “Yeah,” he said simply.

“Theo, I’m so sorry,” she reached out to brush his cheek.

“Don’t,” he said, grabbing her wrist and halting her movement. “Don’t fucking pity me, Granger.
I did enough of that myself for a long time. I’ve come to terms with it and I’m fine. So I don’t
want your pity. Please.”

She nodded, her hand falling to her lap.

“It was difficult when it was Pansy,” he breathed, his voice shaking. “Because I knew she would
never love the way that he does: fully, selflessly, painfully.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. “So
that was hard. When I thought she might be all he ever got. Because he deserves more. He
deserves everything. And you,” he said, leaning his head against hers, “Merlin, I couldn’t have
asked for more for him, Granger.” He took a deep breath. “So, thank you. For being everything
that I always wanted to give him.”

***

Theo shut down after his final admission. He had poured every last part of himself out on that
floor in that hotel in Honfleur, and the purge left him physically drained.

Hermione watched him from her bed as he slept, wondering how it was possible that her heart
found new angles at which to break. She slipped from her sheets and tiptoed to Theo’s bed,
crawling in next to him, burying her head in his back.

“Theo?” she said softly.

No response. Just drowsy inhales and exhales.

“I love you, Theo,” she whispered. “Every single thing about you. Even the things about you that
infuriate me. Make me want to rip my hair out. Force me to question my sanity. I love them. And
you. So fucking much.” She sighed. “I know you think Draco deserves everything, and I don’t
disagree. But, Theo, you deserve even more. And I’m going to fight like hell to make sure you get
it.”

She planted a kiss to his spine, and the room was still. But unbeknownst to Hermione, Theo was
very much awake, tears cascading down his cheeks.

***

“Any insight on French wizards like you had for the Irish?” Hermione asked Theo the next day as
they walked from their hotel toward the address Dumbledore listed for the Abraxan Society
headquarters: 47 Rue de la République.

“Well, you remember the Beauxbaton girls from Fourth Year,” he shrugged. “French wizards tend
to be very formal—they place a lot of emphasis on tradition, breeding, and education. Think
Slytherin, but without any of the blood purity focus. Extraordinarily talented too, just like the
Irish. But unlike the Irish it tends not to be a natural gift, as much as it is that they have
exceptional training and start training young. As toddlers, usually.”

Hermione frowned. These were not the types of wizards that tended to hold her in particularly high
reward. She stopped. “Theo, can you take the lead on this one?”

He turned to face her, his expression puzzled. “Why?”

“Because wizards like that—the well-groomed, traditional types—they don’t care for me. I’m
none of those things. And they can sense it from a mile away. But you, I mean, you’re all of it,”
she replied, motioning toward him and the dress shirt and trousers that looked like they were
handstitched for him.

“No, Granger,” he returned. “It has to be you. You have a way of breaking through to people that
I don’t. And this is too important to allow me to fuck it up.”

“What are you talking about, Theo? You had the entire Malone family wrapped around your
finger by the time we left.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Because of you. Because they met you, trusted you, fell in love with you,
and cared about me because they cared about you.”
“That’s not true,” Hermione shot back, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “Stop doing that, Theo. Stop
underselling yourself. The Malones love you because you’re you—it has nothing to do with me.
And I love you because you’re you—it has nothing to do with Malfoy anymore. Stop tying your
worth to those around you because you’re fucking incredible on your own.”

“Granger—.”

“No. I have watched you these past weeks and you are a truly remarkable wizard. The way you do
magic—,” she huffed. “You’re better than Malfoy. And you’re better than me…sometimes.” He
chuckled. “And after what you told me last night,” she said gently, bringing her hands to his face
and holding his gaze, “you’ve been more damaged by Death Eater ideology than any of us. So I
want you to do this, and do it for yourself. Not for me. Not for Malfoy. For you.”

Emotion pooled in his eyes for a moment but he blinked it away, the characteristic smirk returning
to his face. “If it’ll shut you up, Granger,” he retorted, giving her a quick peck on her forehead and
tugging her with him in the direction of the Abraxan Society.

***

47 Rue de la République was a stately brick building set back from the road with ornate iron
fencing and hedge rows further obscuring its from passersby. Theo stood confidently before the
doorway, issuing two stout raps to the door and then stepping back.

There were several moments of silence before a tall, sleek, and regal-looking man in fitted, formal
robes answered the door, his expression constant as he regarded his two visitors.

“Alexandre Durant?” Theo asked, and the man nodded once. Theo handed him the letter, speaking
impeccable French. Hermione could barely tell that he wasn’t a native speaker.

The man concluded the letter and said something to Theo that Hermione couldn’t quite make out—
she had stopped her self-taught French lessons in Fourth Year. Theo turned to Hermione, a certain
panic in his eyes. “He wants to know that we’re not imperio’ed. He asked what Dumbledore’s
phoenix was named.”

“Fawkes,” Hermione quickly supplied. Theo relayed her answer to the man, who then nodded and
stepped back, allowing them inside.

“Theo, you speak French beautifully,” Hermione whispered as they entered the house.

“It’s all in the tongue, Granger,” he whispered back, clicking his tongue and winking.

“Ugh, gods,” she groaned, rolling her eyes.

“Come,” Alexandre said in English as he strode past them and beckoned them forward into a
bright, airy kitchen in which multiple house elves were frantically milling about. Hermione
frowned.

A petite woman with delicate features and soft brown hair sat at a small table nudged next to
sliding glass doors that led to the back patio. She was reading a paper and drinking an espresso, so
absorbed in whatever she was reading that she paid no mind to the three individuals who had just
entered the kitchen. Hermione gauged her to be in her early thirties.

Alexandre said something to her in French, and she turned to face them, a warm smile on her face.
“Sit, sit,” she said, motioning toward the table. “Fosette St. Martin,” she greeted in a heavy accent
as she offered her hand to Theo and Hermione respectively. Alexandre tucked into a chair between
Fosette and Theo.

“Fosette is a ranking member of the Society,” Alexandre said, his English clearly better than hers.
“Her parents were both killed in the First Wizarding War when she was twelve. They were family
friends of my parents—I was twenty-one at the time—and she came to live with us. And she’s
never left.” He smiled. “Clearly neither have I.” He leaned back against his chair. “My parents
passed years ago and left the place to me. I contemplated moving the headquarters elsewhere, but
—,” he sighed. “This is home.”

“We’re sorry to intrude, Alexandre,” Theo began. “But we were given very specific instructions.”

“Yes,” Alexandre agreed, as he withdrew the letter again and read it in French to Fosette. “We
have two other members who are part of the Society’s decision-making body: Germaine Bisset
and Hildy Laflamme. Fosette and I will need to speak with them before we make any sort of
commitment.” He sighed. “But what can you tell us about what is actually happening in the UK?”

Theo launched into an explanation of horcruxes, the search for them, and the defections within the
Death Eater ranks. Alexandre explained it all to Fosette in French, who then sent owls to
Germaine and Hildy. He received quick responses—they would meet tomorrow for dinner to
discuss.

“Would you like to stay here?” Fosette asked. “We have plenty of space. And Alexandre and I
would love the company.” Her eyes drifted to Alexandre, who smiled at her warmly.

And just as Theo was about to answer yes, there was a buzzing in Hermione’s pocket. She reached
in and pulled out the Protean-charmed Galleon that Malfoy had given her. It glowed red in her
hand, the words La Ferme Saint Simèon– 3PM flashing across it. The hotel in which she and Theo
were staying.

Hermione’s heart stopped. Or exploded. Maybe both.

Theo caught it in the corner of his eye, and replied smoothly. “We would love to, but we have the
hotel booked for the next two days. And we have something that we need to attend to around
2:30PM. But perhaps we capitalize on your hospitality after our reservation expires?”

“Oui, of course,” she responded brightly.

***

Alexandre left 47 Rue de la République shortly thereafter, apparently already somewhat late for his
job at the French Ministry. Fosette offered, and Theo accepted, to show them around Honfleur
before they had to depart for their 2:30PM commitment.

It was good to fill their time, she knew, but all Hermione wanted to do was sprint back to La Ferme
Saint Simèon, as if waiting there for him would somehow make him appear to her earlier. But she
gritted her teeth and tried to appreciate the tour.

Honfleur was truly a stunning place. Hermione had been to France many times with her parents,
but always to the more popular destinations: Paris, of course, but also the larger coastal cities that
were so popular with tourists in the summertime. Either because summer was waning—it was
September already—or because Honfleur was just a much smaller village, it lacked the typical
crowds she was used to swimming through as she was sightseeing. Which Hermione thought made
it ever the more beautiful.

That’s not to say the town was desolate—no, far from it. But it was that comfortable village
bustle: patrons chatting with vendors behind farmer’s market stands, couples exchanging glances
while they sipped coffee at small tables dotting the sidewalks, fishermen exiting the Vieux Bassin
and hauling in their catch. For Hermione, it was easy to see why Eugène Boudin and Claude
Monet fell in love with Honfleur and made it the subject of so many of their works of art.

Around noon, the trio ducked into La Cidrerie, a cramped but warm cider house. Fosette ordered
flights of different ciders for the group to sample, as well as several different crepes, both sweet
and savory.

She wasn’t sure if it was the cider going to her head, but Hermione found her reservations
beginning to loosen. “So are you and Alexandre together, Fosette?” Hermione asked, taking a bite
of an herb crepe with hollandaise.

She didn’t know why she asked it—well, that wasn’t quite true. They were cohabitating. And
while there was a non-insignificant age difference between the two, certainly nine years at their
respective ages was not really an issue. But Hermione also swore she saw something in the way
that Fosette looked at Alexandre when they were back at 47 Rue de la République—a tenderness
and familiarity shared between two people who were more than flatmates and friends.

But as soon as the words had exited her mouth, Hermione could tell it was a mistake. A darkness
clouded Fosette’s face as she absorbed Hermione’s words, and her answer was short.

“No.”

“Oh—I,” Hermione struggled to find what to say next. “I’m so sorry, Fosette. Excuse me for
asking that. I think it’s just the cider going to my head.” She smiled warmly at Fosette, who did
not return the sentiment. Hermione’s eyes nervously shot to Theo, who put a calming hand over
hers, which were fidgeting in her lap. Theo said something to Fosette in French, and she chuckled
wistfully, whatever dampener Hermione’s question had laid on her, lifting.

She looked up at Hermione, expression still cautious. “Alexandre is married. He and his wife,
Giselle, were married during the last War, when they were about twenty. But she—,” Fosette
paused, appearing to get lost mid-thought. “She was tortured such that, well, there’s not much left
of who she used to be. He tends to her still, loves her just as much. She has her own quarters
within the house.”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face as her heart sunk into her stomach. She thought of
Neville’s parents—when they witnessed his mother hand him a candy wrapper for his birthday,
without a clue in the world who he was.

She imagined a world where she would look into Malfoy’s eyes—those stunning, silver eyes—and
realize that the person she was looking at, the man who she loved more than anything else in the
world, had no idea who was looking at him. Loving him. She felt a sob in her throat but she
swallowed against it.

She also felt…angry. At Voldemort and the Death Eaters, of course—always—but also at
Dumbledore and the Order. Why had no one ever talked about this before? She had always just
assumed that the suffering and trauma experienced by so many of her friends and loved ones
following the aftermath of the First Wizarding War was somehow unique to the UK. That witches
and wizards in other countries had somehow avoided the loss and torment that they had suffered.

But there was Hugh, who had become a soldier at fifteen and undoubtedly witnessed such soul-
shattering brutality that it left him permanently marred. And Mary, who had to lose her husband
and also, in a way, her eldest son. Fosette, who, just like Harry, was orphaned as a child. And
Alexandre, who somehow had to wake up and breathe every morning while knowing that the
woman he loved had absolutely no idea he even existed.

Hermione had become so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice Theo and Fosette
continuing to converse in French. She watched as Theo reached across the table to wipe a tear as it
rolled down Fosette’s cheek, and she smiled at him appreciatively.

There wasn’t much left to be said after that.

***

They continued to stroll through the town center after lunch, with Hermione checking her watch no
less than every five minutes.

Around 2PM, just as Theo and Hermione were gathering to set off back to the hotel, they crossed
in front of L’église Sainte-Catherine. It took Hermione’s breath away. She had read about it as she
and Theo were preparing to come to Honfleur, and a part from the Vieux Bassin itself, the L’église
Sainte-Catherine was the crowning jewel of the town.

And for good reason. It was built in the fifteenth century using nothing but wood collected from a
nearby forest by local shipbuilders. It was the largest wooden church in France. And it was
exquisite.

“Can we go inside?” Hermione gasped, aware that she and Theo were running low on time, but still
somehow compelled to see inside.

“Oui, of course,” Fosette said, delicately ascending the stairs and pulling open the door.

The exterior of the church was exquisite. But the interior took Hermione’s breath away. It was
massive and ornate in the way that Catholic churches in Europe tend to be, but there was a certain
stirring in this one that made it feel all the more sacrosanct.

Hermione floated through the pews, her fingers dusting the aged wood beneath them until she
reached the altar. Hermione had never been a particularly religious individual, preferring logic,
science, and data over blind faith. But for reasons she couldn’t articulate, she fell to her knees at
the altar and prayed.
 Reunion

How long had it been? Two and a half weeks—edging on three maybe. But it felt like forever.
Gods, it felt like it had been years since her hair was in his hands, her lips on his neck, her mouth
forming his name. And those huffy pants. Merlin, those huffy pants.

His pulse quickened as he felt a certain tightening in his trousers. Stop, he commanded himself.
You’re in public.

His eyes hungrily roamed the hotel lobby, acutely aware that he wouldn’t be able to use Granger’s
wild hair to spot her in a crowd anymore. He checked his watch.

2:59PM.

And then the world stood still.

He saw Theo first, having a head and a half height advantage on Granger. His heart swelled when
their eyes locked, Theo’s sapphire eyes now a muted green-brown.

And then he saw her. She was still looking at Theo, her eyes searching the other side of the lobby
for Draco. As if sensing a change in Theo’s posture, she whipped her head toward Draco, her eyes
an unusual shade of green. But they were still her eyes. And just as heartbreakingly beautiful.

She nearly lunged for him, but Theo grabbed her arm to hold her back, pushing her forward toward
the elevator bank. Draco nodded at him and watched as they disappeared into an elevator.

Draco balled his fingers into a fist and bit into it, waiting thirty seconds before he strode down the
hallway and into the elevator. As he expected, Theo had charmed it to arrive on their floor.

She hit him before he even had time to lay his eyes on her, crashing into him with the force of a
feral erumpent, sending them tumbling to the floor in a tangled pile of limbs. Her mouth was on
his an instant, her tears splashing against his skin. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to
him. His hands ran through her hair, shorter, sleeker, lighter, but still every bit as delicious. They
remained that was for several seconds before a familiar voice chimed in.

“Kids, can we move this to a private room before we start shedding garments? Getting booked in a
French jail for indecency is going to be a tough one to explain to Narcissa.”

Draco and Granger both laughed, her eyes holding his for a moment before she pushed herself off
of him and back onto her feet. “I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered.

He leaned up and kissed her quickly before pushing himself of the floor and crossing the hallway
to wrap Theo in perhaps the fiercest hug he had ever given him. “Miss you, mate,” Draco said,
clapping his back as they parted. “How are you?”

“Merlin, Draco, let me tell you how many times this witch of yours has tried to kill me over the
past three weeks,” Theo replied, throwing an arm around Draco’s shoulders as the three of them set
out toward their room.

***

“I’ll, uh, take the liberty of requesting an additional room for myself,” Theo winked after they
crossed the threshold of room Hermione was sharing with him. “And remember to cast a
muffliato.” He flashed one final grin before closing the door behind him as he exited the room.

She was in his arms in an instant. Their mouths moved frantically against each other, their tongues
tracing each other. He crossed the room, dropping her down on a desk in the room, rucking her
dress up around her hips as he did so. His lips moved across her jaw and down her neck as his
thumb moved circles against her center, those huffy pants that he craved so desperately brushing
against his ear. They increased in speed and he felt her hands scrambling to his trousers, dropping
them to the floor with impressive dexterity. And then her hand was around him, moving against
him hard and fast.

And those huffy pants.

He dropped his head to her shoulder, gasping. He wanted to tell her to slow down, that it was too
much, that he couldn’t—.

But then it was too late. A simple “oh” escaped Granger’s lips as he tried to bury himself in the
crook of her neck, humiliated.

“Fuck,” he muttered, finally gathering the courage to address the…situation. “Sorry, Granger, I
—.” Godsdamnit. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment since you left Liverpool and er, I guess my
imagination got started well before you did.”

He felt his hair rustle as she chuckled into it. “Well, are you done done or—.”

His head snapped up and he once again captured her mouth with his, his hand resuming its work
against her center. He waited until her pants became frenzied before he pulled her closer and
pressed into her, snaking his arm around her back as they rocked against each other.

It didn’t take long for either of them, but they rose and crashed in perfect harmony, and for all of
the euphoric lovemaking Draco and Granger had done over the past year, that minutes-long affair
on that desk in that hotel in Honfleur was by far his absolute favorite.

***

They laid in her bed for hours, tangled together as she filled him in on every detail of the past three
weeks: Theo’s seasickness, the rugged Irish landscape, the Malones (who reminded her very much
of the Weasleys and Draco had to suppress his urge to retch), nights dancing at the pub, Theo’s
skateboarding, and the magic that the Irish wizards could do.

It sounded remarkable, really. Draco had never heard of a witch or wizard being able to heal bone
fractures instantly and wordlessly, nor had he ever read about wizards being able to produce
multiple Patronuses at once. And it gave him some hope.

Maybe, just maybe.

“I never realized how good Theo’s spell work is,” Granger said, her head propped on Draco’s chest
as he lazily played with her shortened locks. “He’s better than both of us, I think.”

Draco nodded absently. “Yes, he is.” He leaned forward to plant a kiss to her forehead.

“How did he get so good?” she asked, drumming her fingers on his chest.

Draco felt his throat tighten. “Well, let’s just say living with Nott Senior required a better
command of defensive magic than most households.” He held his breath as he felt Granger go
rigid against him, a haunted look in her green eyes when they met his. And then they melted into
tears.

“No. No, Malfoy. It’s not fair,” she gasped, burying her head back in Draco’s chest. “It’s not
fucking fair.”

“I know,” he said softly, pulling her to him as tightly as he could, his own eyes beginning to water.
“I fucking hate him. My mother—,” he paused, chuckling humorlessly, “she tried to poison him
once. She’s always been quite adept with potions, so I’m not sure what went wrong, but it didn’t
work.” He sighed. “So my parents started teaching him defensive magic. Even before school
started. And then supplemented whatever he was learning at Hogwarts whenever we were home
from school.”

“Why?” Hermione whispered. “Why is he so cruel?”

Draco ran his fingers down her spine, sighing. “Well, for one, I think it’s because Theo is the
spitting image of his mum.” He could feel a silent sob rip through her. Gods, he hated this. “And
Theo’s just different. He’s always sort of marched to the beat of his own drum. I think Nott Senior
wanted a son like I had been—just blindly did whatever my parents asked me to. Theo was never
like that.”

There were several fleeting moments of silence. And then Granger said something Draco would
never forget.

“They shouldn’t call them Unforgiveable Curses when there are people out there who deserve
them.”

***

Several minutes later, Draco noticed the frame on Granger’s bedside table. “What’s this?” he
asked, reaching his arm out and pulling it toward him. It was a picture of him and Blaise at a table
in restaurant in London, laughing.

“Hugh gave that to me when we left Roundstone,” Hermione said warmly, brushing her fingers
against it. “When I saw that picture of you and your parents on the Prophet front page, I realized I
didn’t have any pictures of you. None at all. So when I couldn’t sleep at night, I would take out
that picture and talk to you. Hugh saw this picture in a newspaper out of Killarney and thought I
would like it more.”

Draco’s chest felt so tight he could barely breathe. “I love you,” he whispered. “So much. So
much that it feels fucking impossible.” And it was true. His love for her made him question his
own existence—how it was possible that he had a limited, corporeal body that somehow stored a
love that felt so breathtakingly limitless it threatened the expanse of the universe.

***

“I like this song,” he whispered into her hair sometime later. “Who sings it?”

“It’s Fools Rush In by Elvis Presley,” she responded, dusting kisses along his chest. “An
American Muggle musician. They called him The King.”

Draco stirred from under her, standing at the bedside and offering her his hand. “C’mon, Granger,”
he cooed. “Dance with me. Show me what those Irish lads taught you.”

She chuckled and shook her head, but took his hand anyway and let him lead her to the end of the
bed. “It was a very different type of dancing in that pub in Roundstone,” she said, leaning her head
against his chest as he slowly twirled them across the room.

“And yet you seem much improved,” he mused, his hand moving lower on her back and pulling
her in closer. “You have yet to crush one of my toes.”

She didn’t protest or bite back at his characterization of her prior dancing skills. She merely sighed
and leaned heavily into him, allowing him to whisk her around the room until the song ended.

She lingered in his arms for several moments, and then stood on her toes and reached up to kiss
him deeply, pulling him into the bed where they made love one, two, three times, each time more
bittersweet than the last.

***

Theo joined them for a room service dinner shortly after 8PM. It was a decadent spread: cured
meats, cheeses, mussels, coq au vin, Lyonnaise salad, gougeres—Draco thought they ordered over
half the menu. And, of course, several bottles of wine.

Draco had never gotten drunk with Granger before, but Merlin, it was amazing. He watched as the
wine melted away any remaining traces of that timid schoolgirl who was always overthinking
everything. She laughed louder, talked faster, and danced freely around the room to the Muggle
music pouring from her boombox like Draco and Theo weren’t even there.

“Dance with me, Draco,” she purred, extending her arms toward him. Draco. A salutation she still
rarely used outside of intimacy, when she lost control. But here she was, saying his name like they
were your average teenage lovers at a school dance and not premature adults caught in the middle
of a war.

Draco shook his head, enjoying watching her sway to the music too much to move from the bed.
“Whatever you’re doing, Granger, it’s not dancing,” he smirked.

“C’mon!” she hiccupped, shimmying to his side of the bed and lacing her fingers through his and
trying to tug him to his feet. “I danced with you earlier,” she whined.

“You’re not dancing, Granger,” he said again, briefly pulling her into him and kissing her head.
“You’re more…having a fit while music is playing in the background.”

Theo laughed and hopped up from his bed, wrapping his arm around Granger’s back and twirling
her to the center of the room where he began to move in similarly spastic movements.

Draco felt his eyes grow hot as he watched them, and he willed himself to remember this moment
forever. Him and the two people he loved the most in the world in an overpriced hotel room in
France dancing, laughing, and drinking while the world fell apart around them.

***

There was a note from Theo under Draco and Granger’s door the next morning, notifying them that
he was going to the Abraxan Society headquarters for the morning and would inform them that
Granger was feeling under the weather but would still be attending dinner to discuss the prospect of
a Society/Order alliance.

They barely moved from the bed the rest of the day. They ordered room service for breakfast and
lunch, making love copious times in between. He couldn’t get enough of her. The past three
weeks had been pure agony, and he dreaded the moment when he would have to remove his body
from hers for the last time for gods know how long.
She turned on a movie after they had lunch: Apollo 13. Draco’s stomach was in a knot so many
times during the movie he feared he would need to see a Healer to untwist it. When the movie
ended, he simply stared at his witch for several minutes, in awe of the true extent of her Gryffindor
bravery if that had indeed been a career path she craved as a child.

Somewhere around 5PM, Granger began getting ready for her dinner with the Abraxan Society,
shimmying into an elegant summer dress and a pair of short heels. Draco rose from the bed and
stood behind her, blazing a trail of kisses up her spine as he zipped the back of her dress. His
hands moved to her shoulders and his lips to her neck where he could feel goosebumps forming
under them. “I have something for you,” he whispered, digging into his trouser pocket.

He handed her the petite box wrapped in navy blue. Her eyes grew wide. “What—.”

“For your birthday,” he supplied, brushing the back of his fingers against her cheekbone.

“It’s not for another week,” she replied.

He smirked and chuckled. “I know. But I’m not exactly going to be here for it, am I?” He kissed
her cheek, down to below her ear. When he came back up to look at her, her green eyes were
shimmering with tears.

“I hate this,” she gasped. “I miss you so fucking much. All the time. I thought it would get
easier. And maybe it has in some ways but,” a gasping sob tore from her. “I’m so scared that all
we’re going to get is stolen moments in secrecy. I want more. I want everything. With you.”

He felt his eyes well as his heart burst. “Me too, Granger. But I will take a year of stolen moments
with you over a lifetime in public with anyone else.” He wrapped her into him and kissed her
deeply. “Now open your gift,” he cooed as he pulled away.

She nodded, her attention again on the small box in her hand. She carefully unwrapped the paper
and peeled the box open, another sob escaping her lips as she pulled it out.

It was nothing fancy, in Draco’s opinion. He wanted to get her diamonds and emeralds and
sapphires, but that wasn’t Granger. Instead, he got her a simple gold bangle inscribed with those
words from her favorite novel that so perfectly fit them.

Begin anyway and see it through no matter what.

 Acker

Original Character Casting

White Rose Regulation (Germany)

Annike Weber – Catriona Balfe

Ernst Weber – Rufus Sewell

Lina Weber – Anya Taylor Joy

Otto Neuhaus – Nicholas Hoult

Mika Altman – Emma Mackey

Adler Roth – River Phoenix

“You won’t be here when I get back, will you?”

“No. If I stay any longer, there will be questions.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Hermione. And I will see you soon.”

Hermione sat at a long table on the back patio of the Abraxan Society headquarters grounds, trying
to break herself out of her catatonia. She could feel Theo’s hand in hers, his thumb rubbing her
knuckles. An occasional squeeze to let her know that he was still there.

She needed to get her head in the game. That much she knew. This was too important. But gods,
every single fiber of her being was in agony. She loved that she had gotten to spend twenty-seven
hours with Malfoy, but whatever peace she had made with their distance had shattered the second
his silver eyes met hers again. There was a sucking wound where her heart once was, and all she
wanted to do was crawl back to their hotel room and wrap herself in the sheets that his scent still
lingered on.

“Hermione, are you okay?” a voice asked. Hermione’s eyes lifted up to meet Fosette’s, whatever
disdain she had previously felt for Hermione apparently gone.

“Oh, um,” Hermione stuttered. She could feel Theo’s eyes on her, worried. “I’m sorry, I’m still
not feeling that well. Would you excuse me?” She rose quickly from the table, feeling the eyes of
the others on her as she fled to the house. She weaved between the house elves and ducked into the
nearest room with a door—the pantry—quickly closing it behind her, casting a muffliato, and
collapsing onto the floor in a fit of sobs that she felt in her bones.

She hated—hated—herself for letting this get the best of her. They needed to win these wizards’
trust and allegiance, and Hermione showing up to their headquarters acting like a complete and
utter loon was doing nothing but undermining all the work that Theo had done to win them over.
But she was shattered, and each time she tried to put herself back together, she just cut herself on
the ragged pieces of her soul.

She hadn’t been in the pantry for more than several minutes when she felt a pair of arms around
her. She assumed at first it was Theo, until she felt hair falling around her face. Not her own.

She looked up and saw Fosette, wrapping herself around Hermione. “Shh, mon ami,” she soothed,
rubbing a hand across Hermione’s back and rocking her. Hermione couldn’t even find the strength
to question how Fosette had found her or why she had softened so significantly toward her. She
was merely grateful for Fosette’s presence as she wailed into the wood floor beneath her.

“I love him,” Fosette whispered. “Alexandre. I love him so much. But he loves only Giselle.”
Hermione could feel Fosette lay her head against Hermione’s back. “A broken heart recognizes
another one quite easily, non?”

Hermione nodded, feeling her fingers lace through Fosette’s as she straightened, her back coming
to rest against the pantry shelves. “I’m sorry, Fosette,” she said quietly.

Fosette smiled weakly, dabbing her own tears. “Alexandre wants to fight again. He wants a
chance to face the people who took away his Giselle. And I will fight alongside him because I
love him. So we just need to convince Hildy and Germaine. And the rest of the Society will
follow.”

“I can’t go back out there, Fosette,” Hermione replied, chuckling mirthlessly. “I’m a mess.
They’re going to think I’m mad.”

“Non,” Fosette said, wiping a tear from Hermione’s cheek. “If this group knows one thing well,
Hermione, it’s pain. And they are going to see that you are in this—heart and soul.” She stood,
pulling Hermione up with her.

***

Fosette had been right, of course. Despite the fact that Hermione had arrived back at the table, her
face patchy and tear-streaked, Hildy’s and Germaine’s reticence seemed to soften as she described
exactly how much Theo and she stood to lose in this War.

And by the end of the evening, the Abraxan Society officially joined the Shield of Hibernia and
the Order of the Phoenix in their crusade against Lord Voldemort.

***

A house elf named Marseille showed Theo and Hermione to their respective rooms.
Unfortunately, the closest bathroom was in a different wing of the house. As Hermione and Theo
traversed from the bathroom back to their rooms, they crossed in front of a room with a cracked
door, light peeking out from underneath.

“Alexandre, Alexandre,” a soft voice called as they passed. Theo halted, ducking his head in.
Hermione followed suit. A striking woman around the same age as Alexandre was in the bed, and
Alexandre was in a chair on the opposite side of the room.

When the bedridden woman’s eyes met Theo’s, her hand reached out toward him. Without
hesitating, he took her hand in his and kneeled beside her. “Yes?” he asked.

She untangled her hand from his, brushing it down the side of his face. “Tell me a story,
Alexandre,” she said, her eyes distant. “One of those romance ones. From the Muggle books that
you read.”

Theo looked to Alexandre, who simply nodded at Theo. Theo put his hand over Giselle’s, pulling
a chair under him. “Have you heard the one of the prince and princess from warring kingdoms
who fell in love?” he asked.

“No!” she gushed. “Please, Alexandre, tell me.”

“Well, there once was a beautiful princess from the kingdom of Gryffindor…”

***

Hermione couldn’t sleep. She was laying in what was perhaps the most comfortable bed she had
ever experienced in her entire life in a beautiful room in a stunning home in a breathtaking town in
France and absolutely could not close her eyes for more than ten seconds at a time.

She huffed and ripped the covers from herself, tiptoeing across her room and then down the hall
where she cracked the door to Theo’s room. He was still awake too, his bedside lamp on as he
read one of the books Hermione had packed: The Body by Stephen King.

His eyes casually moved to Hermione, standing in his doorway. “Get in here, Granger,” he sighed,
patting the spot in the bed next to him. He set down the book as she moved in next to him, placing
her head in the crook of his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Theo,” she said. “I couldn’t get it together today. I could’ve really messed things up
for us with the Society.”

“It’s fine, Granger,” he replied, giving her a quick peck to the temple. “I know what you’re going
through—more than I would like to admit.”

There was silence for several minutes before Hermione turned toward Theo, propping herself up on
her elbow. “Can I ask you something, Theo, that you absolutely don’t have to answer? That you
can tell me I’m totally out of line for asking?”

He turned toward her, assuming a similar position. “Go for it, Granger,” he said simply.

“Would you tell me about your mum?” she asked. She had no idea where the question came from.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had heard so much of Theo’s trauma that she desperately craved
to hear about what was perhaps a bright spot in his life. About this woman who created and loved
and nurtured Theodore Nott, who Hermione had grown to love so deeply.

She watched as a knot formed in his throat, and she immediately regretted asking. “Theo, oh gods,
I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have—.”

“Stop,” he interjected, a smile warming across his face. “It’s fine. I’m just not used to people
asking about her. Most just want to forget—,” he paused, swallowing against a clot of emotion.
“I’d love to tell you about her.”

She was born Ilse Acker in Hanover, Germany. The Ackers were part of Germany’s version of the
Sacred Twenty-Eight; although there was only sixteen German families, and following the trauma
of the Holocaust and the Second World War, most of those families had committed themselves to
mixing in more with Muggle society, actively trying to shed themselves of any lingering prejudice
or hatred.

And yet, somehow, Ilse Acker fell in love with a Theodore Nott Senior while she was on holiday in
Surrey. They married, of course, and had Theo who she spoiled horribly and loved relentlessly for
the few short years they got to spend together. But given her upbringing, she was a square peg in a
round hole in the Death Eater community, and her marriage with Nott Senior quickly soured.
Hermione knew the rest from Malfoy.

But there were details in Theo’s descriptions that Malfoy wouldn’t have thought to share: that her
favorite color was yellow; that she had actually called Theo “Teddy”; that she had brown curly hair
and wore a perfume that smelled like lavender; that she read Muggle bedtime stories to Theo; that
she used to sneak candies under his pillow while he slept at night; that she taught him to ride a
tricycle before a broom.

“Do you have family on her side?” Hermione asked.

“She had a sister—I can’t remember her name. I read about her in a paper once, years ago. She
worked in some capacity for the German Ministry in Berlin. Something like that. But my father
didn’t exactly let me communicate with that side of the family.”

Hermione buried herself into him, wishing there was a spell that would allow her to pull all the
darkness from Theo’s life and trap it in a jar like she had Rita Skeeter.

“I love you, Theo,” she said, as her eyes grew heavy.

“I know, Granger. Ditto.”

***

Just as they had in Ireland, Theo and Hermione stayed in France for several weeks after the Society
agreed to ally with the Order to reinforce the bond between the two organizations. Just like their
off time in Ireland, these few weeks in France were absolute bliss.

Alexandre took Theo and Hermione to Paris for a weekend where they sampled the finest food and
wine the city had to offer. Fosette and Hildy brought them to wine country, where they stayed at
quaint bed and breakfasts and drank and laughed until their stomachs hurt. Germaine invited them
to his restaurant, where he taught them how to make various French delicacies, including melt-in-
your-mouth croissants, which Hermione vowed to recreate if she and Theo ever made it back to a
non-war-zone UK.

They departed for Germany via train in the early days of October. Hermione was grateful for a
mode of transportation that didn’t involve Theo vomiting or completely melting down. They
reserved a private compartment on a Muggle commuter train from Caen to Nuremberg, and
watched Forrest Gump, Back to the Future, and Beauty and the Beast with frequent naps and
snacking in between.

Once again, Hermione opted for a cab as opposed to a rental car from Nuremberg to Rothensburg
ob der Tauber, not at all confident in her ability to drive on the “right” side of the road. As they
had in Ireland and France, she and Theo arrived late in the evening, ducking into an inn for the
night before proceeding to meet with the White Rose Regulation the following morning.

21 Würzburger was a massive and ornate estate on what appeared to be several acres of land—
something she imagined that Malfoy and Theo lived in back in England. “I think you should do
this one again,” Hermione said to Theo, her voice thin.

“No,” he responded. “German witches and wizards are anti-classist and anti-blood purity—even
those who are wealthy. You’re the better messenger here.” He squeezed her shoulder and shot her
a reassuring grin as she felt her knuckles rock against the door.

The woman who opened the door was striking—wavy brown hair just past her shoulders and
shocking sapphire eyes that were warm and welcoming, but regarded Hermione for only a moment
before they moved to the figure behind her.

“Teddy,” the woman gasped as she collapsed.

***

Hermione sat at a long table in an impossibly large and rich-looking kitchen in the White Rose
Regulation headquarters, sipping on a firewhiskey at 10 in the morning. Theo did the same,
although drinking at this early hour seemed to bother him less.

A broad-shouldered and handsome man who Hermione gauged to be about fifty paced across the
cavernous kitchen, also taking sips from his own tumbler of firewhiskey. She felt Theo’s arm
tighten around her, pulling her in closer to him. The peculiarity of this entire situation had them
both on edge, but yet they had felt compelled to enter the estate at 21 Würzburger after the woman
who Dumbledore had more or less assured them to be the chief German ally to the Order of the
Phoenix fainted in her own doorway upon seeing Theo.

“It was all over the papers—even out here,” the man muttered. Hermione was unsure if he was
talking to them or himself. Perhaps both. “Theodore Nott Jr., sole heir to the Sacred Nott
bloodline,” the man scoffed slightly as he said it, “dead by suicide.” He took a large gulp of his
firewhiskey, his eyes falling on Theo. “It shattered us, of course, but,” he sighed, clearing the
emotion from his eyes. “Well, I can’t say it surprised us, given your father.”

“We had to fake our deaths,” Theo said hollowly. Hermione could feel the air leaving his lungs.
The man simply stared at them, nonplussed.

“We’re on a mission for the Order of the Phoenix to rally allies across Europe,” Hermione
supplied, finally fishing Dumbledore’s letter from her back pocket and handing it to the man. He
took it gently from her and set his firewhiskey down on the kitchen counter. He opened the letter
tenderly, his eyes misting as he read it.

“Teddy,” he gasped, a tear running down his face as his eyes regarded them once more. “You’re a
member of the Order?”

“I’m sorry,” Theo began, his grip around Hermione tightening. “I’m—I’m failing to grasp how
you know who I am. And why you’re calling me—.” He stiffened, as if a realization was slowly
unfolding.

The man chuckled under his breath and nodded, he eyes steadily on Theo. “My wife—the woman
who greeted you in the doorway—is Annike Weber,” he said slowly, pointing to the name on
Dumbledore’s letter. “But before that, she was Annike Acker.”

Hermione felt Theo go slack against her as the room spun.

***

Ernst Weber sat bedside to Hermione and Theo; Hermione resting against the headboard of the bed
with Theo’s unconscious form laying against her. Ernst had perhaps the kindest eyes that
Hermione had ever seen, and his concern for this apparent nephew of his who he had never truly
known resonated with Hermione, but she still felt her arms protectively wrap around Theo like
Devil’s Snare.

“How did you recognize him?” Hermione asked, trying but perhaps failing to not sound rude. “We
altered our appearances. I know it’s not much, but you don’t know him at all. He couldn’t even
remember Annike’s name.”

Ernst let out deep exhale. “Because Annike never stopped watching out for him. Every single
wizarding news outlet from the UK—we get it. And every day, she would search through them—I
think terrified that she would see the type of article we received back in August.” Ernst’s
expression grew heavy. “It destroyed Annike. To think that the last part of her sister was gone.
To know that Teddy was gone. That the monster who destroyed her sister also destroyed the last
living part of her.”

Hermione held back a sob as she watched Ernst extend his arm and cover one of Theo’s hands with
his. All this time, all the suffering that Theo has endured, and these people were right here. Right
fucking here.

“I’m going to go check on her,” Ernst said, patting Theo’s hand before he exited the room.

Hermione buried her head into Theo’s shoulder and wept.

***

When Hermione awoke, Annike was sitting bedside, her head upon the bed and her fingers laced
between Theo’s, who was still asleep.

Her blue eyes met Hermione’s. “I apologize for before,” she said, her gaze still not moving from
Theo’s face. “I—we thought he was dead. And even if we hadn’t,” she sighed, bringing a hand to
his forehead and pushing his hair out of his face. “We never thought we would see him again.”

Hermione nodded, completely failing to find any words that would hedge on appropriate to address
this moment. “Ernst told me,” she brought her hand to her lips as she took a shuddering inhale,
“that Teddy is a member of the Order?”

“Well—not officially,” Hermione replied softly. “But for all intents and purposes, yes.” Hermione
rested her head on Theo’s shoulder and tightened her grip across his chest. “Annike,” she said, her
chest swelling as the witch’s blue eyes met hers. “I want you to know that there is not an ounce of
his father in him. Theo is truly the most selfless, remarkable, amazing human I have ever met.”
Hermione sighed.

Tears fell freely from Annike’s eyes as she continued to run her hand through his hair. “He looks
just like her.” Her hand travelled delicately to his face as she brushed her fingers against his
cheeks. And Hermione’s heart once again found new ways to break as she realized how close
Theo had been to people who would’ve loved and cared for him in the way that he had always
deserved.

***

Hermione had excused herself from the room when Theo awoke with Annike bedside, taking the
time to step into the shower and try to scrub the sadness from her flesh and bones.

She was unsuccessful.

“Theo,” she said softly after she had dried and dressed. She stood in the doorway to his room,
watching as slowly strode around the room, inspecting every detail as if to memorize it. He turned
calmly and walked toward her, pulling her into him with such ferocity that she feared her bones
would break.

They said nothing—really, what was there to say—but just embraced for seconds, minutes, hours
in the middle of a vast room in a vast estate that was an ancestral home of Theodore Nott.

***

Sometime later, Ernst appeared in the doorway to Theo’s room. “It’s been—,” he chuckled and
shook his head, “obviously a very long and emotional day. So if you would like to decline, we
would completely understand. But it’s Friday evening and it’s Annike’s and my tradition that
every Friday we have the youngest members of the Regulation over for a family dinner and
drinks. If you’re up for it, we would love if you would join us.”

Hermione looked to Theo, who paused for a moment before he spoke. “I would love to,” he
responded, his voice still somewhat thin. Hermione squeezed his hand.

“Thank you, Ernst. We’ll be down shortly.”

Hermione could hear the commotion in the kitchen before they reached the final landing on the
stairs. Her eyes fell first on a young witch with blonde hair, dyed pink at the ends. Her nose was
pierced. Hermione thought of Tonks. And then of Bridie. She was laughing with Annike, helping
her chop vegetables the Muggle way at the massive kitchen counter.

At the sink, standing next to Ernst and helping him prepare some sort of roast—again, the Muggle
way—was a young, fine-featured wizard with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and a rose tattoo on
his neck.

Hermione’s gaze moved to the far end of the kitchen where another striking young wizard, this one
with short dark hair and dressed in a suit so well-tailored that it would make Malfoy jealous, was
mixing liquor into a cocktail shaker, mixing it, and pouring it into glasses set forth in front of him.

They all seemed to recognize Hermione’s and Theo’s presence simultaneously, an uncomfortable
silence falling over the room as if none of them knew how to address this impossibly bizarre
situation. But they didn’t need to. Because from the side of the room tumbled a small, brunette
witch who hurdled into Theo at mach speed, throwing her arms around him and nearly sending
them both plunging to the floor.

The kitchen erupted with laughter. “Our daughter,” Ernst supplied. “Lina. She’s…the
enthusiastic one.”

“Uh, I can see that,” Theo chuckled, putting his arms around her. Hermione almost expected Lina
to be embarrassed by her outburst, but instead she merely threw her arms around Hermione in a
nearly identical embrace after she parted from Theo.

“Hermione, why don’t you come help Mika and I finish slicing up these vegetables, and Theo, you
can help Otto with the cocktails?”

Hermione and Theo nodded, heading off in their respective directions. Lina sidled up to Hermione
as she joined Annike and Mika at the counter.

“Mika Altman,” the blonde witch said, extending her hand to Hermione. “Faked your own death,
huh?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Badass.” Annike chuckled gently and shook her head.
“How’d you do it?”

“Oh, well, I guess you would say there was a somewhat convenient circumstance,” Hermione
replied, grabbing a handful of vegetables and beginning to chop. “I was at a wedding of a dear
friend of mine when the UK Ministry fell. Death Eaters attacked the wedding, and well, it would
surprise no one that I would’ve been a target. I’m Muggle-born.”
Annike cleared her throat uncomfortably, but Mika and Lina apparently did not share in her
unease. “But how’d you do it exactly?” Lina asked.

“Um, well,” Hermione started, her eyes still on Annike. “A friend and I were dueling two Death
Eaters. I was able to immobilize one, but the other—Merlin, he’s such a talented wizard. My
friend and I were both dueling him and still couldn’t seem to overpower him. He used the
Cruciatus Curse against us—.”

Another throat-clearing from Annike, and Hermione felt her own face grow warm. “You were
crucio’ed?!” Lina exclaimed.

“Only for a moment,” Hermione quickly supplied, trying to race to the end of the story. “Anyway,
someone else killed the Death Eater—.”

“Order members are using the Killing Curse now?” Annike said hotly, placing the knife she was
holding down on the counter. Hermione could see Ernst appearing behind her, grabbing her
shoulder.

“No, no,” Hermione replied. “Or at least not that I’m aware of. No, this Death Eater was killed by
another Death Eater.” Annike looked at her quizzically. “There have been…defections. Double
agents within the Death Eater ranks.”

Ernst’s eyebrows raised. “Well that’s certainly welcome news,” he said, squeezing Annike’s
shoulder before he returned to the sink and continued his work on the roast.

It was quiet and tense for a few moments before Hermione changed the subject. “You prepare
food the Muggle way?” she asked.

“Yes,” Annike chuckled, any misgivings about Hermione’s earlier story having apparently
vanished. “We think it’s important to stay grounded and not rely on magic when we don’t have
to.”

Hermione’s mind spun as she tried to understand how in the world a woman like Annike could
have a sister who fell in love with someone like Nott Senior.

***

There was no question that the Regulation would ally with the Order. Not after the discovery of
Theo. Even so, Annike warned, the Regulation would not be the Order’s most fearsome allies.

“We don’t believe in offensive magic,” Ernst explained. “We will of course use it in life or limb-
threatening situations, but we specialize only in defensive magic.”

“Luckily,” Annike continued, “we have this man here, who is perhaps one of the most gifted
defensive magic wizards in all of Europe.” Her hand squeezed the shoulder of the suited wizard
who had been making cocktails—Otto Neuhaus. He blushed, his gaze trained on his plate.
“Twenty-three years old and has already invented three of his own defensive spells,” Annike
gushed. “We’re fine-tuning his fourth.”

“It’s nothing,” Otto said sheepishly, shaking his head. “Just stuff I tinkered into at work.”

“Otto, what is it that you do?” Hermione asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Otto took a quick sip of his cocktail before answering. “I’m a professor at Waldeinsamkeit—it’s
our wizarding school, like Hogwarts. And I also teach an English literature class at one of the
local Muggle colleges here.” He shrugged and took another bite of his dish as if he hadn’t just said
something completely remarkable.

“At twenty-three?” Theo said, reaching for another cocktail. “That’s really impressive, mate.”

Otto flashed an unassuming grin, but said nothing more. Hermione looked to Annike, who was
beaming. “Otto was the youngest graduate from Waldeinsamkeit in centuries,” she crooned. “And
the youngest professor ever—they offered him a permanent position when he was just eighteen.”

“What do you teach?” Hermione asked, thoroughly enthralled.

“Magical Physics,” he replied. “Boring, I know. The kids hate it. I’m honestly surprised they
haven’t sacked me yet.” Next to him, Annike rolled her eyes.

“It doesn’t sound boring to me,” Hermione said earnestly. “Tell me about it, please!”

“Oh,” Otto waved her off. “Trust me, it’s way too nerdy. It’ll put you straight to sleep.”

“Mate,” Theo interjected. “I know you haven’t gotten a chance to know Granger real well yet, but
trust me when I tell you that once you do, you will laugh at having ever said that sentence to her.
You could read this girl an essay about the consistency of flobberworm mucus and she would ask
you for a list of all your source material so she could do further research.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as Otto chuckled, small crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.
“Okay, fine. It basically deconstructs spells—it’s looking at why certain spells work certain ways.
By breaking down the different components of different spells, you can potentially create new ones
—hybrids, if you will, that may be more effective than the originals.”

“Yeah, see that’s not fucking boring at all,” Theo said flippantly, taking another swig of his
cocktail. “I mean, look at her,” he said pointing to Hermione, her mouth ajar and eyes wide.
“She’s probably just pissed herself with excitement.” She smacked Theo as Otto chuckled. “But
I’ve got to apologize to you, mate, because after hearing that she’s going to be up your arse about it
the whole time we’re here. Don’t be surprised if you find her sitting in the front of your class on
Monday morning, arm in the air before you can even begin the lesson.”

“I would love to have a student as enthusiastic as Hermione in my class,” he responded brightly.

“Oh, trust me, you don’t want to inflict that kind of suffering on your other students,” Theo
chuckled, as Hermione swatted at him again and Otto laughed heartily. “She shows up to your
class, they actually will sack you.”

“Otto actually recently created a very powerful defensive spell. It’s similar to a protego, but it also
emits a high-frequency vibration that disorients whoever you are dueling. We’ve been working
with it a lot—it’s quite effective,” Ernst said.

“Oh-my-gods-can-you-please-teach-me?” Hermione asked, realizing that in her excitement, her

words had all melded together.

Theo threw his head back in laughter. “See? What did I tell you? She’s going to be so far up your
arse about this, you’re going to need Europe’s most skilled Healer to physically remove her.”

“Happy to, Hermione,” he chuckled, stabbing another forkful of food. “We can start tomorrow
morning if you would like. It would have to be rather early though—I have to be at the Muggle
college by 9AM for Saturday class.”
“While I may not be as enthusiastic of a student,” Theo began, “I’d like to learn it as well, if you
wouldn’t mind. We could use all the help we can get.”

“I’d love to,” Otto said simply.

***

“What do you think of Otto?” Theo asked later that evening as Hermione queued up their next
movie: Hocus Pocus. She bit back a grin as she imagined Theo’s reaction to this one.

“Amazing,” Hermione responded, wheeling around to face Theo. “Absolutely remarkable. I mean
—a professor at eighteen? Creating his own defensive spells? It’s—,” she threw her hands up,
lacking the words to finish. “And he’s so humble about it too, you know? He’s great. We’re so
lucky to have him as an ally.”

“Yeah,” Theo replied, his gaze somewhat absent. Hermione studied him for a second before it
clicked.

“Oh my god, Theodore Nott, do you have a crush on Otto?!” she squealed, dashing to the couch
and bouncing around him excitedly.

“Come off it,” he said, trying to ignore her exuberance.

“Do you think he’s gay?” she asked, and he shot her a look like she had just asked the dumbest
question in the world.

“Oh, Theo, yes—I am in full support of this!” she screeched.

“Sure you’re not just trying to push me onto someone else so I finally stop pining over your
boyfriend, Granger?” he drawled, a sarcastic smile across his face.

Hermione frowned a bit and swatted him. “No, Theo, that’s absolutely not it. I think Otto is
fantastic and I think you should absolutely ask him out.” With that, Theo spit out the wine he had
been drinking.

“Me ask him out? Are you fucking mad, Granger?” he cried, shaking his head. He took another
sip of his drink, managing not to spray this one all over the living room. “He’s so fucking far out
of my league—no. Absolutely not.”

“What are you talking about, Theo?” she asked, looking at this man who, as far as she was
concerned, was quite literally perfect.

“Well, he’s older for one.”

“He’s 23,” Hermione responded, rolling her eyes. “I hardly call a five-year age gap ‘out of your
league.’”

“Then there’s the fact that he’s fucking brilliant,” Theo said.

“So are you,” she supplied plainly.

Theo’s head rolled to her, his expression exasperated. “I’m not brilliant, Granger. I have decent
spell work. That doesn’t qualify as brilliance.”

“Well, first of all,” Hermione replied hotly. “Your spell work isn’t just decent. It’s fucking
incredible. Second of all, you have to be smart to have marvelous spell work. Maybe you’re not
book smart in the way people like Otto and I are, but don’t you dare try to tell me that you’re not
brilliant, Theo. You are.” Her face was inches from his, both of them staring at each other
defiantly.

“Fine,” he said crossly. “Then there’s the fact that he’s fucking gorgeous.”

“Again!” Hermione cried, throwing her arms in the air. “So are you!” Theo looked at her like she
was completely daft. “Do not look at me like that,” she seethed. “Look, I get that it was always
Malfoy and Blaise getting the attention, but honestly half of that is just their sheer height alone.
They’re just impossible to miss. But don’t tell me that when you look in the mirror you don’t see
the same thing that I do—a heartbreakingly stunning man with perhaps the most striking eyes this
world has ever seen.”

“No, Granger,” he said softly, and something cracked in Hermione’s chest.

She grabbed both sides of his face and kissed his forehead. “Well, then, we’re going to work on it
until you do.”

***

Their wand alarms roused them early the next morning, Theo grousing the whole time they got
dressed and ready. He was not, as Hermione had learned, what one would call a morning person.

Otto, however, apparently was, as he was waiting for them in the kitchen in yet another impeccable
suit. Her eyes slid to Theo as she watched color bloom at the bottom of his neck.

They proceeded to what appeared to be a small gymnasium in the east wing of the Weber estate.
The money some of these wizarding families had continued to blow Hermione’s mind.

“I’ll be straightforward with you,” Otto began, withdrawing his wand. “Today’s instruction is
going to be boring.” Hermione opened her mouth in protest, but Otto cut her off, smirking. “And I
mean actually boring, Hermione.”

“See, the thing about Magical Physics, breaking down spells, is you have to understand each and
every aspect of spell casting. Your posture, the angle of your arm, the way you are holding your
wand. That’s where you have to start. And that’ll be all we’re working on today. Because if you
don’t get these things right, you’re just going to cast a regular protego. Which is fine, but it’s not
as good as mine.” He moved toward Hermione, standing behind her to adjust her stance.

“Actually, Otto, can you start with Theo?” she asked quickly. From the corner of her eye she could
see Theo’s head turning toward her imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing. “He’s much better at spell
work, and I think I would benefit from seeing you work with him first.”

“Oh, sure, of course,” he replied. Hermione watched—gleefully—as Otto moved behind Theo,
positioning himself such that his chest was flush against Theo’s back. Otto’s left hand moved to
Theo’s left shoulder, his fingers wrapping around it. His other hand slowly reached down Theo’s
wand arm, carefully adjusting Theo’s angle and positioning. He was giving Theo instructions, but
his voice was so low that Hermione could barely hear it. But she could see the blush creeping up
Theo’s neck as Otto’s fingers travelled delicately across his arm.

“Alder wood,” Otto commented, as his hand covered Theo’s, his fingers tracing over the contours
of Theo’s hand to fine-tune his grip on his wand. “Rare,” Otto continued, his hand still covering
Theo’s but no longer adjusting his grip. “It’s one of the most loyal wands, and attracted only to
helpful, considerate, and enormously talented wizards.”
Hermione could see Theo wordlessly turn his head toward Otto as Otto concluded his statement,
and for a few breathless, buzzing moments, the two wizards stood in an embrace with their faces
only inches apart.

“Oh, er, sorry,” Otto finally said, stepping back. “You just don’t see those types of wands very
often.” He took a breath, his focus shifting to Hermione. “Okay, let’s continue.”

***

“I know what you’re doing, Granger,” Theo whispered as she snuggled further into the crook of his
arm. They were watching Grease tonight.

“You fancy him, Theo! I can tell,” Hermione responded simply. “I’m just trying to, you know,
help things along.”

“Yeah, sure, I fancy him. Happy, Granger?” he sighed. “But he’s a stunning and prodigal
professor, and I’m—.”

“Theo, if the next statement out of your mouth is a self-deprecating remark, I swear to Merlin I will
tear your flesh from your bones, understood?”

“Gods, how is it that even when you’re not around him you’re somehow becoming more and more
like Draco every day?” he groaned.

***

Otto resumed their lessons every morning for a week. Unfortunately, because Theo was such a
talented wizard, he required very little adjusting after their first lesson. Conversely, however, his
raw talent seemed to genuinely impress Otto, who commented on it over dinner every night.

“Does Otto normally spend so much time with you? Dinner every night?” Hermione asked one
evening, her gaze on Theo and Otto chatting on the terrace. “Seems like he practically lives here.”

Annike chuckled a bit as she scrubbed at a pan in the sink. “No, this is a recent development,” she
smirked, her eyes glinting when they met Hermione’s.

OH MY GOD.

YES.

Hermione beamed, a sudden giddiness causing her blood to buzz. Her head whipped back to Theo
and Otto, her grin forming into a gaping smile as she watched Otto say something to Theo that
caused him to throw his head back in laughter. Theo returned with something equally amusing,
and Otto chuckled as he brought his beer to his lips.

“Let’s try to be discrete, shall we?” Annike mused, bringing her fingers under Hermione’s jaw to
close her mouth. “Otto’s a slow mover with these things. He was in a relationship for a long time.
When it ended, he was absolutely shattered,” she sighed. “It destroyed Ernst and me to see him
like that.” Her eyes grew misty. “But gosh, Hermione, he’s worth the wait. He loves so hard.”

Hermione felt her own eyes well with emotion. “Theo’s love hits you like a meteor strike,” she
whispered.

***
Otto was reaching for his coat when Hermione and Annike finished rustling up the dishes.

“Otto,” Hermione began, “Theo and I were going to watch a movie tonight—Good Will Hunting.
It’s quite good. Would you like to join us?” Theo subtly pinched the back of her arm in protest.

“I’d love to,” he responded, smiling. Hermione bit back a grin as she watched his eyes drift to
Theo a moment before sheepishly returning to Hermione.

“Well before you start the movie, let me pop down to the cellar,” Annike said. “I have a delicious
bottle of red that Ernst picked up when he was travelling through Provence last month.”

***

“So who was your favorite character, Otto?” Hermione asked, as the movie concluded. Theo rose
from the couch to begin collecting the empty wine glasses and strode into the kitchen to deposit
them in the sink.

“Oh, it has to be Will, right?” he responded. “I mean, he’s such a complex character. Brilliant, but
also kind and emotional. His past is so tragic and it just left him so cynical and shut down. But
then he finally opens up—lets people love him and it saves him, right? It’s just…gods, he’s a
beautiful character.”

Theo’s back was to them, so he couldn’t see what Hermione saw. That as Otto described Will
Hunting—and by proxy, Theodore Nott—a giddy smile tugged at the edges of his lips, his eyes
never once leaving Theo.
 Riesling

As they had the week before, Annike and Ernst had the younger members of the Regulation over
for dinner that Friday. Unsurprisingly, Otto arrived early, clad in his usual tailored suit. “I’ll get
started on the drinks,” he said as he strode into the room, his eyes momentarily flicking to Theo
before he reached for the cocktail shaker.

Hermione studied Otto as he prepared the drinks, sneaking glances at Theo as he completed each
step of the mixing process, with Theo completely oblivious as he clumsily tried to cut the
vegetables Annike had tasked him with preparing.

In hindsight, Hermione really should’ve caught that charging Theo with anything involving a knife
—an instrument that Hermione was almost certain he had never had the occasion to use—was a
monumentally terrible idea. But alas, she was too absorbed watching Otto watch Theo to relay that
message to Annike when she had asked Theo to take over that portion of dinner preparation.

“Fuck,” Theo hissed as a red bloomed across his palm, the knife and several carrots clattering to
the floor. Everyone’s attention snapped to Theo, but Otto reached him in a step, putting his hand
under Theo’s and withdrawing his wand and whispering a healing charm.

After watching Michael Malone perform his wordless and instant brackium emendo, Hermione had
been convinced that she would never again see healing magic that awed her. But there was magic
in watching Otto hold Theo’s hand in his that awed her and healed the fractured part of her that so
longed to see her friend inherit the world.

Otto’s charm quickly mended the cut, but Hermione watched as he lingered there for a moment
after, cupping Theo’s hand. And then he brushed his thumb over Theo’s palm where the slice had
been only moments ago. Hermione’s own skin buzzed as she watched the blush creep from the
base of Theo’s neck up through his ears until they were beet red.

Hermione briefly tore her eyes from the two of them, her gaze meeting Annike’s, Ernst’s, and
Lina’s, all bearing the same expectant expression, afraid to so much as exhale.

“Shite, sorry,” she heard Theo say, and her eyes traveled back to them. “I bled on your cuff.”
Theo’s fingers dusted the edge of Otto’s sleeve, resting for a moment on his wrist.

“It’s fine, really,” Otto chuckled softly. “Nothing a little scourgify won’t fix.” Hermione nearly
cracked a tooth when Otto’s and Theo’s gazes met and held for several fleeting seconds before the
front door crashed open, Mika and Adler tumbling loudly into the room. Otto and Theo both
withdrew quickly, Otto moving back to his station making cocktails, and Theo leaning over to pick
up the knife and carrots that had fallen onto the floor.

Fucking hell, Hermione thought, hexing Mika and Adler in her mind.

***

Otto predictably lingered after Mika and Adler departed, helping Annike, Ernst, and Lina with
miscellaneous dinner clean-up tasks. He was waiting for an invite to movie night—which
Hermione fully intended to give.

“Otto,” she began, feeling Theo pinch the skin above her hip. “Do you want to stay for another
movie tonight? Full and fair disclosure, it’s a horror movie. So close to Halloween and all.”
Hermione struggled to keep an even face as Theo’s fingers pinched an increasingly thin portion of
her skin.

“I think I can handle it,” he quipped, lifting a roasting pan into the cupboard above him.

“Oh, Ernst, can you go down to the cellar and fetch that bottle of Riesling for them?” Annike asked
as she slid glasses out from the wine rack. “I always found a Riesling goes so well with a
suspense,” she said, her eyes coyly catching Hermione’s. “Don’t you think?”

***

“Granger, turn this shite off—I hate it!” Theo exclaimed, his hands covering his eyes. She and
Otto laughed heartily as Hermione tried to peel Theo’s fingers from in front of his eyes. Hermione
had selected, of course, Halloween to watch and as it turned out, Theo was not a fan of horror
movies.

“Theo Nott,” she chided playfully, “I have seen you face down a dozen banshees and you are
telling me you’re afraid of a mortal man with a measly kitchen knife?”

“In all fairness, Hermione, as we all witnessed tonight, Theo can hardly trust himself with a kitchen
knife, let alone a masked stranger,” Otto supplied. Hermione watched as Theo lifted his hands
briefly to glare at Otto before clapping them back over his eyes.

“Ugh, tell me when the scene is over. I can’t believe Muggles actually pay to watch this fucking
shite.”

***

Hermione gathered the wine glasses as the credits rolled and Theo continued to gripe about the
movie. As she returned from the kitchen, she noticed the bottle of Riesling, unfinished, perched on
the desk immediately behind the couch. Feigning that she tripped, Hermione knocked the bottle
from the desk onto the couch…and onto Theo.

“Granger, what the fuck,” Theo hissed as Riesling splashed down the left side of his body.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, Theo. I tripped. You know me—clumsy,” she shrugged, as Theo shot her a
withering look. Predictably, however, and much to Hermione’s point, Otto grabbed a handful of
napkins from the coffee table in front of him, dabbing at the wine rolling down the side of Theo’s
face and neck.

And, just as Hermione had predicted, he lingered there—his fingers on Theo’s cheek, separated
only by a thin piece of paper. Hermione saw Theo’s breath hitch in his throat as his eyes slid to
Otto and they held each other’s gaze.

And then a clattering on the stairs. Hermione wheeled around and came face-to-face with Ernst,
her jaw rigid and eyes wild.

“Just getting some water before bed—.” He paused, and winced, realizing what he had potentially
just interrupted. Hermione slowly shook her head at him, her expression lethal. “Actually, you
know what, I just remembered that I am absolutely not thirsty,” he said as he fled back up the
stairs.

But it was too late. The moment was over.

“I should go,” Otto chuckled, setting down the napkin and pushing himself off the couch. He
pulled his coat off a nearby rack and tugged it over his shoulders. “Thanks again for the invite,
Hermione. I can’t say I enjoyed it as much as Good Will Hunting, but it was an experience.” He
smiled, his eyes lingering for several seconds. “See you two soon.”

Well, we’re getting closer, Hermione thought.

Hermione watched the door close behind Otto and turned back to Theo, smirking.

But Theo’s expression was anything but amused. His face was twisted with a raw anger that she
had never seen from him before, and it froze the blood in her veins.

“What the fuck, Granger?” he hissed, shoving her back into the wall behind her.

“Theo, I’m only trying to nudge things along,” she gasped. “You said yourself you fancy him and
—.”

“This is my life, Granger. It’s not some fucking game of Wizard’s Chess for you to play with and
manipulate!” he screamed, slamming his hand against the wall, his face inches from hers.
Suddenly, Hermione was back in that classroom a year ago, Malfoy yelling at her after she kissed
him in the hallway.

“Theo, he fancies you, I can see it. Everyone can see it—except you!”

“What makes you think he fancies me, Granger? Hmm? Because he commented on my wand
type? Because he did what any normal fucking person would do and helped heal my hand when I
sliced it? Because he helped clean up that Riesling mess you just made?” he seethed. Hermione
opened her mouth to protest further, but Theo continued. “You want to know what I see, Granger?
Do you? I see pity. After I asked—begged—you not to pity me. That’s all I see. In your eyes, in
Annike’s, in Ernst’s. Poor Theodore Nott, grew up with a dead mother and a father who hexed him
for fun and a secret that suffocated him, and is now so godsdamned damaged that he should be
grateful any time someone shows him a shred of decency.”

The force of Theo’s statement sucked the air from Hermione’s lungs. And her heart from her
chest. “It’s not pity, Theo—it’s love! We love you. We love you so much it fucking hurts and we
just want you to finally get what you deserve. Which is everything, Theo.”

“Shut the fuck up, Granger. For once in your life, just shut the fuck up.” He pushed off the wall
and brought his hand over his face, sighing heavily. “I’m so done with this shite. We’re leaving—
soon.” He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him with a flick of his wand.

At that precise moment, Hermione’s pocket buzzed. She fished out the Galleon, glowing red and
flashing Herrnschlösschen Hotel, Room No. 6 – tomorrow, 4PM.

Hermione should have felt ecstatic. And maybe somewhere a piece of her did. But she mostly just
felt…

Empty.

***

Hermione languished in bed the next morning, having been unable to sleep the night before. Her
fight with Theo rocked her to her core—the fact that he interpreted their love as pity. She clapped
her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Did her heart ache for him? Of fucking course it did. How
could it not?
But pity was the last thing she felt. The opposite, actually: admiration. Admiration for this man
who had known nothing but ugliness and fear but still somehow turned out better than the rest of
them.

Somewhere around 10AM she finally found the willpower to pull herself out of bed, splash some
cold water on her face, and head downstairs to the kitchen. Annike was behind the counter,
conversing brightly with Theo. “Good morning, Hermione!” she greeted as Hermione appeared in
the doorway. Theo’s gaze turned to her, his expression twisting into something unrecognizable.
Without another word, he strode toward the exit.

“Theo,” Hermione gasped, reaching out and grabbing his arm as he passed her. But he wrenched it
from her grip and proceeded out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She dropped her head into her
hands, quiet sobs escaping her as she felt Annike wrap herself around her and gently rocked back
and forth.

“Want to tell me?” she asked softly.

“He’s mad about my meddling with Otto,” Hermione said quietly. “But it’s more than that. Oh
gods,” she wept. “He thinks we all pity him. That we care about him because we feel sorry for
him, and not because he’s compassionate, selfless, funny, brilliant, and everything else that could
possibly be good about a person.”

“Oh, Hermione,” Annike sighed, hugging her tighter. “These things take time.”

“But we may not have time!” Hermione shrieked, pulling away from Annike. “This War is
coming and we could all be dead in a matter of months. And I just want him to a fraction of the
happiness that he should’ve had his whole life.”

“All we can do is keep trying,” Annike said, pulling Hermione back into her embrace. “He’s so
lucky to have you,” she whispered into Hermione’s hair. Hermione wasn’t sure how long Annike
held her in the middle of that massive kitchen, but it was exactly what she needed.

***

“Annike,” Hermione began cautiously, when she had finally found the strength to break away from
their embrace. “I, um, will be sleeping elsewhere tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh, Hermione,” Annike chided. “I’m not going to let you let Theo chase you out of the house.
I’m sure he’ll sort through it in a day or two. His mom was just like that.”

“It’s not Theo,” Hermione chuckled wistfully. “I, well—my boyfriend is in town for the evening,
so I’m going to spend the night at his hotel.”

“He’s welcome here, Hermione,” Annike responded plainly. “You’re an adult. I’m not going to
tell you that you can’t share a room with your boyfriend.”

Hermione blushed, and approached the next part of her admission carefully. “I appreciate it,
Annike, really. But he can’t—come here.” Annike looked at her quizzically, and Hermione took a
deep breath before continuing. “Remember last week when I told you there had been defections
and double agents within the Death Eater ranks? Well…he’s one of them.”

Annike’s eyes widened with concern and she opened her mouth to protest, but Hermione quickly
interjected. “He didn’t take the Mark willingly. Voldemort branded him when he was sixteen—as
punishment after his father failed to procure something from the Ministry of Magic and was instead
imprisoned at Azkaban.”
Annike’s expression grew contemplative, searching. Silence fell over the two witches for several
moments, as Hermione winced and waited to be further chastised.

“Draco Malfoy?” Annike gasped.

How did she—oh right. They read the Prophet. News of Lucius Malfoy’s imprisonment was
headline news for weeks following the altercation at the Ministry. And of course, Malfoy’s front
page feature on the same day that Theo’s obituary appeared in the Prophet…

“Hermione,” Annike said softly. “A double agent? He killed—.”

“No,” Hermione quickly supplied. “It was a cover story. To make sure he rose in Voldemort’s
ranks and won his trust. It afforded greater protection for Theo and me. Everything that he does—
it’s for Theo and me.” Hermione felt her vision grow fuzzy as her eyes welled.

“They’re still friends then? Teddy and Draco?”

“Best,” Hermione whispered, wiping a tear from her eye.

Annike suddenly smiled warmly. “I have something I think you would like to see,” she said, her
fingers wrapping around Hermione’s wrist and leading her out of the kitchen and through the
winding corridors of the Weber estate.

“As you can imagine,” Annike began, “even when my sister was alive, we got to see Teddy very
rarely. She would visit sometimes—alone—but Ernst refused to go within fifty kilometers of Nott
Manor.” She and Hermione were standing in front of a large, gilded cupboard, which Annike
slowly opened. It was stacked with seemingly identical leather-bound albums, which Annike’s
fingers dusted over with familiarity. “Ah,” she said, plucking one from the middle of the row,
clearly having reviewed the albums with enough frequency to know which one contained which
photos.

“But my sister certainly sent plenty of pictures.” Annike flipped the album open to reveal dozens
of moving photographs of baby Theo. Hermione gasped. A swaddled newborn Theo yawning.
Infant Theo taking his first few shaky steps. Toddler Theo running and throwing his arms around
his mum. Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips. He does look just like her.

“And if memory serves,” Annike continued, thumbing through the album before she arrived at a
specific page. “Yes, there,” she said pointing to a moving photograph in the middle of the page.
“Teddy is about a year older, no? Ilse told me he helped him when he was learning to ride a
broom.”

A squeal escaped Hermione’s lips as she watched toddler Theo, a childish curl to his brown locks,
scrunch his eyes and flash a toothy smile at the camera before he grabbed the hand of a slightly
smaller, silver-haired toddler and helped him onto a tiny broom that hovered only inches above the
ground.

***

Hermione hesitated outside of Theo’s door, steeling herself before she knocked. No response.
“Theo?” she trilled. Still nothing. “Theo, please,” she begged.

Silence.

“Malfoy is in town, Theo. I’m going to see him now. Will you please come with me? Please.
He’ll be shattered if he doesn’t get to see you.”
Crickets.

“Goddamnit, Theo!” she screamed, pounding her fist against his door.

“Leave me alone, Granger.” Not angry. Tired. Sad.

She rested her forehead against the door, tears spilling from her eyes. “I love you, Theo,” she
whispered.
 Worry

Of all the European cities he had visited in his crusade to rally allies for the Dark Lord—which,
much to Draco’s chagrin, was many—Rothenburg ob der Tauber had to be his favorite. He loved
the medieval architecture—narrow, cobblestone streets lined with half-timbered houses. Although
it was only mid-October, the Bavarian mountain town was quickly descending into winter, which
was peak tourist season here. It was easy to get lost in the crowds, most of which consisted of
European and American Muggles. Perfect for rendezvousing with a certain Gryffindor witch.

Snow began to fall as Draco took a sharp left onto Rödergasse Street, yanking the collar of his
peacoat around his neck and over his ears. He ducked into Herrnschlösschen Hotel, checking his
watch. 3:57PM. He ascended the stairs to room 6 and pushed the door open.

The room itself was not particularly large, but it was striking in that Bavarian chateau kind of way:
high ceilings, exposed wood beams, a large quilted bed. And a particularly sturdy coffee table that
Draco imagined laying Granger down on and…

Stop. Don’t get ahead of yourself like last time.

A soft knock against the door. He rose slowly, peeling the gloves from his hands and stuffing
them in his coat pocket. He steadied himself, wondering what version of Granger he would find on
the other side of the door.

There was nothing as devastatingly beautiful as Granger in her natural form. When she woke up in
the morning, hair wild, honey eyes still heavy with sleep. But this Granger, the one with wavy
black hair, muted blue eyes, and cheeks ruddy from the cold, was a close second.

But then he realized it. The slickness of her cheeks and dampness of her eyelashes was not from
the snow. She had been crying.

He pulled her into the room—into him really—his fingers racing across her: over her cheekbones,
down her neck, under her coat, down her sides, across her abdomen, down her legs. “Are you
hurt?” he asked frantically. “Granger, what’s wrong?”

She simply shook her head and wrapped her arms around his waist, sobbing into his chest. “Oh
gods, Granger,” he gasped, pulling her in tighter and kissing the top of her head. “What is it?
What’s happened?”

He felt several silent sobs rock through her before she was able to answer. “Theo,” she stuttered.
“He’s so cross with me.”

Draco exhaled in relief and chuckled into her hair. “You’re crying because Theo’s cross with
you? Granger, I hate to break it to you, but while you’re as perfect as they come, but people are
going to get cross with you sometimes. Even Theo.”

“No,” she said, her swollen and patchy and still beautiful as hell face turning up toward his. “You
don’t understand. He’s in such a bad place. I don’t know how to get him out of it. I told him I
was coming here to see you and he still wouldn’t even talk to me. He sounded so tired. So sad.”

Fuck. Not this.

“Go, Granger,” he said. “Give me the address and go. I’ll be five minutes behind you.”
“You can’t, Malfoy,” she responded. “It’s White Rose Regulation headquarters. If for some
reason you were spotted heading in there…”

“I don’t give a flying fuck, Granger,” he spat, his voice crueler than he intended. “Give me the
fucking address and fucking go.”

She recited the address to him, but paused at the doorway. “Malfoy, there’s one more thing you
need to know about who lives in the Regulation headquarters.”

***

Draco struggled to walk, and not run (and thereby attract attention), to 21 Würzburger Street. He
was grateful for the stride that his long legs provided him, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to be
there. Now.

His mind would have been reeling from what Granger had disclosed to him—that the heads of the
White Rose Regulation were none other than Theo’s maternal aunt and uncle, had he not been so
consumed with grief and worry for his best friend. His brother.

It made sense, if Draco thought about it, that all of a sudden being surrounded by unmitigated love
and affection had somehow set him off. While Draco and his parents had always been immensely
protective of Theo, there was a boundlessness to the kind of love that Granger radiated that Theo
had never experienced. And if Theo was suddenly confronted with not only Granger’s devotion,
but that of an aunt and an uncle who loved him—of course he couldn’t process it.

Merlin, Draco was worried.

There had been an ease in staging Theo’s death back in August. All it had taken was three lines on
a piece of parchment; Nott Senior hadn’t even bothered to look for Theo’s body. Draco’s parents
had searched and made inquiries, of course, but for a still-unsettling brief period. A couple days—
nothing more. Because just like everyone else who knew Theo, they weren’t surprised.

Because Theo Nott had tried to take his life on three previous occasions, the last of which landed
him in St. Mungo’s over winter holiday in their Fifth Year. It was after a party at Blaise’s, when
Daphne had drunkenly tried to make out with Theo, telling him that she thought she was in love
with him and asked him to be her boyfriend.

And so, Draco surmised, Theo struggled to process affection. Which between Granger and Theo’s
aunt and uncle, he was almost certainly drowning in now.

***

Draco hammered on the front door of the address Granger provided, an older man who was
roughly Draco’s height answering the door.

“You must be—,” he began.

Draco paid him no mind, slipping past him and ascending the stairs. He weaved through the
corridors of this house that rivaled Nott Manor until he found an open door and ducked inside.

His heart fell into his stomach as he saw Granger wrapped around Theo’s prone form in his bed, his
head facing away from Draco. There were two glass vials on his bedside table.

Draco crossed the room in three steps, anxiously bringing the vials up to his nose. A flood of relief
cooled his veins when he did.
It’s just sleeping draught.

“Fucking wanker,” Draco hissed, slapping Theo’s chest. He stirred, but didn’t wake. Draco
exhaled and collapsed onto the bed next to Theo, opposite of Granger. He pressed his head against
Theo’s chest, finding peace in the steady hum of Theo’s heart against his ear.

***

Theo finally woke somewhere around 7PM. He shot up, startled, as his eyes settled upon Draco.
“What—,” he hissed, his head whipping around to find Granger on his other side. His expression
grew serious. “No, no, Draco, you shouldn’t be here. This is Regulation headquarters. If someone
saw you coming in or out of here—.”

“You’re a fucking arsehole, you know that, Theo?” Draco said. He looked at his watch. “By my
estimation, Granger and I should be on our fourth shag, but instead, she is here glued to your side
and unwilling to leave.”

He watched as Theo’s head turned to face Granger, who regarded him with an exhausted
warmness. She leaned in and whispered something that Draco couldn’t hear, but watched as her
words melted Theo’s apprehensive expression into a warm, albeit reluctant smile, in the way that
only Granger could do. Theo wrapped an arm around her and rested his head on her shoulder, his
gaze falling on Draco. “Why didn’t you bring her into our lives earlier, mate?”

Draco’s chest seized as he reached his hand out for Theo’s. “Trust me,” Draco said, as Granger’s
head shifted on Theo’s shoulder to meet Draco’s eyes. “So much of me wishes that I had yanked
her from that train corridor Year One and we had an extra six years together.” He sighed, his eyes
melting into hers. “But then she wouldn’t be our Granger.”

***

Not long thereafter, there was a knock at Theo’s bedroom door, a man and woman—who Draco
assumed to be Theo’s aunt and uncle—appearing in the doorway, each holding a tray of food. “We
thought,” the woman began, “that we could have dinner in here tonight.” She set her tray down on
a large desk across from Theo’s bed. “We just have to make a few more runs down to the kitchen
to get the rest of the trays.”

It was strange, Draco noted, that they struggled to carry those trays when they could easily levitate
them. But he made no mention of it; he simply stood and walked toward the woman.

“I apologize for not introducing myself before, I’m—.” Before he could continue, she wrapped
him in her arms, her head tightly between his shoulder and his neck. Behind her, her husband gave
a short nod of approval.

“Thank you, Draco,” she whispered. “For taking care of him when we couldn’t.” Something
fractured in him in that moment as his breath caught in his throat, but he merely pulled back and
nodded, and watched as Theo’s aunt and uncle exited the room to fetch more trays from their
kitchen.

***

She was in his arms the moment the door closed behind them. Her legs wrapped around him as he
staggered into the wall behind her. He pressed her against it, flurried gasps escaping her lips as his
mouth worked its way down her neck and he rucked her shirt from her jeans.
Her hands worked against the buttons on his shirt, her lips peppering every freed inch of skin on
his chest as her hips began to rock against him. He leaned into her, his teeth against her neck in
attempt to release some of his arousal. He expected her to squeak or pull back, but instead…

“Oh gods, yes, Draco,” she gasped, wrapping her legs tighter around him. Draco.

Fuck. He was moments away from humiliating himself again. He carried her to the bed and
quickly shimmied her out of her pants, tracing her inner thigh with his lips. He moved to her
center, disregarding his usual teasing. She came apart in seconds.

He stood and shed the rest of his clothes before he melted into the bed with her, pulling her on top
of him. She lowered herself onto him, her pale blue eyes holding his the whole time. “Fuck,
Granger, you feel—.” She captured his mouth with hers before he could finish, slowly moving
against him.

“Draco,” she gasped as their mouths broke apart. She leaned further into him, those fucking huffy
pants returning. He ran his hand down her spine, pulling her closer. Her pace increased and he
faded into euphoria as they once more rose and crashed together.

***

“Thank you, Hermione,” he said, her first name still feeling strange on his tongue even after almost
a year of loving her.

“For the shag?” she mused, kissing his chest.

“No,” he chuckled. “For loving Theo like you do,” he said, running his hand through her wavy,
black locks.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she responded softly. “Just like I didn’t have a choice in loving you.”

He felt his eyes grow warm and then realized that Granger was wiping a tear from his cheek. “He
should’ve had someone like you, or his aunt, or his uncle in his life his whole life.” He took a
shuddering breath. “Selfishly, I wouldn’t change a thing about Theo. But Merlin, if I could go
back in time and somehow deposit him here instead of—.”

“I know,” Granger said, her thumb brushing over Draco’s lower lip. “I would turn myself inside
out if I could take away even an ounce of his pain.” She sighed. “But then he wouldn’t be Theo.
And the selfish part of me would miss him.” She planted a few more kisses to his chest before her
eyes met his again. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Gods, I love you too,” he responded. And then he chuckled. “But it’s not enough. It feels cheap
when I say it because I know millions of people say it. And what we have, fuck, Granger, it feels
different. Like it needs its own—.”

“Begin anyway,” she said simply, bringing her lips to his.

“And see it through no matter what,” he gasped against hers.

***

Morning came too early. He needed to go—he was expected in Bergamo in several hours, and he
needed time to wash up and apply a healing charm to the love bites on his neck. But he couldn’t
tear himself from beneath her; her black curls splayed over his chest, her slow, shallow drowsy
breaths.
It was still a mystery to him that the love they shared could be contained between the two of them
—the bodies of one witch and one wizard—when it felt like their love could rewrite the galaxy.

“Granger,” he whispered into her hair. She let out a deliciously soft groan in reply. “Granger, I
have to leave.”

That roused her.

Her pallid blue eyes rolled upward to meet his gaze as her hand traced his cheek. “Please,” she
gasped. “We barely had any time together.”

“But we did have time together,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. “It wasn’t what I was
expecting, but I fucking loved every moment with you nonetheless.”

The familiar pattern of denial, crying, and goodbyes unfolded.

I love you, Hermione. And I’ll see you soon.

 Dragons

Hermione shuffled into Theo’s room early that morning after Malfoy left. Theo didn’t even flinch,
he merely created space between his arm and his chest for Hermione to crawl into and wail. His
fingers rubbed against her back as he spun her stories of what life would be like, post-War when
she and Malfoy would get the fairytale ending they so desperately deserved.

Around noon, Annike insisted that Theo help her with a task in town, and Theo seemed more than
happy to oblige. Hermione watched as Annike and Theo disappeared into the winter landscape,
exhaling deeply when they were finally out of sight.

“Ready?” Ernst asked. Hermione nodded, joining Ernst in the massive fireplace in the Weber
estate drawing room. It was the first time she was travelling magically in months. Even well
outside the reach of the UK Ministry, she and Theo and Malfoy had agreed Muggle travel was
much safer. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Waldeinsamkeit,” Ernst said, wrapping his arm around Hermione as she experienced that familiar
whoosh of Floo travel.

***

Waldeinsamkeit was smaller than Hogwarts, but Merlin, its interior was grandiose. Hermione and
Ernst had Floo’ed into what Hermione understood to be their Great Hall—a domed hallway with
ornate gold detailing and Baroque architecture. Hermione would have loved to have taken hours to
observe and appreciate the structure, but she was on a mission. Ernst tugged her down a narrow
and more inconspicuous hallway.

“This is it,” he said, pointing to a cracked door at the end of the hall. “I’ll be waiting here when
you’re done.”

Hermione nodded and threw her arms around Ernst, immeasurably and unspeakably grateful for
him and Annike being the parents that Theo always deserved to have. She pulled away from him
and slowly descended toward the door at the end of the hallway.

***

The door was cracked just enough that Hermione could peer through it without being noticed. She
could see Otto, furiously scribbling something on parchment, his sleeves cuffed, his hair
disheveled and falling into his eyes. As if he reached the end of math equation that didn’t work, he
let out a frustrated exhale and set down his quill. Hermione took that as her cue to enter. She didn’t
bother knocking, as she would’ve entered his office one way or another.

“Hermione!” he exclaimed, taking off a pair of glasses. “What are you doing here? Is everything
okay?” He rounded his desk to stand before her.

Hermione took a deep breath and shook any lingering hesitation from her mind. “Look, Merlin
knows I should stop meddling, but Otto, I can’t. I have been watching you, and I think—I know—
you have feelings for Theo. I can see it. Gods, I can feel it when I’m in the room with the two of
you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione continued before he got a chance to respond. “What
I’m asking you,” she began, feeling her voice grow shaky, “is to do something about it. Theo
fancies you—he told me as much. But he will never make the first move, Otto. It’s not my place
to tell you what he had to endure growing up, but safe to say trying to survive in the Death Eater
community broke him. And he’s still just—working through it. But he fancies you.”

“It’s not that simple, Hermione,” he responded, motioning her to join him on a worn leather couch
tucked into the corner of his office. He ran his hand through his hair, sighing, as he sat. “I was
with someone for a long time. I loved him so much,” he took a deep, shuddering inhale as his eyes
began to mist, “that I overlooked the fact that he hid me. For years. I was his deep, dark secret.
I’d sit at home on a Friday night while he courted witches to keep up appearances, and I would get
whatever parts of him were leftover when he came over late at night.”

Hermione felt her eyes grow slick as she reached across the couch to put her hand over his.

“So, yes, Hermione I fancy Theo,” he sniffed. “Fiercely.” He chuckled. “Gods, I feel insane—I
mean, for all intents and purposes, I barely know him, right? But there’s just something about him
that has completely captured me. I lie awake at night consumed by thoughts of him.” His eyes met
Hermione’s, which were filled with tears.

“And it terrifies me, Hermione. To feel like that. Because last time I felt that, it completely
destroyed me. I can’t do that to myself again.”

“I can’t say it’ll be perfect,” Hermione whispered. “Or even easy. Theo is perhaps one of the most
infuriating and difficult people I have ever met. But Otto, he’s so fucking worth it.”

***

Otto showed up to dinner that night, as he almost always did, but this time visibly more nervous.
Hermione had answered the door when he rang, noticing that he was several shades paler than she
was used to.

She took the bottle of wine from his trembling hand. “Otto,” she whispered, tucking her fingers
under his chin and bringing his gaze to hers, “breathe.” His blue eyes melted into hers as he
exhaled.

“Gods,” he inhaled. “I’ll try, Hermione. That’s the best I can offer.”

“Then that’s the best I can ask for,” she replied simply, hugging him.

He walked past her into the kitchen where his breath instantly hitched in his throat. Because
Hermione had insisted that Theo put on a particularly dashing turtle-necked white jumper that
clung to him just so, and a pair of very fitted black trousers that Malfoy called “obscene” every
time he saw Theo wear them.

“Otto,” Theo greeted, as he rolled up his sleeves to help Ernst with the roast. “It’s good to see
you.”

Hermione felt Otto’s hand on her wrist, squeezing the life out of it.

***

Halfway through dinner, a horrible and frighteningly familiar howling suddenly ripped through the
air. Annike, Ernst, and Otto all stood immediately, the color draining from their faces as their
bodies went rigid. Hermione looked nervously at Theo, with him returning an equally dread-filled
expression: it sounded like banshees.
“Perchtas,” Ernst said softly. “I’m sure of it.” Without another word, the three of them raced for
the front door, Theo and Hermione scrambling at their heels.

“Let me guess—raging sky demons that suck out your soul if they touch you,” Theo deadpanned as
they reached the front door.

“Something like that,” Otto responded distractedly, pulling out his wand.

“Then why the fuck are we going out there?!” he exclaimed.

“They’ll come in if we don’t chase them away,” Annike responded.

“WHAT?!” Hermione and Theo shouted in unison.

The five of them raced to the estate’s front courtyard, spread out in a large circle with their backs to
each other. The howling grew louder until the perchtas came into view.

They were more corporeal even than the banshees: they weren’t translucent at all. And they
weren’t hooded either. Each and every one of them—Hermione counted ten—appeared as
breathtakingly stunning witches with long, white hair and white robes. Hermione struggled to
process how these creatures could be evil at all. They looked so…pure. Welcoming, even.

But that, of course, must be the design. Just as the banshees drew their victims in with their
beautiful voices, the perchtas drew them in with their physical beauty.

A round of expecto patronums echoed across the courtyard. Theo seemed to be struggling with his
again, just as he had initially in Roundstone. Hermione began to edge closer to him such that her
otter might be able shield them both, but there was no need. Because a unicorn Patronus was
thundering across the distance between Otto and Theo, rearing up against the perchtas in front of
Theo when it reached him.

Theo’s gaze shot to Otto, who had left himself utterly unprotected in order to shield Theo. But now
the perchtas were descending on Otto. And he didn’t even notice. Because his eyes were only on
Theo.

Suddenly, a chillingly familiar bone-splitting crack and flash of light echoed across the estate, once
again shattering the windows and rendering the perchtas still. When her eyes adjusted to the light,
Hermione half-expected to see Hugh standing there, as if the Malones’ Protean-charmed Galleon
somehow alerted them to the danger Hermione and Theo were in and he apparated across the
continent to save them.

But it wasn’t Hugh.

It was Theo.

Hermione watched in heart-stopping awe as not one, not two, not three, but four dragon Patronuses
erupted from his wand, rendering the night sky a brilliant shade of silver as smoke and flames
poured from their jaws, clearing the air of any trace of the perchtas.

There was a crushing silence after the sky cleared and returned to its midnight shade, Theo still
standing wand skyward, body trembling, and chest heaving. Hermione wasn’t sure how long they
all stood there, stilled and crippled with shock.

“What?” she heard Theo gasp, his body still frozen in the same position as if he had been petrified.
“What the fuck just happened?” he gasped again, his wand falling from his hand. “Did I—did I
fucking do that?”

Hermione watched as Otto moved slowly toward Theo and picked his wand from the ground.
Otto’s fingers wrapped gently around Theo’s wrist and lowered his wand arm. And then that hand
slid from Theo’s wrist to Theo’s hand, tangling their fingers together. Otto’s other hand moved to
the side of Theo’s face, his thumb brushing against Theo’s cheekbone.

Hermione’s heart was pounding against her ribs with such ferocity she could hear it echoing in her
skull.

“Your Alder Wood wand chose correctly,” Otto said softly. “Because you, Theodore Nott, are the
most exceptional and extraordinary wizard I have ever encountered.”

Theo stared at Otto for several breathless moments, chest still heaving, before he leaned forward
and captured Otto’s mouth with his.

***

“Let’s give them some privacy, hmm?” Annike said softly, tugging Hermione up the stairs as her
eyes remained fixed on Otto and Theo chatting closely in the kitchen, Otto’s thumb softly brushing
circles against Theo’s bicep and Theo’s fingers running across Otto’s jawline.

But it was “privacy” in the most maternal sense of the word, because both Annike and Hermione
remained crouched and semi-hidden at the top of the stairs, watching with baited breath as Theo
walked Otto to the front door.

“See you tomorrow,” Hermione heard Otto say as he pressed his lips to Theo’s. They continued
that way for several seconds before their kiss deepened, Otto stepping into Theo and pressing him
against the door, his hands running down Theo’s sides, settling on his hips and pulling Theo in
closer. “Gods,” Theo gasped as his hands ran up Otto’s chest and neck, tangling in his hair…

“This is not privacy, ladies,” Ernst whispered, tugging Hermione and Annike back from the
staircase and toward the bedrooms.

***

“Granger, Granger, Granger!” Theo exclaimed as he thundered into her room. He leapt into her
bed without so much as a beat, burying himself into her as she wrapped her arms around him.

“I am a lady, Theo, so I’m tempted not to say I told you so,” she said, delighting in the sound and
feeling of his euphoric giggles erupting into the crook of her neck. “But I fucking told you so,” she
whispered, as waves of Theo’s ecstasy poured over her skin.

“I know, Granger,” he quipped, his head whipping up to meet hers. “But, Granger, he—.” Theo
threw his hand over his mouth as his eyes shimmered and his face turned an impossible shade of
scarlet. “Fuck, I mean, he kissed me!” Theo grabbed Hermione’s wrists and rolled over, pulling
her on top of him. “And gods, he’s good fucking kisser!” he exclaimed, shaking her as he
squealed. He pressed his head into her shoulder again, laughs and tears bubbling against her.

Words failed Hermione rarely. But they failed her here. So she simply said nothing and wrapped
her arms around a fluttering Theo and listened to him babble excitedly until the sun began to peak
into their room the next morning.

***
There was a soft knock at her door that roused her. Theo was still under her arm, and she delicately
peeled herself away from him. She opened the door, expecting to see Annike or Ernst informing
her that breakfast was ready.

But instead she was met with a pair of warm, indigo eyes and mussed ochre hair. “Oh!” she
exclaimed softly, suddenly aware—and admittedly self-conscious—that she was in nothing but an
oversized nightshirt and boy shorts.

“Gods, sorry,” Otto supplied quietly. “Too much, isn’t it? I know you both drink coffee in the
morning and,” he put a shaky hand over his eyes. “It’s too much, right? I’m suffocating him
already.” He leaned his head against the doorframe. “Here, just take the coffee and I’ll just—.”

“Otto,” Hermione soothed, tucking a finger under his chin and meeting his gaze. “Shut up and get
in here.” She pushed the door open wider and plucked one of the coffees from the tray he was
holding. “And thank you for the coffee.”

She watched his cheeks and ears grow red as his eyes fell upon Theo, shirtless and sleeping. He
cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I went to his room first,” he
whispered. “When he wasn’t there, I figured he’d be in here.” He set the remaining coffees down
on the bedside table and pulled up a chair next to Theo’s side of the bed as Hermione tucked into
her side of the bed.

“Sorry,” she began, taking a sip of her coffee, “I know it’s weird but—.”

He waved her off, resting one of his hands over Theo’s. “It’s a bit unorthodox, sure, but you’ve
been through a lot together.” He wasn’t looking at Hermione at all as he spoke. “It makes sense.
It doesn’t bother me.”

There were several moments of comfortable silence before Otto spoke again. “Merlin,” he gasped,
his expression painfully emotive as he drew his hand over his mouth. “How is it possible for a
human being to be so beautiful?” He brought his hand up and smoothed back Theo’s hair. “It’s
not fair,” he whispered. “I never even had a chance to not fall for him.”

Hermione’s chest ached as she felt some of the broken pieces of her heart start to mend. She
watched Otto watch Theo for a minute or two before she realized she was interrupting the moment.
Their moment. It was no longer her and Theo. It was Theo and Otto. She gathered her coffee and
slipped wordlessly from the room, pausing at the doorframe as she heard Theo wake.

“Hi,” Theo breathed, slowly reaching his hand toward Otto, who took it and gently dusted a kiss to
his fingers.

***

As much of a regular figure that Otto had become at the Weber estate since Hermione’s and Theo’s
arrival, he was predictably even more so now. He was there every morning before work with
coffee for Theo and Hermione, staying for breakfast if his schedule permitted. As he had before,
he came for dinner every night, now teaching Theo how to make cocktails the Muggle way. The
trio watched movies after dinner, although it became increasingly difficult to get through an entire
movie before Theo’s and Otto’s aggressive games of footsie turned into passionate snogging as
Hermione excused herself from the room.

And each night after Otto left, there would come the familiar Granger! Granger! Granger! as Theo
thundered into her room and gushed until the sun came up.
That is, of course, until the fifth night following their kiss in the front courtyard when Theo did not
sleep in Hermione’s bed. He slept in his. With Otto.

And the frenzied Granger! Granger! Granger! came the next morning when Otto left for work.
Theo bounded from her doorway to her bed in two steps, flinging himself onto her lap, bouncing
around with such raw energy he nearly toppled them both to the floor.

“Okay, okay,” Hermione laughed, trying to get him under control. “Tell me. But Theo,” she said,
pulling his head against hers and staring him dead in the eye. “Use. Some. Discretion. Please.”

He giggled and shimmied around a bit before continuing. “Look, the lads in Muggle London were
great. Loads of fun. But last night, Granger,” he dropped his head into the crook of her neck.
“Holy fuck.”

Hermione chuckled, knowing what he meant. The difference between when Viktor had touched
her—which felt good, to be sure—and when Malfoy touched her—which turned her blood electric
and consumed her completely.

“And Granger,” Theo said, sitting up and holding his hands an exaggerated distance apart while
nodding and smirking suggestively.

“Theo!” Hermione screeched, grabbing the pillow next to her and throwing it at Theo, who caught
it, laughing. “I did not want to know that about Otto.”

“I know,” he said, beaming as he fell over beside her. “But I wanted you to know.” He kissed
Hermione’s cheek. “Because I have a big, beautiful boyfriend who has a big, beautiful—.”

Hermione clapped her hand over his mouth. “Stop!” She felt him laugh under her hand. And then
lick it. “Ugh, gross, Theo.”

She turned over to face him, propping herself up on her elbow. She watched as his face turned
contemplative, his brow furrowing and his eyes misting. “Theo?” she asked, sitting up further.
Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, stifling small
sobs. “Theo, what is it?” she asked hurriedly.

“Sorry,” he gasped, taking a ragged breath. “It’s stupid. I’m fine. Better than fine. It’s just—.”
He paused and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Tell me, please,” Hermione said, placing her hand on his chest. “If you’re comfortable.”

His eyes met hers and he took another deep shuddering breath. “It’s just—with the blokes in
London—it was good, you know? It scratched an itch.” He closed his eyes and shakily inhaled.
“But it was never anything more than ten minutes in a bathroom or broom closet. No kissing,
never facing each other, no touching—besides what was obviously required. It was a transaction.
Half the time I was occluding.” He exhaled, roughly wiping tears from under his eyes. “I thought
that’s all it ever would be. And I was fine with that. It was what it was.”

“But last night,” he sobbed, his emotion reaching such a peak that his voice became strangled—
barely a whisper. “He looked at me.” Hermione’s chest fractured at bittersweet angles.

“And not just fleeting glances. The whole time, he looked at me,” Theo gasped. “Like he wanted
to be there. With me. He…saw me.”

***
They stayed in Rothenburg ob der Tauber for another month. It was giving her anxiety, the delay.
There had been a time when nothing at all would’ve come before the urgency of their mission. But
somewhere along the way, Hermione’s love for Theo started to eclipse that sense of urgency. That
greater calling. Because even though the War was coming and they needed all the help they could
get, there was a distinct possibility that they would not survive it.

And Otto and Theo deserved more time.

But there came a morning in mid-November when Hermione sat down at the Weber’s kitchen table
opposite Theo and Otto, sighing heavily as she looked at Theo.

“I know,” he said softly, laying his head on Otto’s shoulder. Otto ran his hand through Theo’s hair,
kissing the top of his head.

“We’ve talked about it,” Otto said. “And we’ll write. And I’ll visit when you guys get settled in
each place.” He sighed, brushing a tear from under his eye. “Thank you, Hermione, for your
patience. For giving us the time that you did.”

Hermione nodded silently, afraid she would sob if she opened her mouth.

Wait.

“Actually, Otto,” Hermione began, biting back a smile. “What’s the leave policy at
Waldeinsamkeit?”

***

When Hermione purchased the train tickets from Salzburg to Rome the next morning, she
purchased three.
 Language

Original Character Casting

Sword of Cittadini (Italy)

Lucia Rossi – Marissa Tomei

Elio Micale – Jamie Blackley

Matteo Micale – Tobey Kebbell

Mia Romero – Zendaya

Hermione, Theo, and Otto were in a comfortably sized and private train compartment for their
eleven-hour voyage into Rome. They had managed to get through the entirety of Planes, Trains,
and Automobiles—including Hermione’s lengthy description of the American Muggle holiday of
Thanksgiving—before Otto began giving into Theo’s kisses against his neck, and Hermione had
excused herself to the club car for an hour.

When she returned, both wizards were dressed and decent, Otto predictably scribbling away on
parchment—he had been working on an essay about his fifth potential defensive spell, but he
couldn’t get the physics of it to work out quite right—and Theo proofreading the portions that Otto
had already written.

“Fuck!” Otto hissed, slamming his quill down on the table as Hermione sat down on her side of the
compartment.

“Otto,” Hermione mused. “I’ve never heard you swear before.”

Theo chuckled. “That’s because you’ve never twirled your—.” Hermione clapped her hands over
her ears as Otto clasped his hand over Theo’s mouth.

“I know exactly what is coming out of your mouth next, and I will not stand for that kind of
torment for Hermione,” Otto said. Theo’s eyes still glinted—Hermione knew he was grinning
behind Otto’s hand. And she knew what came next. “Damnit, Theo!” Otto exclaimed, removing
his hand from Theo’s mouth as Theo licked his lips. Otto dragged his palm down the side of
Theo’s face. “I hate it when you do that.”

“And yet you love it when I—.” Otto’s hand was back over Theo’s mouth as Otto shook his head
at Hermione.

“What are we supposed to do with him, Hermione?” Otto huffed. “Throw him from the train, you
think?”

Hermione threw her head back and laughed, propping her feet up on the table. “The only thing we
can do, unfortunately. Love him.”

“Let me look at that,” Theo said, grasping for the parchment.

“Theo, no,” Otto said sheepishly. “It’s complete rubbish. None of the angles work and—.” Otto’s
breath stilled as Theo brought his lips under Otto’s ear, slowly moving along his jawline.

“This, Hermione!” Otto exclaimed. “What I am I supposed to do with this? I can’t—.” He bit
into his hand as Theo’s mouth moved to the front of Otto’s throat.

“You give him the parchment, Otto,” Hermione chuckled, turning the page of the book she was
reading. The Things They Carried.

Theo chuckled as Otto reluctantly handed him the parchment. Theo’s eyes devoured the page for
several minutes before he spoke. “Well, what about this?” he said simply, grabbing Otto’s quill
and quickly moving it across the parchment. Theo sighed and handed it back to Otto, resuming his
proofreading on the other parts of the essay.

“Theo,” Otto gasped. “Oh my gods, Theo. This is exactly—,” he stuttered. “I’ve been working on
this for days. And you just—,” Otto inhaled sharply and grasped Theo’s face, pulling it toward
his. “You are truly the most extraordinary wizard—.”

Hermione stood wordlessly and excused herself again, ordering the heaviest wine pour that the
club car would provide.

***

Hermione was utterly exhausted by the time they arrived at a small hotel on the outskirts of Tivoli
around 10PM. After enduring eleven hours of near constant affection between Theo and Otto, she
felt momentarily relieved to be in her own room. But that relief quickly shattered into a crushing
sense of loneliness.

Ever since Otto began spending nights with Theo, Hermione had gotten used to sleeping alone
again. But that was at the Weber estate—a place that surrounded her with unspeakable love and
warmth, and felt oddly like home. Truthfully, it was the closest thing to home any of them had at
this point.

But here in this nameless hotel room in a completely foreign city hundreds of kilometers from the
person she longed to see most—gods, the atmosphere of isolation was suddenly suffocating. She
wanted to pull Theo from Otto’s arms and beg him to lay with her and tell her bedtime stories of
her fairytale ending with Malfoy until her grief finally overcame her and lulled her to sleep.

She sunk to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to self-soothe. Sobs
bubbled up from her throat, pouring onto the carpet beneath her. She thought of that night in
Liverpool back in August, when Malfoy had laid on the floor next to her for hours. And what she
would give to have him here now.

His hands in her hair; his lips on hers; his fingers tracing circles in her skin; his mouth forming her
name. Hermione. It was still “Granger” except for the most tender moments between them. She
didn’t mind it, really—there was a comforting familiarity in the names that they called each other
when they were still kids, which despite their ages, they certainly weren’t anymore.

But when he called her Hermione, she swore her heart swelled to such a size it threatened to strain
the bounds of her ribcage. Because while Granger carried with it the safety and warmth of
frivolous youth, Hermione suggested there was a future beyond that—one shed of the prejudices
that had made their love feel so impossible.

I love you, Hermione. And I’ll see you soon.

Merlin, how can the ache continue to be this bad?

She barely slept that night. Instead, she simply laid in bed, eyes glued to the Galleon on her
bedside table praying to any god that might be listening to let it flash red.

***

Theo and Otto were already seated at a table in the small dining room within the hotel, very
obviously completely absorbed in each other. Even so, Hermione’s heart brightened when she saw
them, a layer of that bruising loneliness melting away.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Otto asked as she sat down across from them. He placed his hand
over hers, genuine concern in his eyes.

“Gods, is it that obvious?” she chuckled humorlessly, shaking her head. “Sorry. I’ll get it together
before we go over to the Sword of Cittadini headquarters. I’m just,” she sighed. “I miss him. So
much. All the time. And it’s just…exhausting.”

Theo put his hand over Otto’s over Hermione’s. She smiled weakly at them. “When we were at
Annike’s and Ernst’s, it sort of dulled to this low, humming pain that felt manageable. Like I
wasn’t acutely aware of it all the time. But coming here—that empty hotel room.” She shook her
head. “I wanted to cut myself open just so I could have a physical explanation for the pain I was
feeling.”

Theo rose from the table and pulled Hermione to her feet, wrapping her in a fierce hug. “I’m
scared, Theo,” she whispered into his neck. “That the night back at Annike’s and Ernst’s will be
the last.”

“Granger, I will turn back time itself before I let that happen,” he breathed into her hair.

Behind Theo, Otto had risen from his seat and squeezed Hermione’s shoulder. “I know you’re
anxious to talk to the folks at Sword headquarters, but how about we take a stroll through town
first, huh? Might help clear your head.”

***

Otto, as usual, had been correct. They spent the morning strolling around the streets of downtown
Tivoli, popping in and out of shops and bakeries, sampling espresso, pastries, breads, olive oils, and
cheeses. The downtown area was perhaps not as picturesque as Rome, but still bore the
characteristic narrow, winding cobblestone streets lined with old stone and stucco buildings. But
the landscape around the town was breathtaking—deep, sloping hills lined with every kind of
foliage imaginable, a fine mist hovering over the crests of the hills.

November in central Italy was still brisk, but noticeably less cold than it had been in Bavaria or as
it would be back in England. So it was perfectly pleasant to meander the winding streets for
several hours, taking in the romance that was Italy in winter.

The tightening in Hermione’s chest lessened and lessened until she finally felt as though she could
breathe normally. “I think I’m ready to go, if you two are,” she said, facing Theo and Otto who
walked hand-in-hand.

“Of course,” Theo replied, wrapping his free arm around Hermione’s shoulder and kissing her
cheek. “Lead the way.”

***

“Will they speak English, you think?” Hermione asked, as they traversed the mile or so walk from
central downtown to the address Dumbledore had listed as Sword of Cittadini headquarters. “I’m
afraid my Italian is not very good. And by not very good, I mean if it wasn’t in a Federico Fellini
film, I don’t know it.”

Otto chuckled, his arm slung over Theo’s shoulders, fingers intertwining with his. “Most Italian
wizards and witches I’ve met speak both,” he said. “And if not, my Italian is pretty good—we
should be okay. Same goes when we’re in Bulgaria.”

Hermione and Theo both stopped in their tracks, also halting Otto’s movement. “What?” he asked,
looking thoroughly perplexed.

“You speak Bulgarian?” Hermione asked, flabbergasted.

“Yes,” Otto replied, as if it were the plainest thing in the world. “A few years back, there was a
book I desperately wanted to read; it was in Bulgarian, and it hadn’t been translated into any of the
languages that I can read.” He shrugged. “So I learned.”

“Any of the—exactly how many languages do you speak?” Theo asked, his tone incredulous.

“Um,” Otto said slowly, his expression contemplative. “Let’s see—.”

My gods, Hermione thought. He doesn’t even know offhand.

“English and German, obviously. And then there’s the basics: French, Spanish, Italian, and
Portuguese. Bulgarian, like I said. And Hebrew. So, eight. But honestly, my Portuguese has
gotten very rusty—I don’t know if it should count.”

Theo and Hermione met each other’s gazes, shook their heads and laughed as the trio proceeded
forward.

“Hebrew—Otto, are you Jewish?” Hermione asked, suddenly and acutely aware of the dearth of
witches and wizards of the Jewish faith she had met. Certainly, witches and wizards didn’t
practice religion in the same way that Muggles did, but many of them celebrated Christmas, no?
Why would some not also celebrate Hanukkah?

“Yes,” Otto responded plainly, planting a kiss to Theo’s temple. “Well, not fully, I suppose. My
mom is only half. But my grandmother on my dad’s side is a Holocaust survivor. Dachau.”
Hermione halted again. “You mean, there were witches and wizards who were—were in in the
Holocaust?” she stammered. “How—how did the rest of the wizarding community let this
happen?! And why on earth were we never taught this in school?! I mean, it could have easily
been the subject of either Muggle Studies or History of Magic!”

“Mm, I can venture a guess,” Otto mused, pressing his lips to Theo’s temple again.

They fell into a comfortable rhythm again before Hermione posed her next question. “Okay, so
what are Italian witches and wizards like?”

“Gods, loud,” Theo hissed, rolling his eyes mere moments after Hermione had a chance to get her
question out.

“Theo, you’re loud,” Otto and Hermione said in near unison.

“They’re fantastic,” Otto quickly corrected. “Very warm and welcoming. Honest. Tend to have
problems with boundaries—they want to know everything about you. But it comes from a good
place. And enormously talented. The Italian wizarding bloodlines run back farther than most, so
they tend to have a lot of natural talent.”

“Thank you, Otto,” Hermione playfully chided, looking at Theo. “That was actually helpful.”

***

They arrived at 1 Via Rosario Romeo slightly after 1PM. As were many of the buildings in Tivoli,
it was a stucco and stone structure, although it was set back from the road a bit; a small courtyard
separated by a brick wall covered in ivy delineating the edges of the property.

“Otto,” Hermione breathed. “Maybe you want to take this one, just in case?” Hermione asked.

“Sure, Hermione,” he said softly, taking Dumbledore’s letter from Hermione’s hand. He knocked
politely on the door, stepping back as they heard a shuffling behind it.

A stunning, dark-featured woman who Hermione guessed to be in her late forties or early fifties
answered the door, her expression even, yet somehow also warm.

“Lucia Rossi?” Otto asked. An exchange in Italian occurred, Lucia’s already-warm expression
melting further as she spoke with Otto. He pointed to Hermione and Theo—Hermione could at
least pick on their names. By the end of the exchange, she was smiling at all of them.

“Come in, come in,” she said in English. “Lunch is nearly ready.”
 Pain

The Manor had been still all morning. As he did at such times, Draco carefully ducked into the
ballroom and sat at the grand piano tucked into the corner of the room. His fingers delicately
brushed the keys before he started playing.

It was a song from a Muggle musical that Granger had told him was her absolute favorite that
evening they first made love and stayed up all night talking. Her parents had first taken her to see
it at the Royal Opera House in London when she was seven. They took her again at eleven and
thirteen. “My heart always broke for the Phantom. He would’ve done anything for Christine, but
the world branded him a monster. She was the only person who could see past it.”

It spoke to Draco for obvious reasons.

And when Draco, Granger, and Theo began studying together in that remote room in the library,
she would sometimes sneak her boombox in and play songs from the musical that she had on a
tape. Theo griped near constantly, but Draco loved it. He would watch her working furiously on
her Runes or Arithmancy or Potions homework, her mouth absentmindedly moving to the words of
the song, a delicate smile tugging at her cheeks when her favorite parts would play. It was hard to
pick a favorite memory of Granger, but that was in his top ten.

After she and Theo left for Dublin, he spent the afternoon in Liverpool and found a Muggle music
shop that sold sheet music. He studied it until he had the song memorized, and then carefully
disposed of the evidence. And when the Manor felt particularly empty, such as it did today, Draco
would sneak into the ballroom and play the song until his fingers grew sore, pretending he was
back in that room, watching Granger whisper along the lyrics to the song she loved so much.

Suddenly he was aware of another presence in the room, as his mother tucked into the bench next
to him, her hand instinctually reaching out to cup his cheek. “You still play so beautifully, Draco,”
she hummed. “But I don’t recognize the song.”

“Oh, well,” Draco stammered, removing his hands from the keys. “That’s because it’s a song from
a Muggle musical. Sorry. Picked it up at school. I just—really liked it.” He cast his glance
downward, afraid of what he might find if he looked his mother in the eye.

He felt her hands over his, pressing them back to the keys. One of her hands then moved to his
hair, brushing it from his face. “You’re allowed to enjoy some of those things, my heart,” she
cooed. His gaze met hers, the surprise evident in his expression. She chuckled softly. “Well,
certainly don’t advertise it, Draco. But if it brings you joy, please play it. It’s a beautiful song.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder as he resumed playing. “What’s it about? This musical?”

“A monster in love with an angel,” he replied softly.

“Does he win her heart?” she whispered.

“No, but he sees it through to the very end anyway.”

***

Blaise arrived at the Manor later that evening, having informed Draco that he had something
important he needed to discuss with him. Draco winced at the thought; not that he and Blaise were
not still incredibly close friends—they were—but Blaise was still on his mission to ferret out any
and all secrets and rumors roaming the halls of Hogwarts, including movements of Order members.
So while anytime Blaise invited himself over to discuss something, there was generally a
completely innocuous explanation, there was always that risk that Blaise had caught onto
something potentially earthshattering.

But the news was not what Draco was expecting at all.

“Blaise,” Draco gasped, unable to tear his eyes from the extravagant diamond ring glittering in a
box in Blaise’s open palm.

“I think this one came from husband number four,” Blaise replied simply. “It was the nicest one
so,” he shrugged. “Seemed only right to give her the best one.”

Draco’s eyes met his friend’s, perplexed. “I didn’t realize that you and Daphne were so serious,”
he said, the shock still ringing in his voice. “I mean I know you fucked around in school, but still.”

“Well, we’re not in school anymore, are we? I mean not really. I’m there, but not for the studies
per se.”

“True, but Blaise, I mean, I guess I just didn’t realize you loved her. I knew you fancied her, and
I’m fond enough of Daphne, but proposing?”

“I fancy her enough,” Blaise responded matter-of-factly. “And if she’s married to a Death Eater,
the Dark Lord might not make her take the Mark. Because that’s the way it’s looking for her now,
mate, with Astoria—.” Blaise’s voice hitched and Draco nodded. Say no more.

Three weeks after the Ministry fell, it was discovered that Astoria was in a relationship with Ron
Weasley. Unlike Draco and Theo, she hadn’t had the foresight to request occlumency lessons from
Snape.

She had been tortured for weeks on end in an attempt to solicit information as to his whereabouts,
with it being the common understanding that he was gallivanting the country with Potter and She-
Weasley. That Slytherin loyalty came through for Weaselbee, but at a grave cost for Astoria.

None of it had been so bad that it left her St. Mungo’s-level incapacitated, but suffice to say at the
moment, it appeared Astoria wouldn’t be able to do much besides perhaps keep house and bear
Pureblood children. And as the sole remaining viable heir of the Greengrass family, Daphne was
now a soft target for branding.

Draco grabbed Blaise’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Blaise,” Draco said softly, meeting his
friend’s dark eyes. “And I’m sorry—the first words out of my mouth should’ve been
congratulations.” They both chuckled a bit, but there was no humor to it.

“No—I understand. Look, in a perfect world, we’d all be free to marry whoever we want, when we
want. Merlin knows I wouldn’t be Daphne’s first pick in that world,” he sighed, his eyes misting.

Theo.

Even after the debacle that preceded Theo’s last suicide attempt, it was plain as day to anyone with
eyes that Daphne had always fancied Theo. For a while Draco thought it was because Nott—as
opposed to Zabini—was Sacred Twenty-Eight, but when even Theo’s tumultuous fall from grace
after his temporary St. Mungo’s commitment failed to shake her apparent affection for him, Draco
realized it was something more.

Theo had never even hinted at sharing any of Daphne’s affections, telling Draco he thought she
was “petty and odious”—which might’ve been fair for Pansy, but seemed harsh for Daphne. Even
so, Theo had always been a square peg in a round hole in the Death Eater community, so it made
sense to Draco that despite the expectation that he would, Theo had no intention of ending up with
a witch from a Sacred Twenty-Eight family.

“I miss him,” Blaise said softly, finally replacing the ring box to his trouser pocked. “Salazar, he
drove me crazy and I envied how close the two of you always were,” he sighed. “But I would do
anything to have him back.”

“Yeah,” Draco agreed quietly. “It wasn’t fair. Theo was never cut out for this life.” It’s not a lie.

“How’s your mum?” Blaise asked.

“Um,” Draco began, crumbling a bit before he could answer. His mother had been near catatonic
for an entire week after they found Theo’s note. While perhaps not with the same rawness as
Granger or Theo’s aunt, Narcissa Malfoy loved Theo Nott fiercely, and his death had shattered
what few remaining whole pieces there were with her. Watching her unravel at Theo’s death left
Draco with some gratitude that he hadn’t staged his own. His mother would’ve never survived it.

“She’s…better,” Draco responded finally. “But not great. She’s lost a son, for all intents and
purposes.”

Blaise nodded stiffly, actively trying to hold his tears in his eyes. A few introspective moments
passed before Blaise finally broke the heavy silence and attempted to move on from the soul-
crushing topic they had wandered into. “And what about you? You haven’t been dating much.
And by much, I mean at all.”

Draco chuckled wryly. “Pool’s pretty dry, Blaise,” he retorted. “And if you haven’t noticed, I’m
travelling constantly. Not a great gig for a guy looking for a steady date.”

“Oh please,” Blaise rolled his eyes. “There’s not a Death Eater-adjacent witch alive that would
turn down the opportunity to be with you.”

Draco smiled and shook his head. “Well, as you said, we’re not exactly free to choose here. The
Dark Lord is apparently trying to arrange a match between myself and some nineteen-year-old
witch who is a member of Bulgaria’s Sacred Eleven, but we’ll see. I’m not particularly hopeful.”

“Why is the Dark Lord himself trying to set you up?” Blaise scoffed.

“I think he doesn’t love the idea of me roving around Europe untethered. Too much room for
temptation and gods forbid, a non-Pureblood Malfoy heir,” Draco chuckled.

“Salacious,” Blaise mused, wiggling his eyebrows. He paused. “So, you gonna invite me to dinner
or what? I’m starved.”

***

When he wasn’t travelling, Draco had taken to spending long portions of his evenings in the
dungeon below Malfoy Manor. It was a positively morose place, and Draco had always been
terrified of it when he was growing up. But the dungeon had remained virtually empty since the
cessation of the First Wizarding War and Draco now found it a convenient place to go when his
agony over Granger felt so consuming that he feared his occlumency couldn’t shield it.

It grew worse every day—the ache and the longing. To have seen her in such quick succession in
France and then again in Germany—as brief as it was—and to now have gone six weeks without
her…gods, it was unbearable. His mind traveled back to that room in Honfleur, the framed moving
photograph she had of him and Blaise. Something for her to look at and talk to when she missed
him. He didn’t even have that.

She existed only in his mind—drenched in honey, lemon, and parchment, her curls splayed across
his chest, her sleep-thick, tawny eyes turning up to reach his. The splays of pink that would reach
across her cheeks as his lips moved down her neck. Her smirk, her laugh, her lips forming around
his name. Draco.

How could it be possible that if they lost this War, all that would exist of their all-consuming, soul-
crushing, heart-rending love would be memories and spare newspaper clippings?

He was screaming at this point, crouched and curled on the floor of the dungeon. Tears, spit, snot,
all of it rolling down his cheeks and chin, soaking the floor below it. It was ugly, harsh, messy—
but he needed to get it out. A purge.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid on the floor, screaming—it could’ve been seconds, minutes, or
hours. Time ceased to exist when he was in the throes of his grief. But eventually he righted
himself, drained, and slouched against the wall behind him.

Quite to his surprise, his gaze was met by that of a similarly silver-blonde waif with pale blue eyes
standing behind the dungeon door.

“Are you okay, Draco?” she trilled.

***

“Why the fuck is Luna Lovegood in the dungeon?” Draco spat as he thundered into the kitchen.
His mother made a small noise, shakily replacing her tea cup into its saucer while her jaw
tightened. His father, however, only briefly looked up from the Prophet and took a lazy sip from
his cup before responding.

“Xenophilius had been refusing to change his editorial stance in the Quibbler with regard to the
Dark Lord and his mission. We were hopeful that he might reconsider his position with regard to
the Dark Lord if we had a bargaining chip that he cared to have back.”

Narcissa pressed her fingers to her lips as white hot anger flashed through Draco’s veins. “How
long as she been down there?”

“A few days,” his father responded simply, failing to even meet Draco’s stare.

“And has Xenophilius reconsidered his position?” Draco growled.

“He resigned from the Quibbler effective yesterday morning.”

“Then why is Lovegood still in our dungeon?” Draco asked, involuntarily advancing toward his
father.

His father shrugged. “Well, that’s not exactly what we asked, Draco. Xenophilius has a loyal
following of readers. His resignation just signaled further dissention and disapproval.” He brought
his cup to his mouth and took a sip, his eyes moving from Draco back to the Prophet.

“So, what—we’re just going to keep her locked in the dungeon forever?”

A wry chuckle left his father’s lips. “Why are you so preoccupied with this, Draco? Some
schoolyard crush perhaps?” His father shook his head, chuckling more. “She will remain in the
dungeon for the short term. After the Dark Lord is successful in his mission, efforts will be made
to determine her blood purity. If, as we suspect, she is Pureblood, then there will be a use for her.
If not,” his father sighed, “she will be disposed of.”

A strangled sound died in his mother’s throat that Draco’s father either didn’t hear or flatly
ignored.

“She’s sixteen,” Draco spat. His father issued no response, his stare still fixated on the paper.
“Look at me when I am speaking to you, Lucius,” Draco growled, his tone low and
uncharacteristic toward his father. Lucius’s head turned slowly, his expression indignant.

“I want her moved to one of the bedrooms in the North Wing,” Draco said evenly. His mother’s
gaze shot to him, eyes wide with shock and something else that Draco couldn’t quite place. Pride,
perhaps? Awe, appreciation, maybe. But Draco’s father just threw his head back in laughter. “She
is a prisoner, Draco, not a guest. My gods. Absolutely not.” He turned his head back to his paper,
taking another sip of his tea. “Run along now, Draco.”

Something in Draco shifted—cracked. “You afraid that if you let her out of the dungeon, she’ll
kick your arse again just like she did at the Ministry?”

The air was sucked from the room. His mother’s face was drained of color and grew wide with
alarm, and his father was on him in a second, pushing Draco against the wall behind him. “Do you
know who you are talking to, Draco?” he hissed.

Draco straightened, now maybe two or three inches taller than his father. “I think the correct
question, Lucius, is do you know who you are talking to?” Something in his father’s furious
expression faltered. “Because I have succeeded everywhere that you failed. I am the Dark Lord’s
third in command and you are nothing to him. So unless he has said otherwise, I am telling you, as
your superior, to move Lovegood from the fucking dungeon to one of the spare bedrooms in the
North Wing. Right. Fucking. Now.”

His father’s face had fallen completely, his grip on Draco’s collar loosened. Draco shoved him
back. “Did you hear me? Because I don’t see you moving.” His father’s jaw was tight, an icy fire
in his silver eyes. But he left the kitchen toward the dungeon without further protest.

A stunning silence fell between Draco and his mother for several moments before she rose and
placed her hand to the side of his face. “She may not be being kept in the dungeon under his direct
order, but he will punish you for moving her to something nicer,” she whispered, her voice
cautious, but tinged with something else that Draco again could not place.

“I know,” Draco exhaled. “But it’ll take him a while to figure it out. And during that time, she
doesn’t have to sleep on a dirt floor.”

His mother’s blue eyes met his, tears shimmering in them. “You make me very proud, Draco,” she
said softly before she exited the kitchen.

***

It took the Dark Lord three days to discover that Draco had ordered Luna Lovegood moved from
the dungeon to a spare room in the North Wing of the Manor. He was upset, to be sure, but Draco
had curried enough favor at this point that the punishment was minor by most standards: thirty
seconds of the Cruciatus Curse.
Merlin, it was the most extreme form of pain Draco had ever endured. But then it was over.
Draco could understand and appreciate that type of pain. At least it went away. His anguish over
his separation from Granger—now that was true torture.

Narcissa had insisted that Draco take a few days to recover, which he was grateful for. The agony
of the Cruciatus was long over, but as it turns out, the unnatural and grotesque writhing your body
does while under the curse can really take it out of a wizard.

He was exhausted and heartbroken and reveled in the idea of slugging some sleeping draught and
passing out for an inordinate amount of time.

***

When Draco awoke next, Pansy was sitting bedside, reading a book. “Hey,” she said quietly when
she realized his eyes were open. Draco shifted uncomfortably—it had been a long time since
Pansy had seen him only half dressed.

But Pansy had calmed considerably since last year, and her occasional presence at the Manor to
visit either Draco or his mother was not terribly uncommon. It wasn’t surprising to Draco, the
change in her demeanor. Because the Dark Lord had branded Pansy the week after the Ministry
fell, and Draco knew all too well how the Mark tended to change you—and not necessarily in the
way the Dark Lord intended.

The Dark Lord had a clear preference for wizard followers, believing them to be inherently more
skilled than their witch counterparts. It was short-sighted, to say the least, as anyone who had met
Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix LeStrange, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, or Ginny
Weasley could easily tell you. But the Parkinsons had borne only one child—a girl, Pansy—and as
the Dark Lord’s reach throughout the UK grew, so did his need for foot soldiers.

In addition to taking the Mark, some months ago Pansy had met a dark wizard several years her
senior who was a member of Italy’s version of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and seemed legitimately
pleased with the pairing. Thus, her animosity toward the former lover who jilted her seemed to
have waned.

“How are you feeling?” Pansy asked, something close to earnest concern in her eyes as she closed
the book she was reading and scooted her chair closer to Draco’s bedside.

“Fine, honestly,” he responded. “It was less than thirty seconds. I’m just tired.”

“I don’t understand why you did it, Draco,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean it’s Looney. And
you had to know he would punish you for that.”

Draco sighed. “I’ve never held Lovegood in particularly high regard, Pansy. You know that. But
she’s also sixteen and scared and living in a dungeon on a dirt floor for no reason other than
something her father did.” His gaze rolled to hers. “I would think it plainly obvious why that
would bother me.”

“But to risk being crucio’ed for it?” Pansy prodded.

“Thirty seconds of discomfort was a small price to pay for Lovegood getting three days of basic
human decency, Pansy,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She chuckled. “I barely recognize you from the boy I dated, you know that?” she asked. Not
hostile, just observant.
“Good,” Draco responded flatly.

A silence fell between them, and Draco hoped that Pansy would just leave. He didn’t have the
same disdain for her that he did last year, but he also couldn’t say he particularly cared to spend
time with her either.

“There’s been word that the Order is rallying allies across Europe,” Pansy said softly.

“That would make sense,” Draco responded absently.

“It’s them, isn’t it?” she asked, her tone so hushed Draco barely heard her.

“Who?”

“Mudblood and Theo.”

There was a cracking sound in Draco’s skull as his world crashed down around him. He tried to
occlude—bring himself to that cottage on that hill, watching the heather blow in the salty air. But
his mind was short-circuiting and instead he remained there in his room, Pansy bedside, that smirk
she donned when she knew she was right about something spreading across her cheeks. He didn’t
even have to look at her to know it was there. He could feel a cold sweat breaking out on his
forehead, down his neck, and across his chest.

He took a shaky breath before he continued. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Pansy,” he
said weakly, knowing full well that she could see right through him.

“I know what you look like when you’re in love, Draco. Because you used to look at me that
way.” She chuckled wistfully. “Albeit for a briefer amount of time than I would like to admit.”
She reached up and brushed his hair back. “I know I wasn’t wrong about you and her.”

“You were at first,” Draco whispered.

“I could see it—when you would steal glances of her in the Great Hall at breakfast. When you
would pass each other in the corridors. When you would look behind you walking to the front of
Potions.” She sighed. “And I saw her there with Theo when you were in the infirmary. Then you
started disappearing at night.” Her voice was soft, her eyes boring into his, but not in the intense,
rage-fueled way they used to in school. “If you’re worried that it was terribly obvious—don’t. I
doubt anyone else noticed. But not everyone else was in love with you.”

Draco nodded stiffly, and she continued. “So, to everyone else, it looked like an odd coincidence.
That Hermione Granger and Theo Nott died within a day of each other before the War had even
really started.”

“Pans—,” Draco began.

“I won’t tell anyone, Draco. I promise.” She sighed. “I won’t pretend like I understand it—your
infatuation with the Mudblood—.”

“It’s not an infatuation, Pans. And don’t call her—.”

She ignored him, continuing. “And I won’t pretend that I don’t think it’s disgusting, or that I won’t
try to talk you out of it if we somehow all make it out of this alive. But the days of me going out of
my way to hurt you are long gone.”

Their eyes met, an unspoken truce unfurling between the two former lovers.
“Tell Snape that I said you need occlumency lessons,” Draco replied finally, looking forward
again.

Pansy chuckled. “He’s been teaching me occlumency since August.” Draco’s head shot back to
her. “Like I said, Draco,” she whispered, kissing his cheek and standing to leave. “I’m done
hurting you.” She left the room without another word.

***

Draco still spent most of his evenings in the dungeons, but he replaced his Granger-related wailing
sessions with time spent with Lovegood. He would have to wait until nearly everyone else had
gone to bed, but then he would sneak down to the dungeon, often bringing food, books, and games
under a disillusionment spell. Most nights he would transfigure the ratty blanket she had been
given into a bed and watch over her for several hours while she got to sleep on something other
than a dirt floor.

She was remarkably pleasant despite the depravity of her current captivity. She always greeted him
brightly and asked lots of questions about the world outside of the dungeon, seemingly without an
ounce of resentment in her voice. But he could see the sadness in her eyes sometimes when she
looked away from him, her mind taking her elsewhere.

“Your color has changed,” she said one evening as they played a game of Wizard’s Chess.

Draco had become accustomed to Lovegood’s eccentricities but this one still left him puzzled.
“What in the bloody hell are you going on about, Lovegood?” he muttered, realizing she was about
to take his queen. Fuck.

“The color behind your eyes,” she said airily. “It used to be this black iridescence. You know,
dark, but multicolored when touched with light.”

Merlin, Draco thought to himself, suddenly hoping to speed up his queen’s demise and return to his
room.

“But now, it’s lighter. Barely dark at all,” she sighed, looking at him distantly as her hand brushed
the side of his face. “You’ve changed, Draco. You’re better.”

***

Then, one night, as Draco descended the stairs into the dungeon, he heard a light weeping. He
quickly discarded the disillusioned items in his hands and wordlessly flicked open the dungeon
door, finding Luna huddled in a corner, crying. He was at her side in three steps, hand on her
back.

“Lovegood, are you hurt?” he asked gently.

“I want to go home,” was all she said. His chest contracted like it had just taken a direct stunning
spell, and his eyes began to sting.

He shuffled backward a bit until his back was against the wall behind him. And just like he had
learned to do with Granger, he pulled Lovegood into him, her back firm against his chest. He
tucked his legs up so they were close against her sides and wrapped his arms around her as tightly
as he could without crushing her. He laid his head on her shoulder and waited, listening as slowly
her ragged breaths grew more fluid, the heaves of her chest becoming softer.

These weren’t the kind of transferable War-time skills he was expecting to acquire, but they were
proving beneficial nonetheless.

“Close your eyes, Lovegood,” he whispered, “and tell me about home. Every detail. Like we’re
there.” She spoke for hours, laughing and crying at equal intervals. When morning came, they
were still huddled there in that awful, dank dungeon that Draco hated so much, but for several
hours, Lovegood had gotten to go home.
 Out

Original Character Casting

Marko Krali Resistance (Bulgaria)

Piotr Rusev – Luke Evans

Elitsa Petrov – Nell Tiger Free

Theo and Otto had both been correct about Italian witches and wizards. They were loud. Gods,
were they loud. But they were also warm, honest, and affectionate beyond measure. And
enormously talented.

The Sword of Cittadini had agreed to join forces with the Order of the Phoenix and the rest of its
allies with very little resistance. They were immeasurably impressed with everything that
Hermione, Theo, and Otto could tell them at this point: what they knew about horcruxes and their
connection to Voldemort’s power, that there were high-ranking double agents in the Death Eater
ranks, the raw talent of the Irish wizards, the allegiance with the French, the devotion of the
Germans…and of course the awe-inspiring spectacle that was Theo and Otto as they enhanced and
showcased the defensive spell that they had developed together, which no one seemed to be able to
penetrate despite their best efforts.

Italy was the first time that Hermione really took stock of the raw wizarding talent that the Order
was accumulating on its side. She stood on the veranda with Lucia, watching as the Micale
brothers—Elio and Matteo, Sword members and regulars at headquarters—tested the boundaries of
Theo’s and Otto’s defensive spell. Mia Romero, another regular at headquarters and a few years
older than Theo and Hermione, appeared next to Hermione and Lucia on the veranda. She shot a
hex downward at Theo and Otto. They hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction, but the spell
still deflected it.

“They’re good,” Mia said, taking a sip of the wine in her hand. “Really good.”

Hermione felt Lucia’s arm wrap around her shoulders. “Take some time off,” she whispered into
Hermione’s ear. “Take Theo and Otto and Mia and Elio into Rome for an evening or two, and just
have fun.” Lucia’s eyes met Hermione’s. “Let loose. You deserve it.”

The Hermione of several months ago would’ve protested, insisted that she and Theo and Otto
remain in Tivoli, learning its history and that of the Sword in order to cement the alliance between
it and the Order. She would have argued that they didn’t deserve to be out drinking, laughing, and
acting like kids when she knew that those like Malfoy, Harry, Ron, and Ginny were sacrificing so
enormously.

But as she stood there on that veranda, she recognized that she and Theo and Otto had sacrificed,
albeit differently and perhaps less drastically than others. And refusing themselves the occasional
creature comforts of what would otherwise be a normal life certainly didn’t lessen the burden that
others were shouldering. And mostly, Hermione craved to step out of herself for a night or two,
hoping that it might temporarily lift the heaviness in her heart.

“Thanks, Lucia,” Hermione said warmly. “I think that’s a great idea. Do you think Matteo would
like to join as well?”

Lucia chuckled and shook her head softly. “Matteo is in his mid-thirties. He’s past his partying in
Rome phase,” she mused. “Plus, I have plans for him this weekend.” She raised an eyebrow
suggestively and took a sip of her wine, while Mia snorted next to her. Hermione felt her eyes
bulge. Lucia was striking and refined in a way that only Italian women could pull off, for sure, but
she had to be fifteen years Matteo’s senior.

“What, Hermione?” Lucia asked, smiling. “Men do it all the time. Why not us?” She winked.
“Word to the wise, Hermione, take a younger lover at some point in your life. Very devoted and
very eager to please.”

Hermione tried to hide her smile behind her wine glass. While a year was probably not younger by
Lucia’s standards, the description did fit Malfoy quite well.

***

Rome was less than an hour by car. It was a tight fit—Hermione, Theo, Otto, Elio, and Mia all
jammed into Lucia’s Fiat, but even the drive began to ease some of the thickness in Hermione’s
chest. They joked and gossiped—most of it about Lucia’s and Matteo’s sex life, much to Elio’s
chagrin—and blasted Muggle music, even though Hermione and Otto were the only ones who
tended to know the words to the songs.

Elio was perhaps best described as an Italian version of Theo (loud) and they played off each
other’s energy perfectly—except that is, when Elio made not-so-subtle advances toward
Hermione, at which point Theo’s inner Malfoy would come out and he would threaten to break off
Elio’s hands, or some other rather critical body part.

They arrived at a small inn near the center of the city. Hermione and Mia decided to share a room
—Hermione was relieved, she wasn’t sure she could stand another empty hotel room by herself.
Theo and Otto were of course sharing a room, with Elio being the sole lone wolf—although he
invited Hermione to share if she so pleased. Theo shot a watered down stinging hex at him, which
Otto deftly diffused before it even came close to reaching Elio.

Hermione sighed as she tried to transfigure her clothes into something that bordered on appropriate
to wear to a club in Rome. Mia appeared over her shoulder, resting her head on it. “Don’t worry,
girl. I got you.”

“Mia, this is—.” Hermione lost her words as she inspected the outfit that Mia had swaddled her
in. And with the way the clothes fit, swaddled was the correct verb.

“Hot,” Mia winked, admiring her handiwork. She had clothed Hermione in a black long-sleeved
shirt with a deep V-neck that fit her like a second skin. She was wearing similarly fitting black
moto leggings and black wedges. Mia had also glamoured Hermione with the same smoky
makeup that Ginny had twice done for her.

“Godric, I’m going to kill myself in these wedges after a few drinks,” Hermione chuckled. “Maybe
I should switch them for flats?”

Mia shot her an incredulous look. “Absolutely not!” she exclaimed, feigning offense. “Beauty is
pain, Hermione. You keep on the wedges. If you roll an ankle, that’s what healing charms are
for.”

They gathered in Elio’s room for a few drinks before they headed out to the clubs. When
Hermione and Mia entered the room, Theo’s and Otto’s jaws dropped.

“Merlin, Hermione, that’s the first time my cock has ever twitched for a woman,” Theo gasped as
Otto spluttered on his drink and Mia threw her head back in laughter. Elio opened his mouth to say
something, but Theo hit him with a silencing spell. Otto sighed and rolled his eyes, counteracting
the spell after Elio finished whatever hormone-fueled compliment he had intended to say to
Hermione.

“Malfoy would think it’s obscene,” Hermione chuckled.

“No,” Theo corrected. “Draco would come in his pants.” The room erupted in laughter. “And
then he would shag you on absolutely every surface in this room. And after that—.”

Otto hit Theo with a silencing spell, winking at Hermione as Theo shot him a withering look.
“From what I understand of your relationship, I doubt he’s wrong, but I thought I would spare the
room the blow by blow,” Otto said. Hermione smiled appreciatively at Otto.

“I, for one, would’ve liked to have heard it,” Elio jested, as Theo’s ireful gaze shot to him. From
Hermione’s reading of his lips, Theo was getting ever more creative with his threats. Otto
chuckled and quickly kissed Theo’s cheek, releasing the silencing spell.

The room settled after that as the group continued to sip on the cocktails that Otto had, of course,
expertly made, and played a few drinking games. Just as the alcohol had begun to make her mind
mercifully fuzzy, they departed for the club.

***

Despite being concealed in your traditional stone and stucco Roman building, the club had a
cavernous interior with the predictable blasting music and flashing lights.

“Is this place safe for—,” Otto pointed to himself and Theo. Hermione’s heart seized a bit,
remembering that even outside the Death Eater community, their relationship left them at risk—
even in the Muggle world.

“Oh, of course,” Mia supplied quickly. “Most of the clubs around here are, and we wouldn’t have
brought you somewhere we didn’t think was.”

“Great,” Otto exhaled, planting a quick kiss to Theo’s head. “I’ll grab the first round of drinks.
Any requests?”

“Yeah—fucking alcohol,” Elio quipped, grabbing Hermione’s hand and spinning her around. Otto
chuckled and headed toward the bar while Theo’s eyes fell hard on Elio.

“Mind your hands mate, I’m fucking serious,” Theo hissed as he wrapped himself around Mia and
began dancing with her. Elio threw his hands up in an exaggerated manner as he continued to
dance with Hermione.

Otto returned with the drinks, and they were gone shortly thereafter with Theo, Mia, Elio, and
Hermione taking turns buying rounds in relatively quick succession. Hermione’s mind slipped into
oblivion as they continued dancing: her and Elio, then Theo, then Mia, then Otto. And back to
Elio.

He was minding his hands. Kind of. Not really. She could see him watching Theo, his hands
becoming more intrepid when Theo was dancing with Otto and completely enraptured. And then
his hands would explore her hips, trace her spine, and dust her collarbone. He whispered to her in
Italian, his lips against her ear. She couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she didn’t want
him to stop talking to her.

Sober Hermione would’ve protested. Shyly shaken her head and danced away before he had a
chance to even touch her. But it felt good to have someone’s arms around her in that lustful,
longing sort of way. She missed that feeling of being craved and wanted.

Because while her mind was deliciously clear of any thoughts of the War, Lord Voldemort, Death
Eaters, the Unforgiveable Curses—she still missed Malfoy. No amount of alcohol could erase that
longing. She imagined he was there with her, his hand low on her back as they swayed together.
His lips against her ear as he pulled her closer, his hand moving lower on her back. The heat
radiating between them as his breath was against her cheek and then her lips. His lips grazing the
edge of hers.

But when Hermione opened her eyes, Malfoy’s grey eyes weren’t grey at all. They were a deep,
rich brown.

Elio.

Close. Too close. Way too fucking close.

She gasped and fled to the bar, a resounding crack behind her, which was almost certainly Theo’s
fist against Elio’s cheek. Hermione steadied herself on the bar, her gasping breaths rattling her
body. Then there was a hand on her back, and Mia appeared beside her.

“Due, per favore,” she said, holding up two fingers toward the bartender.

“Mia, I don’t need any more drinks,” Hermione said, her voice shaky.

“Bullshit,” Mia responded, taking the drinks from the bartender and handing one to Hermione.
“Take a drink.” Her resolve somewhat weakened, Hermione obeyed and took a small sip from the
drink that Mia had ordered. “I’m sorry about Elio,” Mia said. “He’s generally harmless, but,” she
shrugged. “Sometimes he’s a complete ass.”

“It was me too,” Hermione admitted, taking another calming sip. “I just—I miss my boyfriend so
much. It hurts all the fucking time. It used to be that Theo and I would share a bed—no absolutely
not in that way,” she quickly followed up as Mia’s eyes widened. “We were both just hurting and it
felt good to just have someone’s arms around you,” Hermione sighed. “But since he got together
with Otto, that has obviously ceased to be a thing. And I just miss that physical contact. It felt
good for a moment to have that again. But I would never—just never.”

Mia nodded and squeezed Hermione’s shoulder. “Go easier on yourself, Hermione,” she
whispered. “You’re eighteen dealing with a whole lot of shit most people go their entire lives
without having to even think about. So you let your control slip for a moment. It’s not the end of
the world. You didn’t even really kiss, okay? This is Italy. That was practically how we greet
strangers.”

Hermione chuckled and nodded, wiping a tear from her eye.

Mia hugged her. “Alright, let’s get outside. The bouncers tossed the boys out and I’m guessing
Otto could use our help keeping Theo from beating the ever-living shit out of Elio.”

***

The ride back to Tivoli was…tense. Theo was mad at everyone, save perhaps Mia. He was mad
at Elio and Hermione for obvious reasons, and he was mad at Otto for having confiscated his wand
for the time being.

When they arrived back at Sword headquarters, Lucia greeted them warmly, but Theo merely
pushed past her and stomped up the stairs. Mia explained what had occurred, and after Lucia was
done chiding Elio, she ascended the stairs to go speak with Theo. She was upstairs for over an
hour before Theo came back down and wrapped Hermione in his arms.

“You’re not going to tell—,” Hermione began, but she felt Theo shake his head before she could
finish her statement.

“Nothing to tell, Granger,” he whispered.

Behind them, Elio held his arms open wide, a smirk dancing across his face. Theo shoulder-
checked him as he moved past him but paused briefly paused to address him. “Mind your hands,
mate, and we’ll be fine.”

Theo progressed to Otto who sat at the kitchen table, sipping a coffee. “Wand, please,” Theo said,
his hand outstretched. Otto’s gaze rolled slowly up to Theo’s, as he took another swig of his
coffee.

“You’re a good actor, Theo,” he said playfully. “I’m not buying it yet. Give yourself another
couple hours to cool down.”

Theo leaned down and whispered something in Otto’s ear, Otto’s eyes growing wide as he
listened. His eyes were fixed on Theo as Theo straightened and smirked. Otto wrenched the wand
from his pocket and handed it to Theo, quickly grabbing Theo’s hand and rushing up the stairs with
him.

Mia threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Oh to be young and in love,” Lucia sighed.

***

Hermione, Theo, and Otto spent another week in Tivoli. While the town itself was quite small,
Tivoli housed perhaps some of the most breathtaking historical sites in Italy, including Villa
Adriana, a sprawling 120-acre estate created for the Roman Emperor Hadrian in the second century
AD. Many of the original buildings were still standing: the Grandi Terme, the Quadriportico, the
Teatro Marittimo, and the Piazza d’Oro, each more beautiful than the last.

They spent hours exploring the Villa d’Este Gardens, chock full of landscaped gardens and
magnificent fountains. They took several picnics there despite the winter chill, warming
themselves with Italian wine and firewhiskey, the alcohol-drenched afternoon outings seemingly
dampening the lingering hostility between Theo and Elio.

But Hermione’s favorite place in all of Tivoli had to be Sword headquarters, where she and Theo—
and now Otto—were once again taken in as family, surrounded by love, warm, and laughter that
seemed to temporarily halt the literal and figurative advance of darkness that otherwise threatened
to swallow them whole.

***

They departed for Bulgaria in the first week of December, catching a plane from Rome to Sofia.
Hermione was loathe to revisit air travel with Theo, although Otto seemed to calm him
significantly and Hermione kept a bottle of sleeping draught at the ready.
From Sofia, it was a three-hour car ride to Veliko Tarnovo, making Hermione especially grateful
for Otto’s presence given that he had grown up driving on the “right” side of the road.

Even at night, Veliko Tarnovo was simply breathtaking—the city was small, but stretched across
three rolling hills: Tsaravets, Trapezitsa, and Sveta Gora. The architecture of the city reminded her
of Italy with its winding cobblestone streets and stacked buildings composed largely of stucco and
stone with tile roofs. In the distance, at the crest of Tsaravets Hill sat the Royal Fortress, which
boasted 11-foot-thick walls that once enclosed the medieval city and Royal Palace. The entire
landscape was both beautiful and haunting.

But Merlin, it was also brutally cold. Hermione wordlessly cast a warming spell as the trio made
their way from the car to their hotel, Meridian Hotel Bolyarski. It was late, so once again the trio
went their separate ways, with Theo and Otto heading off to their room while Hermione went to
hers.

When she opened the door, she was once again faced with that crippling sense of isolation, barely
making it through the door before she collapsed into a heap on the floor and casting a muffliato as
she wept. Sometime later, she was able to drag herself into the bed, laying near catatonic as she
stared at the moving picture of Malfoy and Blaise. And the Galleon. That fucking Galleon.

There was a soft knock at her door sometime around midnight. She slowly padded over to the
door, finding Theo on the other side of it. “C’mon, Granger,” he said softly, throwing an arm
around her.

“Theo, what are you doing here?” she asked as he guided them to her bed.

“Sleeping, Granger,” he replied drowsily as he collapsed into the bed, arms open.

“What about Otto?” she queried, shuffling in next to him, her heaviness lifting as Theo’s arms
wrapped around her and his chin curled around her shoulder.

“Consider him thoroughly shagged and satisfied,” he replied. “But I knew there was a certain
Gryffindor next door who has trouble sleeping alone in new places.”

“I love you, Theo,” she responded softly.

“I know.”

But just as her eyes began to flutter closed, a familiar buzz emanated from her bedside table. The
sweetest sound she had ever heard.

Hermione’s eyes flew open and landed on the Galleon—that fucking Galleon—screaming out loud
when she saw it flashing red. Theo jerked up next to her, panic in his eyes. Hermione ripped the
Galleon from the bedside table and cupping it in her hands, showed it to Theo who let out a
whooping cheer, hugged her, and kissed the top of her head.

Meridian Hotel Bolyarski, Room No. 30, tomorrow – 6PM. Her room.

Tears of relief rushed down her cheeks as she collapsed into Theo’s arms. “I knew it. I fucking
knew it, Granger,” he whispered into her hair. They remained like that for several moments before
Hermione felt Theo’s posture shift and his breathing hitch.

“Oh gods,” he gasped. “I’m going to have to tell him. Granger, I’m going to have to fucking tell
him.”
***

Hermione, Theo, and Otto were all so utterly exhausted as they walked the half mile from their
hotel to Krali Marko headquarters that not even the bitter Bulgarian cold could properly rouse
them. It wasn’t the first impression that Hermione had wanted to make, but there was little that
could be done about it now.

After realizing that Malfoy’s presence in Bulgaria meant that Theo would have to not only come
out to Malfoy, but also introduce him to his boyfriend, Theo experienced what Hermione could
only describe as a full-blown panic attack. It was exceedingly painful to watch, not only because
the sound of Theo’s cries made Hermione feel like her flesh was being flayed from her bones, but
also because Otto handled it so beautifully despite still suffering from the anguish of being hidden
by his last boyfriend.

Otto did exactly what Malfoy did for Hermione when she broke down—pulled Theo’s back against
his chest and wrapped his arms around him, rocking him slightly. He whispered to him, his voice
so low that Hermione couldn’t hear it, and laid delicate kisses to that sensitive spot behind Theo’s
ear.

Hermione took Theo’s hands in hers. “Theo, you are Malfoy’s best friend. He loves you. Nothing
could possibly change that,” she had said.

“Granger, he called you nothing but ‘Potter’s filthy Mudblood’ for five fucking years—stop acting
like he’s always a saint,” was his response.

That had hurt. Really fucking hurt.

But Hermione had let it go, and somewhere around 2AM Theo had either calmed or exhausted
himself to the point that he was ready to run through different scripts and scenarios. A role-playing
of sorts. Merlin, they covered the entire gamut of what Theo could say and the whole range of
Malfoy reactions, including those that were decidedly negative and homophobic. Those were hard
to get through. Not only because it forced Hermione to confront the possibility that there were still
monstrous parts hidden within the man that she loved, but also because it sent Theo back into near
hysterics.

The whole ordeal was physically and emotionally draining for all of them. But they had gotten
through it and had a plan: Malfoy and Hermione would have their typical reunion when he arrived
at her room at 6PM, Theo would gather them for dinner around 8PM but ask Malfoy to step into
his room for a few minutes before dinner. Hermione would wait in her room, where Otto would
join her. And where Theo and Malfoy would hopefully later join them.

Hermione exhaled deeply, her breath unfurling in front of her in plumes of white. They had
reached Krali Marko headquarters, with Hermione feeling properly frozen despite the warming
charm she had casted. Headquarters was a beautiful, albeit small, white stucco building with wood
trim and covered in ivy vines, which Hermione imagined were quite stunning in spring and
summer.

Otto knocked on the front door and a tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-featured man who Hermione
guessed to be about forty answered the door. There was a brief exchange in what Hermione could
only assume to be Bulgarian, and the man beckoned them inside.

“Piotr Rusev,” he said, greeting each of them with a firm handshake. “Come inside, please. I have
another Krali Marko member here now—we’ve been, well, expecting a visit such as this.” He
guided them through headquarters, which were noticeably smaller than any of the other
headquarters they had been to. As if picking up on this silent observation, Piotr explained that dark
magic was particularly prevalent in Bulgaria, and that Krali Marko membership had never
recovered after it was nearly completely decimated during the First Wizarding War. They simply
didn’t need a lot of space.

“Ah,” Piotr continued, as they crossed into a cramped living room. “Let me introduce you to my
colleague—.”

Perhaps in hindsight, Hermione should have predicted that he would be there. He had expended
much effort during their brief time together explaining his disdain for Igor Karkaroff and his views
on blood purity. But, alas, the sight of him was still a jolt to her system.

And a jolt, apparently, to Theo’s funny bone, as he threw his head back in laughter when he laid
eyes upon him.

Because standing in front of them was none other than Viktor Krum.

***

“Oh Merlin, that was rich, Granger,” Theo recalled in her hotel room later. “Watching that git try
to explain how you two know each other.”

“He’s not a git!” Hermione protested, tossing a pillow at Theo, who deftly deflected it.

“Oh, he’s a total git,” Theo responded, throwing the pillow back at her.

“He does seem to lack a certain mental acuity,” Otto said cautiously, pouring himself a glass of
wine.

“See?” Theo observed. “That’s Otto-speak for total fucking git. Doxies where his brain should
be.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and laughed, grateful for the distraction that her run in with Viktor was
providing Theo. She checked her watch. 4PM. Two hours. She could feel her blood crackling
under her skin.

There was a knock at the door. “Ah, room service,” Otto said, striding toward the door.
Hermione, Otto, and Theo had already made their way through a bottle of wine, and Otto had
ordered another for him and Theo, very clearly aware that Theo would soon been needing
something to calm his nerves.

Hermione heard Otto opened the door and waited for the exchange of pleasantries with the hotel
staff member.

“Who the fuck are you?” is what she heard instead.

***

She and Theo were on their feet in an instant, practically shoving each other in a desperate attempt
to get to the door.

“I said, who the fuck are you?”

Malfoy came into view as he shoved Otto against the wall and pinned him there, his arm across
Otto’s chest. Otto didn’t shrink or cow to him; he stood silently against the wall, his eyes defiantly
boring into Malfoy’s as he waited, Hermione surmised, for Theo to intervene and explain who
exactly the fuck he was.

But Theo was frozen beside Hermione, his face the color of someone who had been embalmed five
weeks prior. They had gone over scenario after scenario, but Malfoy arriving two hours early and
finding a seemingly strange man in the room with Hermione and Theo had never been one of their
plays.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said gently, her fingers wrapping against the arm that pinned Otto to the wall.
“Malfoy, look at me,” she whispered. Those stunning sterling eyes met hers, stopping her heart for
a few moments.

“This is Otto Neuhaus,” Hermione soothed. “He’s a member of the White Rose Regulation.”

“Okay,” Malfoy responded slowly, his posture softening but his arm still pinning Otto to the wall.
“But why the fuck is he here?”

“He’s—,” Theo began, but his voice caught and died in his throat. He made a series of peculiar,
strangled sounds before attempting speech again. “Draco, he’s—he’s um—.” Hermione watched
as Theo’s eyes grew slick and his face turned from a ghastly shade of white to bright scarlet.

“Theo, what the fuck?” Malfoy hissed.

Hermione brought her other hand to the side of Malfoy’s face. “Malfoy, look at me,” she repeated,
drawing him toward her. She stood on her toes and captured his mouth with hers, pulling him into
her. His arm came away from Otto’s chest, instinctively wrapping around Hermione as their kiss
deepened.

“I’m going to be outside,” Otto said quickly and ducked through the door as Malfoy realized a
moment too late that Hermione had used herself as a decoy.

“I’ll be out there too,” Hermione gasped, breaking away from Malfoy and tucking through the door
after Otto in one fluid motion.

“THEO, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!” she heard Malfoy screech as the door closed behind
her.

Hermione followed Otto into the hall, his movements staggered and erratic. After ten meters or so
he collapsed against a wall, sliding to the ground and hyperventilating. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh
gods,” he gasped, tears beginning to spill from his eyes. Hermione crouched next to him, taking
his hands in hers.

“Otto, breathe please,” she soothed. “We practiced this, okay?”

“But what if—what if he can’t tell him? What if—what if—,” Otto collapsed into a fit of sobs, his
past trauma resurfacing with a vengeance.

“He’ll tell him, Otto,” Hermione said, wrapping her arms around him. “This isn’t exactly how we
practiced it, but he’ll tell him.”

“And what if Draco rejects him, what then?” Otto cried. Hermione’s stomach pitched at the
thought. She couldn’t imagine it. Malfoy loved Theo fiercely. And he had changed. He had
changed so much in the past year.

But Theo was also right all those months ago in that hotel room in Honfleur. Malfoy had spent
most of his life submerged in poisonous prejudices. And while he seemed to have been cleansed of
his blood status prejudice, it didn’t necessarily mean all others had been washed out.

“I love him,” Otto gasped, his face now completely patchy and swollen. “I know it’s fast and it’s
absurd, but I love him. I love him so much. I haven’t even gotten the chance to tell him and what
if—.”

Otto’s statement was cut short as a door slammed down the hall. Malfoy was advancing toward
them, his pace determined and his expression unreadable. Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat.

He wouldn’t reject Theo, she told herself. There’s absolutely no way. But she still felt herself
move protectively in front of Otto.

“Move, Granger,” Malfoy said gruffly when he reached them. She didn’t move. “Granger,” he
said again. She felt his fingers wrap around her arm and pull her away from Otto, her body too
seized with trepidation to resist.

She watched, breathless, as Malfoy crouched before Otto. Otto stilled his tears, his eyes again
boring into Malfoy’s, his expression somehow both vulnerable but confident. “Get up,” Malfoy
said, his voice stern. Otto stared at him for a few seconds before both he and Malfoy slowly rose
upright. He was nearly Malfoy’s height, so they stood completely eye-to-eye. For several breaths,
they just stared at each other. And then Malfoy reached one hand around the back of Otto’s neck,
the other around his back, and pulled him into an embrace that Hermione felt in her bones.

“Thank you,” Malfoy whispered, as Otto crumbled and wept into his shoulder.
 Penance

“Look, I know there’s a lot to unpack here, and I know it’s important,” Draco said slowly as Theo
joined them in the hall. “But it’s got to wait, mate, I’m sorry.” His eyes moved to Granger, his
heart thudding at an alarming pace. “Because if I don’t get to be with my girl in the next thirty
seconds, I’m going to die.”

Theo chuckled and leaned into Otto as Otto gently wrapped his arm around him. “Go,” Theo said
softly.

Draco had Granger in his arms in a moment, delighting the small squeak she made as he pulled her
against him and around his waist as he dashed to her room, slamming the door behind them. He
pressed her back against the wall, groaning as her legs tightened around him and their mouths
moved against each other. He squeezed her hips with bruising pressure, as if to reassure himself
that she was actually there in his hands. Balancing her with one arm, he began unbuttoning her
blouse as her lips began to nip and suck their way down his neck.

He paused halfway down, his breath hitching in his throat. “Granger,” he growled, her lips pausing
on his neck. She pulled back and met his gaze, blush creeping across her cheeks as she bit back a
smile. “Fuck,” he hissed, tearing the remainder of the shirt in one motion, buttons raining to the
ground.

“Merlin, I love you,” he gasped. Because under her blouse and jeans, Granger wore a black teddy,
very clearly of fine Italian lace. It was the most delicious sight his eyes had ever beheld. His
breathing ragged, he dragged a finger from her bellybutton, up her abdomen, and across her chest,
tracing that beautiful silver scar before moving to her breast and teasing it with his thumb. He
captured her mouth with his as her hips began to rock against him.

“Granger, get out of those pants,” he breathed against her. “My hands are a little preoccupied
here.” She chuckled and wiggled against him as she shimmied out of her jeans, unhooking one leg
from his waist at a time. Impressive, Granger.

He looked down at her, clad in nothing but that fucking delectable black lace teddy, her bare legs
around his waist, hips rocking slowly against him. “I need you, Draco,” she whispered in his ear as
she blazed a trail of kisses across his jawline.

Do not come in your pants. Do not come in your pants. Do not come in your pants.

He delicately lowered her to her feet, walked the five or so strides to the couch, and sat down.
“Come here, Granger,” he said, his voice thick. “Slowly.”

He bit into his fist as she advanced toward him—slowly—her hips swaying as if there was sultry
music playing in her head. Her hair this go around was a light brown—almost dirty blonde—and
hung in gentle waves that brushed the top of the teddy. That fucking teddy.

She was standing before him now, her chocolate eyes boring into his. He scanned her form once,
twice, three times, before he caved. “Get over here,” he growled, pulling her on top of him, her
legs falling on either side of his lap.

He wanted to tease her. He wanted to drive her to the brink and back. He wanted to take his time
driving her absolutely fucking insane. But he also needed her now if he had a prayer of not busting
in his trousers. She was apparently of the same mind, her hands scrambling to unbuckle his pants
and shuck them down just enough that she could lower herself onto him.

It was that frantic and furious kind of lovemaking, borne from seven torturous weeks of longing
and despair. He could feel himself screaming her name as they rolled against each other, but he
couldn’t hear anything over the overwhelming buzzing in his head as his senses drowned in her. It
was exceedingly quick, but gods was it intense, leaving them both breathless and sweaty, chests
heaving against each other.

It was quiet for a few moments until there was a banging on the wall next to them. “It’s called a
silencing spell, you fucks!” Theo shouted.

Oops.

***

They had two more goes (after casting a muffliato) before Theo pounded on their door asking if
they “cared to take a break from rutting like randy jackrabbits” and join him and Otto for dinner in
their room.

They dressed, Draco applying a reparo to Granger’s blouse, and applied healing charms to their
respective love bites. He leaned down to kiss her slowly as they stood in the doorway to their hotel
room, and then laced his fingers through hers as they headed next door to Theo’s and Otto’s room.

Theo was waiting for them immediately inside the room, arms crossed and toe tapping. “Thanks
for finding the time to join us, Mr. and Mrs. Start to Finish in Ninety-Seven Seconds,” he said
before turning heel and marching further into the room.

“Come off it, Theo!” Draco shot after him, wincing when his eyes fell on Otto who greeted them
brightly. Draco realized that this virtual stranger had likely already heard more words come out of
Draco’s mouth during lovemaking than Draco had actually said to him.

“Um, well, sorry,” Draco said, extending his arm to Otto. “I guess I haven’t formally introduced
myself.”

“I think we’re past that point,” Otto chuckled, popping a small stuffed mushroom into his mouth.
“But I appreciate the gesture.” He shook Draco’s hand as Draco tried to dig himself out of his pit
of humiliation.

“Really testing the limits of the contraceptive charm, huh?” Theo winked as he plopped down on
the couch next to Otto, stealing the forkful of food in front of him.

“Merlin, Theo!” Draco groaned as everyone around him erupted into laughter.

***

They talked for hours in that room, Draco learning about Otto, his romance with Theo, and the
trio’s experiences in Germany and Italy. Otto was impressive beyond measure, and very clearly in
love with Theo—he looked at him like Draco looked at Granger. And Theo, for the first time in
his life, was brimming with happiness.

Everything had suddenly made sense, the moment Theo had said those three words: Draco, I’m…
gay. That missing piece of Theo that Draco had never seen. Never chosen to see. And suddenly
there Draco had been in that hotel room in Bulgaria seeing his best friend in color for the first
time.
Okay. It was the only thing Draco could think to say in the moment. Because it was okay.
Because Draco loved Theo more than any other human being on the planet except perhaps
Granger, and there wasn’t anything that Theo could do or say in this life or any other that would
change that.

And now he watched as Theo went on excitedly about something completely inconsequential
while his boyfriend observed him with such intensity one would think he was witnessing the birth
of a universe.

A long-held heaviness lifted from Draco’s chest.

Theodore Nott had finally gotten what he had always deserved.

***

“Krum is a Resistance member?” Draco asked curiously, taking a sip of his wine. “I’m surprised
he has the time with his Quidditch travel schedule.”

“Speaking of travelling, Draco,” Theo mused, his signature shite-eating grin spreading across his
face as his eyes flashed to Granger. “Guess where else Krum has been?”

Draco merely stared back at his friend, thoroughly perplexed.

“Granger’s knickers!”

Draco could hear Granger aspirate her wine beside him. His head shot to her, eyes wide.

“Not recently, Merlin!” she exclaimed when she had regained her breath. “Summer before Fifth
Year. It was nothing—just some fooling around.” Her cheeks were an alarming shade of scarlet.

“Viktor Krum?!” Draco cried, leaping up from his seat, the wine sloshing from his glass. “You
fucked around with Viktor fucking Krum?!” There was a whooshing in Draco’s ears making him
lightheaded. Theo howled behind him, while Otto seemed to concentrate on simply staring into
his wine glass, waiting for the moment to pass.

“For Godric’s sake, Malfoy,” Granger said, rolling her eyes.

“How—,” Draco was speechless. “How on earth did you, Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of
Her Age, find yourself wooed by the largest dolt in the world—besides perhaps Weaselbee?”

She rolled her eyes again and pulled him back down onto the couch next to her. “I wouldn’t say he
wooed me per se,” she explained.

“Well, he did something if you let him into your pants,” Draco huffed in exasperation. And before
me, the fucking bastard.

“You wouldn’t get it,” Granger said, something shifting in your tone. “You’ve had Slytherin girls
fawning over you since our Second Year.”

“And?” Draco replied, unclear on the point that she was trying to make.

She sighed heavily and looked at him. “No one ever noticed me, Malfoy,” she said softly. “I
mean, for my cleverness, sure. But I wasn’t exactly considered desirable, physically speaking,
while we were in school.” A knot formed in Draco’s throat. “And to all of a sudden have a boy be
interested me, and an international Quidditch star no less, I wasn’t going to say no to that. Even if I
didn’t find him particularly illuminating,” she chuckled wistfully, staring into her wine glass.

Draco felt his heart split in half. Theo was looking at him, thinking the exact same thing that
Draco was.

Draco had done that. Or at least contributed to it, probably significantly. He had made fun of her
teeth. Her wild hair. Her complexion. Her blood status.

He had made her feel so insecure that she fooled around with a boy she otherwise found dull
merely because he paid some attention to her. Unbeknownst to Draco, he had been successful in
breaking down the swotty schoolgirl he once so hated.

Draco wanted to throw himself in front of the Dark Lord and beg him to crucio him. Because what
Draco had done to her was Unforgiveable.

He looked at Theo. What I did to both of them.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, realizing that tears were rolling down his face.

“Malfoy,” Granger began, reaching for him.

“To both of you,” he continued, his eyes moving to Theo. “I’m so fucking sorry.” He felt
Granger’s hand squeeze his. “For being such a fucking prick that you felt like you couldn’t unload
a weight that must have been crushing you for years even though I was supposed to be your best
friend.” Theo nodded once, his eyes misting a bit as Otto put his arm around him.

His eyes moved back to Granger’s, which were also thick with tears. “And for ever making you
think you are anything less than the most beautiful, perfect thing the gods ever created.”

***

“I love you,” Draco gasped into Granger’s neck as he rocked against her. He pulled her leg up
against him and over his shoulder as he moved deeper in her, reveling in the sight of her arching
her back against the bed, blush creeping down her next onto her chest. She was close.

“Oh gods, Draco,” she moaned, her fingers tangling in the sheets.

They came apart in sync three motions later.

She crawled onto his chest, laying her head against his heart. Her rich, brown eyes flicked up to
meet his gaze as he ran his hand through her hair. “Please don’t tell me you have to leave
tomorrow,” she whispered, emotion already pooling in her eyes.

“I’m not leaving tomorrow,” he smiled.

“The day after?”

“Granger,” he hushed, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “You can stop worrying. I’m
staying here through New Year’s.”

***

Granger was less than pleased with the nature of Draco’s current mission in Bulgaria:
reestablishing the connection between the Dark Lord and Tihomir Tarnovsky, a powerful dark
wizard and father of Tsveta Tarnovsky, the nineteen-year-old Bulgarian witch with whom the Dark
Lord was hoping to pair Draco.

But as Draco had explained to Granger, it was almost certain that Tihomir would agree to once
again ally with the Dark Lord; the visit was more of a formality than anything. And while the
Dark Lord desired a match between Tsveta and Draco, it was more of a request than a demand. As
long as Draco secured the support of Tihomir, the Dark Lord had granted him permission to take
the month of December “off” in recognition of Draco’s additional recent successes in cementing
allies in Russia and Turkey. Draco had assumed he would need some of that time to simply find
Granger, but alas fate finally smiled upon them and landed them in Bulgaria at the same time. So
now they had nearly a whole month. Together.

The following morning, the group went their separate ways for the day, with Granger, Theo, and
Otto meeting with Resistance members—including Viktor fucking Krum—at their headquarters,
and Draco departing for the Tarnovsky chalet on the outskirts of Veliko Tarnovo.

The bitter December air strained the bounds of his warming spell as he tugged the collar of his
peacoat tighter against the back of his neck. A light dusting of snow had fallen overnight, which
when combined with the wreaths, Christmas trees, and lights dotting the streets and buildings gave
the city a particularly magical glow. And if was, of course, a very magical city. Unfortunately, as
Draco well knew, it was mostly dark magic—so much so that it set him on edge to even be there
with Granger and Theo. The wizarding world had largely moved on from the supposed deaths of
Hermione Granger and Theodore Nott, and the potions Draco and Theo brewed had been
successful in tweaking their appearances. But perhaps more so than any other country they had
visited, the dark wizards in Bulgaria were particularly queued into the goings on of the Dark Lord,
his allies, and his enemies. So it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities that one of them might
spot the duo and hesitate, trying to place them.

Draco shook his head and pushed the thought to the farthest reaches of his mind, picking up his
pace to a light jog with the hopes that it would help stave off the bitter cold and crushing darkness
that surrounded him.

***

The Tarnovsky chalet was more of a castle really, built in the eleventh century according to
Tihomir Tarnovsky, a towering man with black hair, steel blue eyes, and an impossibly low voice.
There was something reptilian about him, Draco observed, as they wound through the stone
corridors of the chalet. He couldn’t tell if it was in the man’s movements or his facial features—
maybe both—but whatever it was, it made Draco’s skin itch.

Tihomir led Draco into a cavernous drawing room, beckoning him to sit in a large, leather
wingback chair adjacent to a matching chair that Tihomir folded into. He wordlessly summoned
two tumblers and a decanter of amber liquid, pouring them each a hearty glass.

Draco generally tried not to drink before noon, but he was grateful for it in this context, hoping that
the haze of a drink or two might wash over the general unease Draco felt in this wizard’s presence.

“You are an impressive wizard, Draco Malfoy,” Tihomir said slowly as he brought his drink to his
lips, studying Draco as one would an item for auction. “Killing one of the most powerful wizards
our world has seen in nearly a century at barely seventeen. It’s prodigal. And the work you have
done rallying allies for the Dark Lord across Europe—most extraordinary.”

“I am proud to be of such service to the Dark Lord,” Draco responded, taking a sip of his drink as
he reached for the heather beneath his fingers and strained to hear the waves against the cliff
sides.
A malevolent smirk tugged at the sides of Tihomir’s mouth. “Your parents must be incredibly
proud. You singlehandedly saved the Malfoy name followed your father’s…misadventure at the
British Ministry.”

“Yes. My mother often comments on her pride in having me as a son,” Draco said. It wasn’t a lie
—it just failed to mention that she mostly said it with regard to his piano playing and freeing of
teenage prisoners from captivity.

“And your father?” Tihomir asked, an unsettling glint in his eye.

“My successes have caused certain…difficulties in our relationship,” Draco replied. Also not a lie.

Tihomir let out a booming laugh. “Oh I can imagine. It always is difficult when the son eclipses
his father.” He took a hearty swig of his drink, instantly refilling it. Draco smiled weakly and did
the same. “I’ll save you the suspense and the inevitable question,” Tihomir continued, clinking his
glass to Draco’s before he brought it to his lips. “I have every intention of supporting the Dark
Lord and his mission should he progress throughout Europe. Bulgaria will easily be his.”

“Thank you, sir,” Draco said. “The Dark Lord will be enormously pleased to hear that. He greatly
values your support.”

“But that’s not the only reason you’re here, is it, Draco?” Tihomir continued, once again regarding
Draco with unnerving curiosity.

“No,” Draco replied, feigning an amused chuckle. “I believe the Dark Lord is hopeful that your
daughter, Tsveta, and I might be a good match.” He took another pull of his drink, wondering
when his tolerance had reached the point that he could have two whiskeys before 11AM and not
have them dull his senses.

“It strikes me as odd, Draco, that a boy of your pedigree and accomplishments has to travel across
the European continent to find a potential partner. Surely, you could find a Sacred Pureblood
witch a bit closer to home, no?”

“Perhaps,” Draco shrugged. “But the Dark Lord suggested that your daughter is someone
worthwhile for me to meet, and I am in the habit of obliging.”

Tihomir laughed heartily and clapped Draco’s shoulder. “Smart boy, smart boy,” he praised,
pouring them a third tumbler of whiskey. “I can’t imagine there is a dark wizard alive that would
not be delighted to have you courting their daughter.” He clinked his glass to Draco’s once more.
“Come tomorrow for dinner and I shall introduce you to Tsveta.”

***

Draco was delighted to find Granger already back in their room when he returned from the
Tarnovsky chalet several hours later, although he was less pleased to find that Theo and Otto were
also in their room, chatting animatedly about their meeting with the Resistance members that
morning.

Draco had thought of one hundred and one ways to work off his nerves from his meeting with
Tihomir, exactly none of which required or desired an audience outside of Granger. He sighed
resignedly and collapsed onto the bed next to Granger, laying his head in her lap.

“Piotr took some convincing given what the last War did to their numbers, but they ultimately
agreed to join the Order,” Granger explained, her nails absentmindedly raking over his scalp, her
fingers tangling in his hair. He closed his eyes, a wave of relief washing over him as even the
gentle sensation of her hand in his hair started to unwind his tension.

“And by they, Granger means Krum, who kept having to wipe the drool from his chin all
morning,” Theo remarked brightly.

And look at that—the tension’s back.

“Give me the address,” Draco groaned, leaning into Granger’s touch. “I’m going to go hex his
Bulgarian bits off.”

Theo and Otto laughed, while Granger scoffed. He didn’t have to open his eyes to see her
exaggerated eye roll that always accompanied one of his possessive fits. “He was not drooling. In
addition, Viktor told me he is in a very serious relationship with another one of the Resistance
members—Elitsa. She was there; very nice, but incredibly quiet.”

“Mm, that probably makes conversation between them easier,” Draco mused, fully expecting the
light smack that Granger deposited to his cheek.

“And I find it rich that you march in here with your unfounded envy when you spent the morning
courting the Bulgarian blood royalty princess,” Granger said flippantly.

Draco opened one of his eyes. “Jealous, Granger?” She chuckled and shook her head, leaning
down to give him a quick kiss.

“How was it? The meeting with Tarnovsky?” Theo asked.

“Ugh, creepy,” Draco replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I’ve been in the homes of many
dark wizards and witches over the past several months, but this guy just,” Draco shuddered.
“There was something particularly unnerving about him.” He sighed. “But he agreed to assist in
advancing the Dark Lord’s mission should he make it this far across the continent. That was never
really in question, but it’s a success nonetheless.”

An uncomfortable fell over the group. Draco forgot sometimes, how very abnormal his actions
sounded to those who weren’t part of the Death Eater community. That despite the fact that his
heart was not in this and his mission was rather tame as far as tasks assigned to Death Eaters go, it
wasn’t victimless. And he had just admitted to a room of Order and Regulation members that he
recruited the assistance of one of the most powerful and well-connected dark wizards in Europe
like he was telling them how he took his tea.

During their past meet-ups, Granger had asked several times about his mission; where he was
going, who he had met with, whether he had been successful in achieving their support. He had
repeatedly refused to engage in the conversation specifically to avoid this situation. The one in
which he had to admit that no matter how hard he tried, his blood—pure as it was—always seeped
through. And as far as Draco could tell, it poisoned everything it touched.

Ever Draco’s savior, Theo piped in. “Well, was the daughter at least hot?”

***

Perhaps the most welcome news that came from the day was that the Resistance members had set
Draco, Granger, Theo, and Otto up in a modest flat they maintained on the outskirts of town.
Unlike the headquarters of other Order-adjacent organizations, Resistance headquarters was not
large enough to house an additional four people, nor could Draco be seen coming and going from
headquarters.
The apartment was unassuming, but it surely beat being confined to nothing but a hotel room for
almost a month. Granger had predictably dashed out and purchased a garish amount of Christmas
decorations to liven the place up. Draco had rolled his eyes, but later delighted in watching her
zoom around the apartment like a rogue snitch, lacing every possible surface in red, green, gold,
silver, and garland and blasting Christmas music from her boombox.

“Can we get a tree later this week?” she whispered to Draco, snuggling under his arm as the four of
them sat down to watch a movie.

“Of course,” he kissed the top of her head. “Alright, Granger,” he said louder. “What Muggle
movie are you torturing us with tonight?”

It was a movie called Home Alone. Utterly bizarre film, if Draco was honest. Although he did get
a certain amusement from the opening sequence in which dozens of frenzied children and
incompetent adults scrambled around their house, bickering with each other.

“Almost like you’re back at the Weasley hovel, no?” Draco whispered in Granger’s ear, smirking.
She gave him a stout elbow to the gut. He chuckled, peppering a kiss below her ear. “No, you’re
right—this house is way too nice.”

***

Draco arrived back at the Tarnovsky chalet at 8PM for dinner the following evening. Otto had
graciously made Draco two stiff cocktails before he left their apartment, but the December
Bulgarian air quickly sobered him.

Tihomir embraced Draco like he was an old friend—cringe—and quickly led him to a large, formal
dining room with a long, sturdy table surrounded by medieval-style wooden chairs. A fire roared
in the hearth, and sitting in front of it was a petite, dark-haired, and dark-featured girl who
reminded him of Pansy. If someone had removed Pansy’s fangs.

“Tsveta, this is Draco Malfoy,” Tihomir boomed. “Sole Pureblood heir of the Malfoy and Black
families—both members of the British Sacred Twenty Eight.” Tsveta regarded Draco with a weak
smile. “Fine specimen, isn’t he?” Tihomir laughed, clapping Draco on the back.

Tsveta looked at Draco like he was a predator. It made him nauseous.

“Well, I will make myself scarce,” Tihomir said. “Go easy on her,” he whispered to Draco,
winking. Draco felt his head turn toward Tihomir’s in a hauntingly slow fashion, attempting to
keep his expression even as he tried to determine whether Tihomir’s statement was an intentional
innuendo or an unfortunate choice of words.

Not that it much mattered. Draco hated him regardless. He sighed deeply and took a seat as
Tihomir exited the room, closing the sliding doors behind him with a flick of his wand.

Draco cleared his throat, his eyes falling upon the bottle of wine in the middle of table. “Wine?”
Draco asked, his voice thin.

“Yes, please,” she responded in a soft, pleasant voice. She fiddled with her utensils as Draco
poured their wine.

“So, your father tells me you’re quite gifted at potions—.”

A small gasp and a sob from across the table. Draco’s eyes shot up as he watched Tsveta bring her
hand to her mouth, tears beginning to pool in her eyes.
Well, this is a new record—even for me. Attempted pleasantries to tears in under ten seconds.

“Sorry,” she gasped, more small sobs pouring from her lips. Draco didn’t say anything, waiting for
her to catch her breath. “Um, yes,” she finally squeaked out. “We have a potions lab in the chalet
—I have spent a lot of time there with father’s top potioneer, Atanas.” She took another shuddering
breath. “I have a blood disorder—minor, but still requires me to take a potion every day to keep it
under control. Atanas and I were developing a potion that I would only need to take once—a cure,
if you will. But, um,” her face cracked a bit. “The potions we were working with were unstable.”

Draco sighed mournfully, knowing exactly where this was going.

“He, um, inhaled some particularly noxious fumes last week and he—,” her hand flew back to her
mouth, stifling a sob. “He didn’t make it.” More quiet sobs and tears, as Draco regarded her
softly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered several minutes later, an exhausted, tight-lipped smile briefly flashing
across her face. “He was a very close friend. Father didn’t care much for our closeness—Atanas
was only Half-Blood, but an amazing potioneer and a good man.” She sighed. “Not the best way
to start a date, huh?” she chuckled humorlessly.

Draco smiled warmly, cocking his head. “How long?” he asked quietly, his fingers wrapping
around his wine glass.

“How long what?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine.

“How long were you in love with him?” he whispered, putting his open hands in front of him in a
bracing motion when her eyes bulged and a terrified expression crossed her face. “I have no
intention of revealing your secret to anyone, Tsveta,” he said slowly. “It’s yours to keep.”

Her face relaxed a bit, but she still regarded him with caution.

“I ask because I suspect, Tsveta, we might be a better match than the Dark Lord or your father
envisioned, although perhaps not in the way they had hoped.”

***

Draco arrived back at the apartment late—Otto appeared to be the only other person still awake,
sitting at the kitchen table and focused on an impossibly long roll of parchment.

“What are you working on?” Draco asked, pulling up a chair next to Otto and pouring himself a
tumbler of firewhiskey.

“Oh,” Otto said, shaking himself from his concentration. “My colleague who took over my
Magical Physics class sent me her lesson plans for next semester. I’m just going over them to
make sure they comport with what I was teaching earlier this semester and adding some
suggestions.”

Draco nodded, his attention drawn to what appeared to be an oddly shaped candleholder on the
kitchen counter. “And what’s that?” he inquired, taking a sip of his firewhiskey.

“Hmm?” Otto responded, slowly following Draco’s gaze. “That’s—you don’t know what that is?”

Draco shrugged and shook his head. “No. Should I?”

Otto chuckled humorlessly. “It’s a menorah, Draco. For Hanukkah—it starts in a few days.”
Hanukkah…

Draco felt his eyes widen. “You’re—oh.”

“Oh?” Otto replied, his posture shifting toward Draco while his eyes burrowed into Draco’s own.

Fuck. I shouldn’t be allowed to speak without Granger around. Truthfully, Draco couldn’t care
less what religion someone practiced—he didn’t believe in much of anything anymore. He
assumed some of his classmates at Hogwarts were probably Jewish, but he really hadn’t given it
much thought. Because even if they existed at Hogwarts, they certainly didn’t exist in the Death
Eater community.

“It’s not a big deal—sorry,” Draco murmured, finishing his firewhiskey in one swig and quickly
refilling it.

Otto sighed, removing his glasses. “It is, though. It is a big deal.” His eyes still hadn’t left
Draco’s. “Because it’s not enough that I’m gay. I’m also Jewish. I’m not ashamed of either—
quite the opposite actually. But my pride in who I am doesn’t change the fact that I’m twice the
target for those who practice dark magic. It doesn’t change the fact that I have been otherized my
whole life by people who couldn’t even be bothered to get to know the first thing about me or my
beliefs before they decided that they hated me.”

“I don’t—.”

“I know you don’t, Draco. But still, here we are having this conversation. And I’ve had it
countless times before and I’ll have to have it innumerable more.”

“I’m sorry.” Draco didn’t know what else to say. A thick silence gathered between them. Otto
finally stopped staring at Draco, his focus once again shifting to the lesson plans he had been
working on. Draco watched him for a few minutes before he summoned the courage to speak
again, hoping he didn’t completely cock it up.

“Would you tell me?” Draco asked softly. “About yourself? And your faith? I’d like to learn, if
that’s okay.”

Otto looked up slowly from his lesson plans, a gentle smile forming. “Of course it’s okay, Draco.
I would very much like that.”

***

It was clear to Draco, as he sat with Otto in that cramped kitchen in that modest apartment, why
Otto was a teacher. He was patient, deliberate, and engaging—gods, a true storyteller at heart. He
explained to Draco that Judaism was the oldest monotheistic religion in the world, but unlike its
other monotheistic counterparts, it did not seek to compel others to adopt its beliefs and practices.
He described that just as parts of the wizarding world had adopted aspects of Christianity, such as
Christmas and Easter, other parts adopted elements of the Jewish faith, including Shabbat, Rosh
Hashannah, Yom Kippur, and Passover.

Draco particularly fancied Otto’s description of Passover seder: a gathering of family, friends, and
loved ones to celebrate redemption and freedom.

Maybe one day, Draco thought.

Whatever brief optimism Draco stumbled into was quelled as Otto described the seemingly
unending persecution of wizards and Muggles of his faith: medieval holy wars, the Spanish
Inquisition, the Holocaust—Merlin, Draco needed almost the remainder of the firewhiskey to get
through that.

Draco had known there were certain preferences within the Death Eater community—he had just
never understood that such preferences existed outside of it as well.

“My parents received a letter from Durmstrang when I was quite young. I was—,” Otto paused,
clearly trying to phrase whatever he was going to say next in the humblest way possible. “A very
magically oriented child.” He sighed. “But my faith presented an issue. They would still take me,
of course, but made it clear that I couldn’t practice my faith while I was there.”

Draco nodded. More so than any school, Durmstrang was loaded with Death Eater-adjacent dark
wizards.

“And I doubt Durmstrang would’ve approved of my romantic choices, either,” Otto chuckled dryly,
launching into an explanation of the homophobia that ran rampant in the wizarding and Muggle
world. It was illegal still, in many parts of Europe and the world—punishable by imprisonment,
potions, or commitment at places like St. Mungo’s. Even where not illegal, Otto certainly couldn’t
be with Theo in any sort of Ministry-recognized manner.

“Let me put it this way, Draco,” Otto said. “If we win this War, you can marry Hermione the next
day, if you so choose. I can’t do the same with Theo. I don’t know if I ever will.”

By the end of their discussion, Draco felt like a hollowed husk of the person who had walked into
that kitchen hours earlier. He had been vaguely aware of such prejudices—Draco Malfoy was and
had been for many years, the darling child of the Death Eater community. But to hear about it
firsthand from a man that Draco not only respected, but a man who loved and cared for one of the
most important people in Draco’s life—that was a different experience entirely.

“So much of who I am are things that were traditionally hidden because they were considered
shameful, or suspect, or less than,” Otto concluded. “But they’re not. So I refuse to hide any part
of myself, Draco. Because even if it puts me at greater risk, every bit of it has brought me here.
To Theo, who is, without a shred of doubt, the most remarkable person I have ever met. And to
Hermione, who continues to awe me with the immensity of her love and devotion. And to you,
Draco, with whom I very much hope to have a beautiful friendship one day.”

Just as he had been days earlier when he first met Otto, Draco found himself at a loss for words.
So he simply wrapped Otto in an embrace and repeated back to Otto the first words he said to him.

Thank you.

***

“Why didn’t they teach us about the Holocaust in Muggle Studies?” Draco asked Granger when he
finally fell into bed several hours later.

“Hmm?” Granger replied drowsily.

“In Muggle Studies. They never taught us about the Holocaust.”

“They did,” she said, turning over, eyes closed and voice still thick with sleep. “Third Year. They
didn’t tell us that witches and wizards were interned, but they taught us about it generally.”

“No, they didn’t,” Draco responded, his voice haunted. “I would’ve remembered that.”
“You don’t remember it because you spent the entire class sending Harry drawings of him being
struck by lightning while playing Quidditch.”

Fuck. Draco wondered if there would ever come a day when he would stop discovering things he
needed to repent for.
 Faith

After they left the Weber estate in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Hermione had been certain that she
and Theo and Otto wouldn’t find another place during their travels that felt quite like home. But as
they had with increasing frequency, the circumstances of her life proved her wrong as that quaint
flat on the outskirts of Veliko Tarnovo quickly became a home.

It had been barebones when they arrived—minimal furniture and almost no décor—as Piotr had
cautioned them, the Krali Marko Resistance really had very little occasion to use it. But thanks to
some transfiguration work by Draco and Otto, and some festive decorating by Hermione and Theo,
the once bleak flat was transformed into something that felt safe and warm. A sacred refuge for
two pairs of lovers the world had tried so desperately to keep apart.

Of course, Malfoy still found room to complain.

“Merlin’s beard, Granger,” he lamented as he and Otto returned from procuring a tree one evening.
“I thought we talked about this. It wasn’t enough that you and Theo purchased every sodding
decoration in the village—now you’re making your own?!”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him as she continued her work on her paper snowflakes, Theo
behind her, clumsily using a kitchen stool to attach said snowflakes to the blinky lights
crisscrossing the ceiling.

“And you’ve wrangled Theo into this whole ‘no magic while decorating’ shite,” Malfoy groaned,
very intentionally using magic to move the tree to the corner of the room, looking pointedly at
Hermione. Otto had moved toward Theo, his hands hovering inches from Theo’s waist in case he
fell.

“You can’t use magic to decorate, Malfoy!” she chided playfully. “The decorating itself is part of
the experience!”

Malfoy shook his head, grinning as he sat next to her on the floor. He pulled her into his lap as she
continued to work on her current paper snowflake, his lips brushing behind her ear and then down
her neck. “I can think of better uses of your time, Granger,” he growled lowly into her ear.

She chuckled quietly, trying to ignore the sparking in her veins as his mouth began to blaze a trail
down the back of her neck to the top of her spine. “You could help hasten the process, you know,”
she returned.

“Is that so?” he asked, undeterred as his lips moved back behind her ear. Goosebumps broke out
across her skin.

“Yes,” she replied firmly, attempting to hand him a pair of scissors and piece of white parchment.

He dropped his head on her shoulder, chuckling. “I’ve never used a pair of scissors before,
Granger. I’ll take my fucking fingers off.”

She chuckled in response, turning slightly so that her eyes could meet his. “Certainly someone
with hands as dexterous as yours could maneuver such an exercise quite easily, no?” she
whispered, her lips grazing his.

He groaned. “Hand me the fucking scissors, Granger.”

***

In truth, the paper snowflakes that Malfoy made were…ghastly. While his dexterous hands served
him well in Quidditch, spell work, and certain other activities, the paper snowflakes he made
largely resembled sheets of paper that had gotten halfway through a paper shredder before it
jammed. Theo hung them nonetheless, Otto no more than two paces away as Theo repeatedly
wobbled on the kitchen stool.

There was a small courtyard behind the flat where Otto had taken to teaching Draco his different
defensive spells, including the one that he and Theo had developed together. Hermione and Theo
would watch them from the small balcony that hung off the kitchen, the warmth that they felt
watching the men that they loved bond over magic staving off the bitter Bulgarian winter.

“So,” Theo began nervously one night, rocking from his toes to his heels, “Hanukkah starts the day
after tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Hermione replied, taking a sip of her mulled wine.

“I read that they give gifts for each night,” Theo said, taking a generous swig of his wine.
Hermione arched an eyebrow. “I know it’s important to him—his faith. So I’ve been reading up
on it, usually when he’s up late working on essays or lesson plans.” Theo sighed. “I don’t want
him to know how ignorant I am about it. I don’t need yet another reminder for him that I was
brought up by people that were so anti-him. Anti-us.”

Hermione placed her mug down on the balcony railing and wrapped her arms around Theo’s
waist. “He wouldn’t judge you for that, Theo. None of that is your fault. He knows that’s not
you.”

“Anyway,” Theo continued, clearing his throat and wrapping an arm around Hermione, “I got him
eight gifts. I’ve been working on them for a while—,” he chuckled nervously, shaking his head,
“they’re probably all complete rubbish, but can you come by in the morning—tell me what you
think before I utterly humiliate myself?”

Hermione laughed into his chest. “You’re not going to humiliate yourself, Theo,” she said,
drawing his forehead against hers. “Although—.” She paused, debating whether to tell him that
from her understanding, the every-night gift giving was more something parents did for their
children than lovers did for each other. She decided against it, fully believing what she said next.
“Whatever you have gotten him, Theo, Otto will love it.”

***

“Draco,” Hermione gasped as his lips moved across her chest, his hand already at her center. His
gaze flicked devilishly to hers as his mouth moved captured her breast. “Gods,” she hissed
tangling her hand in his hair, her hips beginning to rock against his hand.

“Need something, Granger?” he mused, bringing his mouth back up to hers, his teeth lightly
tugging at her lips while his thumb rolled over her center.

Yes. Everything. Goddamnit, everything, her mind screamed, drowning in the buzzing static
flooding her brain.

“No?” he asked smugly, as his lips slowly moved from her mouth to her cheek, across her jaw, and
down her throat. She could barely catch her breath as his mouth blazed a deliberate trail down her
chest and abdomen until it met his hand at her center, his tongue continuing to tease her with the
same delicate touches. She reached down again for his hair, desperate for something to tether her.
He hummed against her as his pressure increased, dragging her right to the edge. She bit into her
lip, her blood boiling under her skin. And then he pulled back, the tips of his fingers torturously
tracing her inner thighs as he sat up and looked at her.

“I won’t ask you again, Granger,” he growled, his hair falling into his face. “Do you need
something?”

“You,” she gasped, leaning forward and pulling him into her, their bodies moving together. Gods,
he felt magnificent. He wrapped a hand around her waist, another in her hair, as he buried his head
in the crook of her neck, his teeth scraping against her skin.

“Draco,” she whispered, his head moving upward and his gaze meeting hers. “I love you.” He
captured her mouth with his as his hands moved to pull them closer together.

Yes, this small flat in Veliko Tarnovo had brought Hermione the kind of serenity she hadn’t
expected to experience again after they left Germany.

But being with Draco Malfoy—that was truly home.

***

Hermione roused early the next morning and buried herself further into Malfoy’s embrace, laying
gentle kisses against his chest.

His arms tightened around her. “Trying to seduce a sleeping man, Granger?” he asked, his voice
husky with slumber.

“You wish,” she mused, pressing her lips against his collarbone. She felt him chuckle into her
hair.

“What’s on your mind?” he said, his voice still soft and slow as he began to weave his hand
through her hair.

“Theo got Hanukkah gifts for Otto,” she responded, tracing her fingers across Draco’s sectumsepra
scar, which had dulled to a light grey color. “He wants me to approve them.” She chuckled. “As
if Theo could get Otto anything that he wouldn’t love.”

Draco’s chest moved against her as he also chuckled at the idea. “You’ve replaced me, Granger,”
he cooed, his hand still moving delicately through her hair.

“With Theo? Hardly, Malfoy,” she snorted. “I love him insatiably, but—.”

“No,” Malfoy said, his mercury eyes finally opening to meet hers. “I mean if you gave Theo
veritaserum today and asked him who his best friend is, I’m not sure it would be me anymore.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Malfoy continued before she got a chance. “And it
would be deserved if his answer was you, Granger. You’re literally the only person I could say
that to. And before you start your pep talk shite, Granger, save it. Because the fact that Theo loves
you so fiercely makes me…happier than I can describe.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her
head. “He deserves a friend like you.”

***

Several hours later, when Hermione surmised that Theo might actually be awake and Otto was
likely down in the kitchen, working on yet another essay—his sixth defensive spell—she crept
toward Theo’s and Otto’s room.

She raised her knuckles to knock on the door when—

“I love you,” she heard Otto say. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she froze at the edge of
the doorway, barely out of sight.

An earthshattering pause.

“What?” Theo gasped, his voice stunned and hollow.

“I know. I know it’s probably way too soon to say that to you especially because so much of this is
new to you, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m not sorry about how I feel. Because I do, Theo—love
you. And I have,” she heard Otto chuckle, “for longer than I would like to admit. I am in love
with you, Theodore Nott.” Otto’s voice cracked as he delivered that last sentence.

Another pause. Hermione knew she should walk away—she had intruded on an incredibly private
moment, but she couldn’t get her feet to move from the doorway.

“You don’t have to say it back, Theo,” Otto said. “Maybe you’re not there yet. And that’s fine—
I’m a patient man. But I can’t continue to look at you and not say it. I love you. I love you so
much.”

Hermione felt fingers wrap around her wrist. She turned her head wordlessly, her gaze meeting
Malfoy’s, a finger crossing his lips. He tugged her away from the door. “Not our moment,” he
whispered to her as he led her back to their room.

***

There was a quiet knock at Hermione’s and Malfoy’s door shortly thereafter. Hermione and
Malfoy were both perched on their bed, books open in front of them, in a desperate attempt to look
natural. As if they had not both just stumbled upon an indescribably intimate moment between
Theo and Otto.

“Come in,” Malfoy said without missing a beat.

Theo appeared in the doorway, fidgeting. “Draco, can I talk to Granger? Just one on one?”

“Mate, of course,” Malfoy responded, swinging his legs over the bed as he kissed Hermione’s
temple and then squeezed Theo’s shoulder as he exited the room. “I’ll see if Otto can’t try to show
me again how to make scrambled eggs the Muggle way.”

Theo shuffled into the bed next to Hermione, her head coming to rest on his chest as she turned
toward him and wrapped her arms around his midsection. She realized in that moment that like
Malfoy, Theo was home. That while she had spent the past few months interpreting this closeness
with Theo as a crutch to help her hobble along without Malfoy, she had long ago learned to walk
on her own. This closeness was its own brand of comfort, love, and refuge.

Her thoughts drifted back to her conversation with Malfoy that morning. If someone gave her
veritaserum in this moment and asked her who her best friend was, who would she say? Certainly
not Harry, and she would be hard-pressed to say it was Ron. The rational part of her said Ginny,
but something in her gut told her that her answer may very well be Theo.

“Otto told me he loves me,” Theo whispered, his tone haunted.

“I know,” Hermione said quietly. “I wasn’t trying to snoop, Theo, I promise. But I was outside
your room—and I heard him say it.” She felt him swallow. “Do you love him?” Hermione asked
softly.

“Yes,” Theo responded, a gasping huff of air escaping him.

“Did you tell him?”

A pause.

Hermione propped herself up on her elbow. Theo stared at the ceiling, failing to meet her gaze. “I
never thought that I would be able to say those words to someone and mean it,” he whispered. A
tear rolled from his eye down his cheek, which Hermione captured with her index finger. “And the
few times I did allow myself to envision such a world, the person I was saying it to was always
—.” His breath caught.

Draco.

“I love Otto. Salazar, I love him. And in a completely different and better way than I ever loved
Draco. But—,” he sighed. “Once I say it to him, it’s closing a chapter, you know? It’s a chapter I
don’t necessarily want to live in anymore, but it’s still one that’s difficult to leave behind.”

“I know,” Hermione supplied gently. “That’s how I felt with Ron. I always thought we would end
up together. Even when that wasn’t what I wanted anymore, it was still hard to leave behind. That
version of my life.”

Theo nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “I need to tell him in my own way,” he said quietly. “I can’t
just say it like he did.” He pulled Hermione closer. “So can you come take a look at those sodding
Hanukkah gifts already and tell me if I’m completely doolally tap in giving them to him?”

“Of course, Theo,” she smiled. “Show me.”

***

Theo tugged Hermione into the room he shared with Otto, ripping open the closet and casting a
counter-disillusionment spell. Before them appeared a duffel bag of sorts that Theo began digging
through. “Close the door,” he said to Hermione, as she flicked the door closed.

“I know Hanukkah isn’t something I totally understand,” Theo said excitedly as he pulled items
from the duffel, “and maybe all of these are just barmy. Maybe I’ve completely cocked this,” he
sighed, resting on his haunches as he observed the items that he lifted out for Hermione’s
observation. “But I think he’ll like them, no?”

Hermione brought her hand to her mouth, desperately trying to still the tears in her eyes. Theo had
pulled out eight gifts, laying them out in what appeared to be in order of significance.

A biography on Alan Turing—Otto’s favorite historical figure.

A tape of Good Will Hunting—the first movie they ever watched together.

A mixtape of all the Muggle songs that they liked to listen to together.

A framed photograph of Theo kissing Otto’s cheek at a brewery in Rothenburg ob der Tauber that
Hermione had taken with a Muggle disposable camera.
The Body by Stephen King—Theo’s now-favorite book—translated into Hebrew.

Theo’s Slytherin ring on a delicate chain that Otto could wear around his neck.

The essay that Theo and Otto had drafted together, bound and framed.

The final gift was more of a puzzle to Hermione—it was a mason jar filled with strips of paper.
She looked at Theo quizzically.

“You can look at a couple from the top of the pile,” he chuckled, his voice thick and eyes misty.
“But any more than halfway down some of them are, well, explicit.”

Hermione chuckled and opened the mason jar, her fingers dusting over the top-most slip of paper.
She pulled it from the jar and unfurled it.

I love the color of your eyes.

Hermione looked up at Theo, whose eyes were as slick as hers. She reached back down and pulled
out another.

I love that small laugh you make before you say something clever.

Heeding Theo’s warning, she pulled out only four more slips of paper.

I love the way your hand feels in mine.

I love how brave you are.

I love the look in your eyes when you’re thinking through a new spell.

I love that you’ve made me a better man.

Hermione couldn’t even try to stem the flow of tears from her eyes as she met Theo’s gaze. “Is
there one in here that tells him you’re in love with him?” she whispered.

He bit his lip and nodded. “The one at the very bottom,” he sighed raggedly. “It’s not stupid,
right?” he gasped, his arms pulling Hermione tightly into him.

“Theo,” Hermione exhaled. “It’s perfect. All of it is so perfect. He’ll love it.”

***

And it was—perfect. Theo left the gifts in the kitchen late at night when Otto was asleep, leaving
Otto to find them in the mornings when he awoke several hours earlier than Theo. And like Theo,
Draco tended to sleep later than Hermione in the mornings, leaving her the only other person in the
apartment awake when Otto would rouse and find the gifts that Theo had so delicately laid out for
him. Hermione gave him “privacy”—in the way that she and Annike had done the evening that
Theo and Otto shared their first kiss. She perched at the top of the stairs, craning her neck over the
railing to catch glimpses of Otto as he peeled open the presents

Otto had chuckled warmly when he opened the first gift. He sighed deeply and smiled while
shaking his head when he opened the second. He bit back a smile and stifled an excited chuckle
when he opened the third. He gasped and giggled when he opened the fourth. Merlin, he’s
wonderful, he whispered when he opened the fifth. He had to steady himself against the counter
when he opened the sixth. He quietly sobbed into his hand when he opened the seventh.
Hermione was so desperate to see his reaction to the eighth gift that she actually stuck her head
through the rails on the staircase. Her heart swelled to an indescribable size as she watched Otto
fish the bits of paper out of the jar, pulling a chair behind him as he quietly wept into his hand. He
also laughed at some, rolled his eyes at others—Theo had clearly perfectly encapsulated their
relationship in these notes.

And then, as Otto was opening the last slip of paper—

“What in the ever-loving fuck are you doing, Granger?” Malfoy hissed behind her. She attempted
to pull her head back, but—

Oh no.

She was stuck. She had twisted her head at a desperate angle so she could watch Otto read Theo’s
love notes that now she couldn’t replicate the maneuver to extricate herself.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, desperate not to disturb the scene unfolding in the kitchen. “Help—I’m
stuck.”

“You’re—,” he started, and then threw his head back in booming laughter. He couldn’t even keep
himself upright. He collapsed into a fit of laughter beside her as, much to Hermione’s horror,
Otto’s tear-drenched eyes met hers, realizing that she had been spying on him.

She winced and frantically kicked her legs out behind her in an attempt to silence Malfoy. But
there wasn’t an ounce of frustration or annoyance in Otto’s eyes—he simply smiled and wiped the
tears from his eyes, ascending the stairs.

“What the hell is going on?!” Theo cried, emerging from the bedroom wearing nothing but trunks.
Otto wordlessly cast a spell that made the railing more malleable, allowing Hermione to free
herself. Malfoy was still howling beside her as Otto tenderly wrapped an arm around Theo and
walked him backwards into their bedroom, closing the door behind them.

***

On the eighth night—as they had each night—they cooked and ate dinner together. Otto had made
latkes on two separate occasions during that eight-day span, but tonight he asked Theo to help him,
wrapping himself around Theo as he showed him each step. They whispered and laughed as they
cooked, completely absorbed in each other. Hermione smiled, brought back to that moment in the
Weber gymnasium when Otto was teaching Theo positioning for defensive spells.

“I never thought there could be a couple that gave us a run for our money, Granger,” Malfoy
whispered, pulling her onto his lap. “But my gods, if they aren’t just as perfect as us.” Hermione
smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, feathering a kiss to the edge of his lips.

As dinner concluded, Otto handed Theo a large book. “So, I got you something for Hanukkah as
well,” he said softly.

Theo groaned, throwing his head back. “Merlin, Otto, more research isn’t a gift.”

“No,” Otto chuckled. “I’ve done the research for you this time.” He drew Theo’s head in toward
his, kissing his temple. “With Annike’s help, of course.”

Everyone’s heads turned toward Otto as he peeled open the book he had given Theo. “I did some
research into the lineage on your mom’s side, Theo,” Otto said slowly, peeling through pages of
the book. “And here,” Otto paused, “you have a descendant who identified as Jewish prior to the
Spanish Inquisition. They recognized themselves as Catholic after that but you, Theodore Nott, are
most certainly part Jewish.”

Hermione held her breath as she waited for Theo’s reaction. Theo had never embraced the Death
Eater lifestyle in the same way that Malfoy once had, and he had certainly rejected it wholesale for
the past five months. Even so, he was raised in that culture. And Hermione presumed that
discovering that you had Jewish roots would not be welcome news in that community.

But her heart leapt as she watched Theo bite back a smile, his hand tangling in Otto’s. “Just like
you,” Theo breathed.

“Yeah,” Otto whispered, bringing his other hand to Theo’s face and brushing his cheek with his
thumb. “Just like me.”

***

Sometime later, Otto rose to light the candles on the menorah. “Wait,” Malfoy said softly,
delicately moving Hermione from his lap. “Otto—if it’s okay, can I?”

Otto turned toward Malfoy deliberately, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “Of course,
Draco,” he responded.

Malfoy squeezed Hermione’s hand and rose slowly to meet Otto around the menorah, Otto quietly
instructing Malfoy as to how he was supposed to light the candles. Malfoy chuckled nervously as
he lit the shamash without magic, Otto guiding his hand to the other candles.

Theo edged closer to Hermione, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her into him.

It’s funny, Hermione thought, the games that light and dark play. Because as Malfoy’s arm moved
across the menorah, lighting additional candles, the darkness of the kitchen and the light of the
flames danced together in such a way that for the briefest of moments, the Mark on his arm was no
longer visible.

***

The days in between Hanukkah and Christmas passed quickly, much to Hermione’s chagrin.
Generally, the days leading up to Christmas were Hermione’s favorites of the year—filled with so
much cheer, love, warmth, and music. But now, each passing day meant they were one day closer
to Malfoy departing back to the Manor. And as he reluctantly cautioned her one night, he was
beginning to suspect that this might be their last time together before the War really began.

“He’s getting restless,” Malfoy breathed into her hair, curling his arm around her. “He can’t figure
out exactly where, but he knows that Potter is moving throughout the country looking for them.
Potter can’t occlude for shite.” He kissed the top of her head. “I think they’ve found at least one
horcrux based on a conversation that I overhead between him and Severus.” Malfoy sighed. “He’s
frustrated and desperate—he has dispatched more Snatchers than I even realized we had in our
ranks. If he doesn’t track him down soon, he’s going to try to draw him out.”

“Draw him out?” Hermione asked hollowly.

Malfoy sighed heavily into her. “It wouldn’t be hard, Granger. There’s a whole lot of people that
Potter cares deeply about. He’ll start killing them, one by one—.” Hermione bit back a sob.
“Until Potter comes out of hiding. And I’d wager it won’t take much for Potter to cave. And then
—all hell breaks loose.”
But for all the dread and darkness that reached into her psyche, there was still an undeniable magic
to the Christmas season that made Hermione’s blood buzz. Snow fell fairly regularly this time of
year in Bulgaria, and it took Hermione’s breath away each morning when she peeled back the
bedroom curtains, revealing the Sveta Gora Hill covered in fresh snow and dotted with medieval-
era buildings and fortresses. She felt like she was in Narnia.

Slowly, a modest amount of presents accumulated under the tree, including one from Annike and
Ernst, one from Piotr, and one from Viktor. Malfoy tried to fling the last one into the fireplace, but
Otto quickly hit the gift with an Immobulus charm, halting its movement. They made mulled wine,
hot toddies, and eggnog, and Hermione took care to make several different types of cookies that her
mother traditionally made around the holiday.

“Let me guess, Granger,” Malfoy whispered, pressing his chest against her back as she kneaded the
dough for snickerdoodle cookies. “Needs to be done the Muggle way?” He wrapped his arms
around her, his lips teasing the sensitive spot below her ear.

“Of course,” she chuckled softly, leaning into his embrace. His hands moved from around her
waist to over her hands.

“Show me,” he said, nipping at her ear.

And of course, Hermione insisted they watch a Christmas movie each night. Miracle on Thirty-
Fourth Street; It’s a Wonderful Life (Otto’s favorite); Meet Me in St. Louis; A Christmas Carol
(which poetically turned out to be Malfoy’s favorite); The Santa Clause; The Nightmare Before
Christmas (which Theo very audibly hated); Christmas Vacation (which unsurprisingly turned out
to be Theo’s favorite).

As she did with her family, Hermione saved her favorite movie for Christmas Eve: White
Christmas. More so than ever, the movie spoke to her: the otherwise unlikely bond forged
between two very different people during the throes of war, and the lasting friendship that
resulted. Neither Malfoy nor Theo cared much for musical movies, but they were pleasant enough
about the movie, and laughed along as Hermione and Otto tried to re-enact some of the dancing
scenes. Otto was actually quite the gifted dancer, but despite the lessons Hermione received from
Michael and Tommy in Ireland, she was no Vera Ellen.

They all got drunk off of mulled wine and eggnog that night, playing card games and sharing
stories and memories until the early hours of the morning.

“And then,” Malfoy wheezed, taking another slug of his wine, “she called me a foul, loathsome
little cockroach and sacked me right in the face!”

Otto’s eyes bulged as he choked on his eggnog and held his hand up for Hermione to high five.

“You deserved it, mate,” Theo chuckled, shaking his head.

“Oh, I completely deserved it!” Malfoy laughed, pulling Hermione in closer to him. “I nearly got
that bloody bird killed for no reason.”

“Yet another example of me saving Malfoy’s arse,” Hermione quipped, bringing the eggnog to her
lips.

“What do you mean?” Theo asked, polishing off his wine and wordlessly summoning the pot of
mulled wine to refill his mug.

Hermione bit back a smile, all three of their eyes on her. “Third Year, Professor McGonagall gave
me a Time Turner so I could take more classes.” Beside her, Malfoy exaggeratedly rolled his
eyes. “Harry and I used it to travel back in time to save Buckbeak and Sirius Black.”

A shattering silence followed.

“Fucking hell, Hermione!” Otto finally exclaimed. “That’s amazing!”

“Otto,” she jested. “You swore again.”

“Oh, you should hear him when—.”

“Ah!” Hermione, Malfoy, and Otto exclaimed at once, Otto clapping his hand over Theo’s mouth.
Hermione counted exactly three seconds before the inevitable: “Ugh, gross, Theo,” Otto muttered
as he wiped his hand on Theo’s jumper while Theo smiled mischievously, licking his lips.

***

Predictably, Hermione felt right awful the next morning. She still roused early, the sun barely
peeking through the window curtains in her and Malfoy’s room. She rolled delicately out of bed,
throwing on a sweatshirt, leggings, and slippers before she crept down the stairs.

She chuckled when she found Otto already in the kitchen, clad in what appeared to be a silk
dressing gown. Otto was, she realized, much like Malfoy in his refinement. He was perhaps what
Malfoy would have been if he had been raised without hatred and grievance.

“Happy Christmas, Otto,” Hermione said softly, leaning over the counter.

Otto turned around and smiled at her warmly. “Frohe Weihnachten, Hermione.” He gestured
toward the counter. “I’m making Bloody Marys. I figured we could all use the hair of the dog this
morning. If not the whole hound,” he chuckled.

She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You’re a saint, Otto,” she
whispered as he draped an arm around her back.

Malfoy and Theo awoke not long thereafter, disheveled and chuckling and shoving each other as
they made their way down the stairs. The four of them gathered in the living room with the
breakfast and Bloody Marys to begin opening presents.

Piotr had gifted them a book about Bulgarian dark magic with his own handwritten notes in the
margins about what counter-spells worked best, and which didn’t. Viktor had given them a framed
article from a Bulgarian newspaper picturing him and Hermione at the Yule Ball. Hermione was
fairly certain he meant it to be a light-hearted joke, but Malfoy had wordlessly flicked it into the
fire. Otto didn’t stop him this time.

Annike and Ernst also sent framed pictures. For Hermione and Theo, it was that adorable picture
of toddler Theo helping toddler Draco onto his broom. For Otto, it was a moving photograph that
Ernst had captured one morning—just the two of them sitting side by side at the kitchen table, Otto
whispering something to Theo, as a grin spread across Theo’s face.

Somewhat serendipitously, Malfoy and Otto exchanged letters—both of which, Hermione was
sure, revolved around their love for Theo.

“I don’t have anything more for you,” Theo said quietly to Otto. “I’m so sorry—I just didn’t think
—.” Otto captured Theo’s mouth with his before he could continue.
“You’ve already given me everything I want,” Otto whispered, brushing his thumb across Theo’s
jawline. “But I do have something for you.” He handed Theo a small, thin box wrapped in gold
paper. Theo tore the paper away and opened the box, his eyes round as saucers and instantly began
to water. “This—,” he gasped, unable to continue.

“I, well, I submitted our essay to the German Ministry of Magic. They loved it, Theo. They more
than loved it. And the spell—well, they thought it was beyond remarkable, which it is.”

“I can’t take this,” Theo said, his breath ragged.

“You absolutely can, and you will,” Otto replied, pulling Theo into him. “You made that spell
what it is. This belongs to you more than it does to me.”

Theo finally turned the box to Hermione and Malfoy. It was an Order of Merlin, Second Class
ribbon. Recognition for Otto’s contributions to defensive magic.

“I couldn’t submit your name along with mine for obvious reasons,” Otto said, his lips brushing
Theo’s cheek. “But I couldn’t have done it without you, Theo.”

Theo buried his head into Otto’s shoulder.

“Well, shite,” Malfoy sighed. “That’s going to be fucking impossible to follow up. Thanks,
Otto.” He shook his head, reaching for a thin package tucked under the tree. “Sorry, Granger,” he
sighed. “No Order of Merlin for us yet.”

Hermione chuckled and kissed him quickly before tearing away the paper. She opened the box
and examined the contents, a bit confused.

“It’s—well it’s not much, Granger,” Malfoy said nervously, thumbing through the papers in the
box. “But I petitioned the Magical Astronomical Union, and well—I had this star here renamed,”
he said, pointing to a picture of a star in the middle of the Draco constellation.

“Actually, quite a few of the stars in this constellation had been named already,” he cleared his
throat. “But this one—this star in the heart of the constellation had not been claimed yet.” He
fidgeted a bit, pulling Hermione into his lap and laying his head on her shoulder. “But it has now.
And it has a name. Hermione.”

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. “Draco,” she gasped. “This is—.”

“For eternity,” he whispered, “Hermione will be the center of Draco’s universe.”

Hermione nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks as she turned her head to face him. “I love you so
much,” she breathed, her lips covering his. “Draco, this is truly the best gift I have ever received.”

He dropped his head back to her shoulder, breathing into her neck. “You deserve everything,” he
whispered, his lips moving against her neck.

Hermione suddenly felt incredibly bashful and insecure about her gift. It wasn’t an Order of
Merlin ribbon, nor had she gotten a celestial body named after Malfoy. It was just a journal she
had kept since she and Theo left Liverpool, detailing her and Theo’s—and eventually Otto’s—
experiences across Europe, but styled as letters to Malfoy. Accompanied with Muggle pictures
where she had been able to capture them.

I saw the most amazing healing magic today. I wish you had been here to witness it too. Gods, it
feels like someone has ripped my heart from my chest. I love you.
I hate the picture of you and your parents in the Prophet. But I love being able to see you. I miss
you so much that my bones ache.

If you lost your memory, I would still love you. I would take care of you until the end of my days. I
love you so much that it feels impossible.

Theo performed the most amazing magic I have ever seen tonight. I wish you were here. I miss
you so much it feels like my soul has been torn from my body. I love you.

Malfoy’s eyes misted as he grazed over the pages. “Granger,” he gasped, his head back into the
crook of her neck. “Fuck. This is amazing. I love it. And I love you—so fucking much.”

“Turn the last page,” she whispered against his ear, delicately teasing him with her teeth.

His iron eyes met hers for a moment before he anxiously flipped the next page. Hermione
chuckled as she watched blush crawl up his neck.

“Granger,” he growled, peeling an envelope from the page and thumbing through the pictures.
“My gods, Granger.” He bit into her collarbone. “Who took these?” he whispered against her
neck.

“Mia—in Italy,” she giggled. He drew his fingers down one of the pictures.

“Fuck,” he hissed, the blush spreading to his cheekbones. “Bedroom, Granger. Now.”

“ARE THOSE DIRTY PICTURES OF GRANGER?!” she heard Theo yell as she ran up the stairs,
Malfoy only a few steps behind her.
 Salvation

Their bedroom door was closed when Draco reached it. He bit into his lip, his hand pausing on the
door knob as he steadied himself. He slowly opened the door.

“Oh, Merlin fuck,” he hissed. Granger stood at the end of the entrance to the bedroom without a
stitch of clothing on. His hands frantically shot to his pajama pants.

“Wait,” she cooed, slowly walking toward him. His hands reached out for her. “No,” she
whispered, grabbing his wrists and pinning his arms to his side as she pushed him back against the
door. Her honey eyes flicked up to meet his—the image-altering potion had worn off two days ago
but he had asked her to wait a few days to take her next dose. He wanted to see those fucking
heart-stopping eyes and run his hands through her wild curls again.

And now those eyes looked at him with such intensity he felt like he was going to crack in half.
Her hands still wrapped around his wrists, she stood on her toes and feathered a kiss to the
underside of his jaw. “Only I get to touch,” she purred.

“FUCK,” he muttered. Over a year later, and his witch was still full of surprises. He closed his
eyes as he felt her release his wrists, her hands hooking under the waistband of his pajama pants
and shucking them down to his ankles.

“Arms up,” she commanded, and he willingly obliged. His skin buzzed where her fingers brushed
against it as she slowly pulled the shirt over his head, dropping it softly to her side. She took a step
back and observed him slowly, biting into her lip. She stepped into him, the tips of her fingers
travelling delicately down the side of his face, under his jaw, and across his throat. Across his
chest and down his abdomen, pausing for a moment before Granger delicately dragged the tips of
her fingers along his shaft.

“Oh my fucking gods,” he gasped, nearly bursting when those fucking eyes looked up to meet his,
a devilish smirk on her face. She took him in her hand and began working against him, slow but
firm. She stood on her toes and planted barely-there kisses, licks, and nips down the side of his
face, following the same trail she had blazed with her fingertips.

Across his scar, down his abdomen, and then…

She kneeled in front of him.

Oh, fuck. I’m a goner. I’m a fucking goner.

Her mouth was around him, her tongue swirling against his shaft. Stars weren’t just exploding
under his skin—they were forming new universes as they were erupting. He was panting like a
feral dog, and sweating even though the room couldn’t be more than sixty-five degrees. He was
certain he looked mentally ill, but then again, he was on the verge of losing his mind.

He looked down and was met with her devastating honey eyes. He couldn’t take it anymore. In
one fluid motion, he picked her from the floor and pulled her into his arms. She wrapped her legs
around him as he turned and pushed her against the door as he pressed into her.

“Draco,” she gasped, her hands holding the sides of his face, their eyes locked on each other.
Mercury and honey. His thumb moved in circles against her center, her eyes fluttering as a deep
blush spread across her cheeks. That wild hair began to stick to her neck as perspiration began to
coat her skin as well.
They rose and crashed in unison, their eyes locked on each other the whole time. It was the most
powerful magic Draco had ever experienced.

***

They fell into bed some time later, half dressed and drained but deliriously happy.

It’s time, he thought to himself. He took a deep breath.

“I, um, actually have something else for you,” Draco said, trying to keep his voice even. “But I
didn’t want to give it to you in front of Theo and Otto because honestly—,” he could feel his voice
shaking despite his best efforts to temper it; his heart thundering in his chest. “I have no idea how
you’re going to react.”

He took a deep breath and pulled a palm-sized box from his bedside table, his normally Seeker-
steady hand trembling as he placed the box in Granger’s open hand. He left his hand over it for a
moment. “Please don’t freak out,” he whispered, his chest seizing when her eyes met his,
nonplussed.

“Oh gods,” he gasped, removing his hand from the top of the box and digging his palms into his
eye sockets. “Wait, Granger,” he breathed. “Just give me a second.” In and out. In and out. In
and out. “Okay,” he said finally. He lifted his head slightly and watched, breathless, as Granger
opened the box and lifted out of it a delicate silver chain, at the end of which dangled Druella
Black’s famed black diamond ring. Hermione’s expression was unreadable; Draco thought she
might have stopped breathing.

“I’m, um, I’m not—well, I’m not asking you to make any sort of commitment right now,” he
stammered. “I—gods—I’m sure you would hex me if I did.” He fought the urge to vomit and
dropped his head into his hands again in a failed attempt to compose himself. He took several
shuddering breaths before he summoned the courage to look at her again.

“But I want you to have it, Hermione,” he gasped, a tear rolling down his cheek. “I hope with
every fiber of my being that we survive this War. But we might not. And if gods forbid we don’t,
Hermione, I want you to know that I would’ve asked.” He chuckled wistfully, wiping his eyes. “I
would’ve tried to keep it discrete and intimate—but Theo would’ve inevitably gotten involved,
probably hiring a full orchestra and fireworks display. You would’ve hated it, of course, but you
would’ve smiled and tolerated it just to make Theo happy.” Hermione’s eyes met his, tears
pouring down her face as she smiled. “And then I would’ve gotten down on one knee and told you
that you were the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. And I would’ve told you that even
though we thought we were licked from the start, we began anyway. And I would’ve asked you if
you would see it through no matter what. If you would marry me. And move to some cottage with
me out in the middle of nowhere or some posh flat in Paris, and have ten kids or no kids, whatever
you fucking wanted, as long as you would see it through with me for the rest of our lives.”

“So I want you to have it. Because you’re it for me, Hermione. There’s not a world that exists
where I could be with anyone else anymore. Regardless of what happens next, this was never
meant to belong to anyone but you.”

Hermione was crying and laughing, and then she was in his arms, kissing him with such ferocity
that Draco swore he felt his soul become untethered from his body. When they finally broke apart,
she handed him the necklace he had just given her—his heart momentarily shattering until she
turned and pulled her hair away from the back of her neck.

***
When they finally made their way back downstairs, Theo and Otto were sitting at the kitchen table
playing cards.

“Oh come all ye faithful?” Theo greeted them, part of a candy cane hanging from his smirk. Otto,
who had unfortunately just taken a gulp of water, spewed it over the table.

“Gross, Theo!” Draco and Granger exclaimed in unison.

“Tis the season for giving,” Theo mused, wiggling his eyebrows. “And receiving.”

“Ugh!” the group responded as Draco and Granger folded into chairs at the table.

“He came upon a midnight clear? I could go all day, guys,” Theo quipped as he drew the candy
cane out of his mouth in an exaggeratedly sensual manner. Draco grimaced.

“Don’t make me hex you, Theo,” he muttered, dropping his head to the table.

Suddenly, Theo’s eyes bulged, the candy cane falling from his hand and clattering to the floor. “Is
that—is that what I fucking think it is?” he gasped, lunging across the table, grasping for Granger’s
necklace. Granger didn’t flinch as Theo pinched the ring between his thumb and index finger, his
jaw slack. “Are you two—fucking engaged?!”

Draco looked to Granger. He hadn’t really thought of a title for this. It wasn’t an engagement in
the true sense of the word—Merlin, they were teenagers. But they were also teenagers in the
middle of a war who were impossibly, desperately, hopelessly in love, and that deserved its own
brand of recognition.

Granger looked back at Draco, a warm smile forming on her lips. “We’re seeing it through,” she
replied, lacing her fingers with Draco’s.

***

The day passed slowly, highlighted by impromptu music and dancing, drinking games, movies
(Theo had insisted on re-watching Christmas Vacation), and dinner preparation. After several
weeks of living with Granger and Otto, Draco was somewhat competent in Muggle methods of
food preparation, but Granger still typically only assigned him rather elementary tasks. Perhaps he
should have been offended, but he loved it because the ease of these tasks allowed him to observe
her while she worked—those hands that so deftly practiced magic also skillfully working to create
absolutely delicious meals.

And as the sun set, the last of its rays peeking through the kitchen window, its light fell upon her
face and hair, illuminating her in a way that made her look indescribably stunning. She threw her
head back in laughter as Otto whispered something to her, wiping her eyes with the back of her
hands. Draco wondered if there would ever come a day that his love for her would plateau—
remain at an impossibly high but constant level. Or if he would, as he suspected, find new things to
love about her every day.

Dinner was, as it always was, absolutely delicious. Otto had paired it with a perfect wine, and then
moved on to making post-dinner cocktails. Granger began preparing popcorn while Theo popped
in what Draco hoped would be the final Yuletide movie of the season—How the Grinch Stole
Christmas.

No sooner had the movie started than they heard it—the screaming. The four of them rushed to
the windows, peering out to see several bodies floating in the air, wizards with wands skyward
below them. Draco’s stomach lurched, remembering the scene at the Quidditch World Cup before
their Fourth Year.

“Oh gods,” Granger whispered, drawing her hand over her mouth. Draco looked over to see Theo
and Otto frozen beside them.

Otto began to unsheathe his wand and turned away toward the entrance of the flat. “What are you
doing?” Draco hissed, grabbing his wrist.

“We have to help them!” Otto exclaimed.

“How are you so smart and simultaneously so sodding stupid?!” Draco responded, his grip on
Otto’s wrist still firm as Granger’s and Theo’s gazes tore from the wailing Muggles to the
exchange between Draco and Otto. “These two,” Draco began, nodding toward Granger and Theo,
“are supposed to be dead. They can’t go down there. I’m a fucking Death Eater, so I cannot go
down there and challenge those wizards.” The screams grew louder, and Granger clapped her
hands over her ears, crawling into a crouched position.

“There have to be at least ten wizards down there, Otto. I won’t let you go down there alone.
Absolutely not.”

Otto looked at him incredulously. “What if those Muggles were Theo and Hermione?” he shot
back. “Wouldn’t you want someone to intervene?”

“They’re not Theo and Hermione,” Draco retorted. “It’s fucking unfortunate, Otto, but this is a
war. You have to be strategic about these things.”

“It’s not Theo and Hermione now. But it could be one day. And I would hope and pray that
someone would come to their aid,” Otto replied, his eyes blazing.

“It’s. Not. Them,” Draco growled.

“Fuck this.” Otto wrenched his arm from Draco’s grasp, crossing the living room to the front door
in two steps.

“FUCK!” Draco roared, chasing after him. He could feel Theo and Granger behind him. “No,” he
hissed, turning around as he reached the doorway. “Absolutely not. Stay up here. If you’re seen
—.” He shook his head. “Stay up here. I’ll take care of this.”

“Draco,” Theo began, his voice impossibly small and heartbreaking and his eyes filled with tears.
“Please. He’s no good at offensive magic.”

“I’ll fucking kill them all before I let something happen to him, Theo,” Draco whispered, pulling
his friend into an embrace. His eyes met Granger’s, which were mournful but resolute. “I’m
fucking serious—stay up here.” She nodded once, and he fled down the stairs and out the front
door of the flat.

Otto had already casted the defensive spell he and Theo devised, a large, phosphorescent dome
covering him and the previously suspended Muggles, who now laid on the cobblestone street in
front of Otto. Draco ducked under the dome—the spell was designed in such a way that allies
could come under its protection while foes could not breach it.

But something was wrong. Some of the hexes and curses the dark wizards were casting were
making it through what Draco understood to be a rather impenetrable defensive shield. In all the
times he had practiced lobbing spells at Theo and Otto, none of them had ever broken through.
And according to Granger, that had been the case when they tested it with the Italian witches and
wizards as well.

But about a fourth of the spells were making it through, causing Draco and Otto to have to jump
and spin out of the way. Draco launched a series of stunning spells at the advancing dark wizards,
hitting about two of them. Unfortunately, there were still eight or so steadily making their way
towards them.

“STOP!” Draco bellowed, pulling up his sleeve to reveal his Mark. “Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he
boomed, trying to keep his voice even. “The Dark Lord’s third in command.” This stilled them for
a moment, as they regarded him with curious confusion.

“Why,” one of them snarled, “would you intervene on behalf of Muggle filth, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco steeled himself, painting his face with an expression of righteous indignation. “The Dark
Lord is interested in discretion,” he spat back. “He’s not ready to move yet. He doesn’t need no-
name dark wizards creating a stir in areas that are still far beyond his reach.”

Please, Merlin, let this work.

A couple of the wizards seemed to take caution in his words, but others laughed. “He’s just a
boy!” one cackled, launching a hex at him that broke through the spell. Draco leapt out of the way,
returning a stunning spell, but missed.

More wizards joined into the laughter, and in a true folie à deux moment, they all began leveling
curses and hexes at Draco and Otto, only some of which the defensive dome was deflecting.

Fuck, I need help. He couldn’t ask Otto—if he was, as Theo warned, shite at offensive magic, he
was of more use casting the defensive spell, as imperfect as it currently was. The lobby of spells
continued, increasing in frequency, forcing Draco to essentially perform a ballet while he returned
hexes of his own.

And then one finally caught him—right in the abdomen. It was only a stinging hex, but it still
brought him to his knees. He watched in horror as Otto rushed toward him, the protective dome
above them breaking apart.

Draco steadied his wand and aimed it at one of the dark wizards, his mouth forming around an
avada—

There was a crack of lightning above him that lit up the night sky and shattered the surrounding
windows. Only, as Draco quickly realized, it wasn’t lightning at all. A dozen or more silvery
dragons flooded the air around him and Otto, mouths ajar as they roared and spewed mercurial
flames at the advancing dark wizards. A few of the dragons swooped down and took the wizards
in their mouths, carrying them off into the night. The remaining wizards were bowled over by the
fire and smoke erupting from the dragons’ jaws.

And just like that, everything was still.

Draco’s head shot toward the flat, where Theo was leaning half out the window, chest heaving and
wand pointed at the dark wizards, with Granger behind him, bracing him.

No, Draco thought. Patronuses can’t do that. They can’t move corporeal forms like that.
Dementors and banshees, sure—but wizards themselves? He had never heard of or seen anything
like it.

***
Draco paced angrily across the living room several times, trying to temper his rage. It didn’t
work. When he heard Otto begin to open his mouth to say something, he snapped. He punched
Otto square in the cheek, throwing every single ounce of his weight behind him. Otto staggered
backwards, tripping over the coffee table and landing awkwardly on the couch. Blood was already
rushing down the side of his face and his neck, his cheekbone completely split open.

Fuck. Draco had forgotten to take off his Slytherin ring. He certainly wasn’t above hitting
someone, but he still tried to be a gentleman about it.

“Draco, what the fuck?!” Theo and Granger screamed in unison, Theo rushing to Otto’s side while
Granger pushed Draco back, her hands firmly on his chest.

Draco regretted punching Otto with his ring on, but he wasn’t sorry about what he did. Otto
possessed that same Gryffindor impulsiveness that drove Draco absolutely mad. He was an
infuriating combination of Potter and Granger, if Potter and Granger didn’t have the guts to use
offensive magic. Which means, of course, that they would both be dead by now.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Draco seethed, his eyes burning against Otto, who regarded
Draco with a certain cautiousness but without any fear or intimidation. Such a fucking Gryffindor.

“You are in a city crawling with dark wizards, a supposedly dead Order member, a supposedly
dead member of Death Eater royalty, and a defected Death Eater, and you think that you can just
willy-nilly run out into the street to confront a dozen dark wizards when you can barely produce a
stunning spell?!”

“The defensive spell—,” Theo began.

“Shut the fuck up, Theo,” Draco spat. “In case you didn’t notice, the fucking spell didn’t even
work. Not like when you two have done it together.”

Otto’s eyes were still fixed on Draco as Theo frantically muttered healing spells. “You may fancy
yourself some irascible genius, but your brain doesn’t do us a gods-damned bit of good if your
complete lack of common fucking sense gets us all killed. Which you very nearly did.”

Draco felt the fury slowly drain from his veins as he unloaded on Otto. “I would’ve absolutely
killed every single one of those fuckers to save you, Otto. And how would I have explained that?
To Tarnovsky? To the Dark Lord? How am I going to explain what actually just fucking
happened, hmm?”

Otto didn’t speak; he merely blinked at Draco. “Have you ever been crucio’ed, Otto?” Draco
asked. Otto slowly shook his head. “Well, I have. So has he,” Draco said, pointing to Theo. “And
so has she,” he finished, pointing to Granger. “And let me tell you—it is a pain like you cannot
fucking imagine. And if I can’t find some plausible explanation for Tarnovsky as to why three or
so of his supporters were just carried off to gods know where, the Dark Lord will absolutely crucio
the ever-loving shite out of me. All because you couldn’t resist the urge to play the hero. And if
Theo and I had been unsuccessful in saving your sorry arse, you would’ve just gotten this man you
supposedly love and the love of my life killed. And let me tell you, Otto, if that had happened and
for some reason those dark wizards hadn’t killed you, I would’ve killed you myself.”

“Draco,” Granger whispered softly before room grew painfully quiet and still, all eyes glued to
Draco.

He sighed. “You all need to leave. Now. Pack your shite and go. Back to Germany is probably
safest.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Granger said, tears already pooling in her eyes. “We’re supposed to have
another week.”

“Look, I need to explain what happened to Tarnovsky. I can’t just leave. But if he doesn’t kill me
or withdraw his support, I’ll come to Theo’s aunt and uncle’s for the remainder of my time.” He
kissed the top of Granger’s head. “But after what happened, you can’t stay here. They’re going to
be sniffing around like mad dogs.”

“I’m sorry,” Otto finally whispered, the gravity of what just happened finally appearing to sink in.

“Save it,” Draco responded dismissively. “It is what it is.”

***

Draco helped Granger pack up her things and generally tidy the flat. “I’m sorry,” he said softly
before they exited their room. “I know you hate when I lose my temper, and probably really
fucking hate that I would hit that bleeding pacifist, but fuck, Hermione that was—.” He took a
ragged breath as her hand cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing his jaw. “That was really scary. I
meant what I said—I would’ve avada’ed each of them if I had to, but there would’ve been no
plausible explanation for that. This—I can come up with an excuse for, I think. But killing them?
That would’ve been game over for me.”

He dropped his head onto her shoulder, burying his face into the crook of her neck as great,
heaving sobs tore from his gut. The moves and countermoves leading up to this War had hardened
him in many ways, but at the end of the day, he was still just seventeen. And he was fucking
scared.
 Grace

“I’m so cross with you,” Theo whispered as they piled into the rental car, Otto of course behind the
wheel, Theo sitting shotgun, and Hermione tucked into the backseat. Otto’s face fell as his gaze
turned to Theo, who was looking out the passenger side window. “What if something had
happened to you?” Theo continued absently. “I know it’s only been two or so months, Otto, but
gods—.” Theo’s voice cracked. “If something had happened to you, I don’t know how I would’ve
survived it.” Otto said nothing but nodded once, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.

He put his open hand out on the armrest between them—a peace offering. Theo looked down and
paused before putting his hand in Otto’s. They were largely silent the rest of the three-hour drive
to the airport in Sofia, but Otto cried quietly the entire time. As indescribably hurt as Hermione
was regarding how the events of their Christmas evening unfolded, her heart still found room to
break for him. He had acted on impulse and put them all in danger, but only because he had the
purest soul Hermione had ever encountered. His unicorn Patronus truly suited him perfectly.

Cross as he was, Theo occasionally reached over and wiped a tear from Otto’s face or lifted their
entwined hands to dust a kiss to the back of Otto’s hand. When they dropped the car off at the
rental agency, Hermione wrapped her arms around Otto’s midsection. A small sob died in his
throat when she did so.

“I’m not angry, Otto,” she said softly, pressing her head into his chest. “Malfoy knows what he’s
doing. He already made a great impression with Tarnovsky, and Tarnovsky is a fierce ally of
Voldemort. It’s going to be okay.” Hermione was projecting a certainty that she didn’t completely
have, but after Malfoy had calmed down from the duel with the dark wizards, his signature
confidence appeared to return as he developed a story to tell Tarnovsky.

“They key to telling a good lie is to keep it as close to the truth as possible. So I’ll tell him that
these wizards were out in the streets, drunk, torturing Muggles, and attracting attention. And
while there’s certainly no love lost between the Dark Lord and Muggles, he has been adamant
about not drawing too much attention to the spread of dark magic across the continent until he is
ready to advance beyond the UK. When I tried to defuse the situation, they attacked. So I did what
I had to do. Honestly, I think if word of the dragon Patronuses has reached him, he’ll be more
interested in discussing that than he will be angry about whatever happened to a couple of his
followers. I don’t think anyone saw Theo—I can say the Patronuses were mine.”

“What if he asks who Otto was?”

“Marcus Flint. Adrian Pucey. Crabbe. Goyle. Take your pick, they’ve all been Marked.”

“Please be careful. I love you so much.”

“I love you, Hermione. And I’ll see you soon.”

***

The three of them arrived at the Weber estate in Rothenburg ob der Tauber in the early evening
hours on Boxing Day, each of them physically and emotionally drained. Hermione’s spirits lifted,
however, when Ernst answered the door and a look of pure, unmitigated joy spread across his face.

“Well, what the Christmas surprise!” he exclaimed, taking each of them in his arms in turn.
“Annike! Lina! Come see who’s come back to us.” Annike and Lina were outside in an instant,
bearing similar reactions. “Come in, come in,” Ernst prodded. “It’s ghastly cold out there.”

The group gathered in the entryway to the estate, Hermione, Theo, and Otto shaking the snow from
their coats. “What brings you here?” Annike asked, wrapping an arm around her husband and
laying her head on his shoulder. “Not that we’re not beyond delighted to have you—we just
expected you to stay in Bulgaria through the holidays at least based on your last post.”

Hermione heard Otto start to choke up again next to her—he had finally stopped crying when they
boarded the plane and he needed to focus on soothing Theo, who still very much hated air travel.

Hermione grabbed Otto’s hand and squeezed it. “Well, I think that was initially our plan, but there
were just too many dark wizards there. It felt too risky to continue to stay. And honestly, we just
missed it here. This feels very much like home,” Hermione replied. Annike beamed and laughed,
wrapping Hermione in another hug.

Annike paused for a moment before breaking away and taking Theo into her arms and holding him
there, her hand running through his hair. “We couldn’t be happier to have you.”

“I must warn you, though,” Ernst began, “as I know you are supposed to be undercover—we have
an Order member currently staying with us. Has been for a few weeks now.”

Hermione’s eyes bulged. “What?” she gasped. “I didn’t realize the Order was in contact with the
Regulation outside of us.”

“We try to keep contact at a minimum generally—it’s safer that way. But just as we did in the last
War, we’ll take in members of Regulation-adjacent organizations who are particularly vulnerable
to danger or discovery and need some extra protection. Somewhere to lie low safely.” Ernst
sighed. “This Order member—well, he’s on Lord Voldemort’s Undesirables list, which isn’t
surprising. Most Order members are. But he’s just not coping with the events of this War well.
His behavior became…reckless, leaving him particularly exposed. So, at the request of his wife
and family, we took him in. Like I said—he’s been here a few weeks and seems to be doing
better. He volunteers during the day at a local Muggle hospital under an assumed name and
properly polyjuiced. We have found giving folks like him a purpose generally helps with
recovery. He’s there now, but usually makes it home in time for dinner.”

“Recovery?” Hermione asked hollowly.

“Potions,” Ernst said solemnly. “It appears he became addicted a few months back. It’s terrible,
but not uncommon in these kinds of situations I’m afraid.” He looked at the three of them softly.
“So I’m not sure how you want to handle this. Given that he’s an Order member, I would assume
low risk of him disclosing your existence. But I know you’ve gone to great lengths and made
many sacrifices to conceal yourselves for a long time.” He shrugged. “The estate is large enough
that we could likely keep you separate for as long as needed, but,” he chuckled wistfully, “that
certainly doesn’t make for much of a home.”

“Who is it?” Hermione whispered. She had only processed about half of what Ernst had said, too
preoccupied running through Order members that fit the admittedly vague description that Ernst
had supplied. A male Order member with a wife…

“Charlie Weasley.”

No.

No.
No.

Hermione collapsed to her knees, gut-wrenching wails pouring into her hands.

***

“Hermione.” Annike was kneeling on the kitchen floor in front of her, glass of water in hand.
“Take some water, love.”

“I told him!” she sobbed, her back flush against Theo’s chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her.
She was vaguely aware of Otto holding one of her hands. “I fucking told Malfoy it would destroy
Charlie! I—,” her voice cracked. “I did this to him,” she whispered hoarsely.

Theo’s grip around her grew tighter as he tucked his head between her neck and shoulder. “It’s
okay, Granger,” he whispered. Annike, apparently realizing that Hermione was not particularly in
control of her faculties, brought the glass of water to her lips, dipping the glass back.

Crisp, cool water poured down Hermione’s throat. She supposed it helped in a way—she wasn’t
sure how long she had been melting down, but the sheer amount of liquid she was losing through
her eyes was beginning to dehydrate her.

But she was only able to take a small sip before her head collapsed toward her chest as she
dissolved into another fit of tears. Annike looked helplessly back at Ernst.

“Get some calming draught,” he said softly to Annike, and Hermione sensed Annike rise and walk
away. Ernst knelt in front of her. “Teddy, let go. I’ve got her.” She felt Ernst cradle her in his
arms as he stood and began walking out of the kitchen and toward the living quarters of the estate.
As Ernst crossed the entryway, the door opened and a shock of scarlet crossed Hermione’s tear-
blurred vision.

“The polyjuice began wearing off early today so—.”

She should’ve tucked her head into Ernst’s chest. She and Theo had taken another image-altering
potion before they left Bulgaria, rendering her hair an otherwise uncharacteristic dark brown.

But she didn’t. Instead, her eyes met those of one Charles Prewett Weasley head on, and for the
second time in as many months, someone in the Weber estate fainted when their gaze landed upon
someone they believed to be dead.

***

Hermione awoke sometime later in “her” bedroom in the Weber estate, after Annike and Theo had
all but force-fed several calming draughts.

“Hi,” a soft squeeze to her hand. She looked to her right and found Otto sitting in an arm chair that
he had drawn next to her side of the bed. “Theo was here until about an hour ago. I insisted he
take a rest.” Otto sighed. “How are you feeling, Hermione?”

“How is Charlie?” she choked out, her throat sore and hoarse.

“Well, it’s hard to say,” Otto began slowly, “as this is my first time meeting him. But he seems…
distraught. But also relieved. Angry. Confused.” Hermione nodded, already fighting back
another deluge of tears. “Annike, Ernst, and I have been in an out of his room all evening—talking
to him. Trying to explain to him what happened and why.”
“Thank you, Otto,” she whispered.

“He wants to see you,” Otto replied. “I think he needs to see you again to convince himself that
what we’re telling him is true.”

“Right,” Hermione said, pulling the sheets from over her and groggily lifting herself from bed.

“But Hermione,” Otto cautioned, his hand on her arm. “As relieved as he seemed to be to know
that you were alive, I don’t think you should necessarily expect this to be a pleasant conversation.”

“It shouldn’t be, Otto,” she responded hollowly, her eyes meeting his. “Charlie reminds me of
Theo in a way; he loves so ferociously. And I knew all those months ago when Malfoy performed
the memory charm—,” her tone broke as she continued, “I knew it would break him. And I let
Malfoy do it anyway. So I deserve whatever anger and hatred Charlie feels toward me.”

“Hermione.” Otto grabbed her wrist as she went to walk past him. “Give yourself the same grace
you gave me. You were doing what you thought you needed to do at the time.” He sighed, his
eyes meeting hers. “Nothing that we are living through right now is easy, Hermione. We’re doing
the best we can. Just remember that.”

Hermione leaned down and placed a delicate kiss to Otto’s cheek before she set off down the hall.

***

Hermione’s knuckles clipped softly against Charlie’s bedroom door.

“Please, Annike, just leave me alone,” rang a familiar voice from behind the door. Hermione
gasped into her hand as she pressed her head to the door, her heart racing. Give him another day,
she thought. Give him more time to process this.

No.

You knew. You knew the memory charm would destroy him, and you let Malfoy do it anyway. You
deserve every bit of unhappiness that awaits you behind this door.

“It’s not Annike,” Hermione said softly. “It’s me, Charlie. Hermione.”

There was no response.

“Can I come in?”

“Are we asking permission now?” was the hollow response. Her knees buckled a bit before she
righted herself.

“Yes, Charlie. I’m asking permission. Can I come in?”

No response.

Still no response.

“Charlie!” she exclaimed, slamming her palm against the door. “Please, Charlie. Let me in.”

“Do whatever you want, Hermione. It’s apparently what you do.”

She took a deep breath before she wrapped her fingers around the doorknob and turned it, slowly
pushing open the door. Charlie was in bed, but his head was turned away from her. She stood in
the doorway for several impossible seconds—the only sound being her heart thudding in her ears—
before his head turned slowly to face her, although his eyes quite reach hers.

His face was pale and drawn—he had lost an alarming amount of weight; his typically weather-
tinged skin now an ashy hue. His curly, scarlet locks laid lifelessly across his forehead. And there
was a dullness to his eyes that ripped Hermione’s soul from her chest. She made an attempt at
speech, but it died in her throat.

“In one night,” he said slowly, still not meeting her gaze, “my baby brother and baby sister
disappear. They become Undesirable Numbers Two and Three. And the girl who loves my baby
brother—the girl who I regard as the second sister I never had—dies before my eyes. And I use an
Unforgiveable Curse to kill the man that killed her. And I become Undesirable Number Twelve.”
His stale eyes finally meet hers. “Or, my second sister is in love with a Death Eater who wipes my
memory while I’m unconscious. And I don’t kill anyone. And my second sister is not dead. She’s
gallivanting around Europe with a would-be Death Eater and his lover.” He took a long pause. “So
tell me—what’s real, Hermione?”

“Charlie.”

“I was the one to tell them, you know that? My family. When I eventually found them. I had to
tell them that you were dead. My mum—.” His voice broke. “Combined with the stunt that Ron,
Ginny, and Harry pulled—Merlin, I thought she was going to die right there. My entire family was
devastated. And Tonks, my gods, she was completely wrecked. The pain and shame, Hermione,
of knowing that I failed so egregiously in protecting you—it consumed every single part of me.”

“Charlie—please.” She couldn’t find any other words.

“Get out,” he said coldly, turning away from her again.

***

Otto was waiting for Hermione in her room when she returned. He caught her in his arms when
she collapsed in a fit of sobs in the doorway, cradling her against his chest and depositing her into
her bed.

“Do you want me to get Theo?” he asked softly. Hermione was incapable of forming words; she
merely buried her wails into her pillow. After a few moments, she felt the weight of the bed shift
as Otto moved behind her and wrapped himself around her in the same way that Theo did. She
could hear him whispering in Hebrew—praying for her perhaps. For all of them, hopefully. His
soft voice echoed against her skin until Hermione’s sobs finally lulled her to sleep.

Otto was still curled around her when she awoke, but Theo was now also bedside, book in hand.
As if sensing her wordless consciousness, Theo’s eyes peeled away from his book to meet hers.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he cooed, planting a quick peck to her cheek. “You slept for nearly
ten hours.”

“How’s Charlie?”

“Miraculously, Granger, you actually look worse than him right now,” Theo teased.

“Theo,” Otto chided softly behind her.

Theo sighed, rolling his eyes. “Sorry for trying to bring a little levity to the situation, Salazar.”
Theo’s expression softened as he reached over Hermione’s face to brush her hair back. “He’s in a
bad place, Granger. The man is a junkie—.”
“Word choice,” Otto interjected.

“—and he’s just found out that the last six months of his life were a lie. Give him time.”

Hermione whispered back the inevitable. “What if we don’t have time?”

Theo shrugged. “Maybe we don’t. Maybe the Dark Lord strikes tomorrow and kills us all. But
there’s not a gods-damned thing you can do about that. Just take it day by day, Granger.”

She nodded, knowing she should finally yank herself out of bed and make her way down to the
kitchen—Merlin, when was the last time she ate?—but everything just felt too heavy. She couldn’t
find the energy to pull herself into the sitting position, let alone upright and down the stairs.

“Speaking of time,” Theo said slowly. “Draco Floo’ed in about thirty minutes ago. He’s in the
kitchen with Ernst. He’s dying to see you, but I told him he should wait because you might be—.”

While still completely devoid of energy, Hermione’s body found a new motivating power source:
rage. In one fluid motion, she extricated herself from Otto’s embrace, swung her legs over the side
of the bed, and stormed toward the bedroom door.

“—upset,” she heard Theo finish, as his and Otto’s hurried footsteps followed her through the
corridors, down the stairs, and into the kitchen where the silver-haired object of her ire was
assisting Ernst in rustling up dishes from breakfast.
 Healing

Much to Draco’s relief, his meeting with Tarnovsky had gone off much like he anticipated—the
old creep was much more fascinated by the extraordinary display of magic that Draco had
supposedly unleashed on his followers than the fact that some of his followers had been taken into
the jaws of dragon Patronuses and carried several towns away, or otherwise sustained some severe
magical burns from the dragons’ flames. Tarnovsky, of course, was less pleased that Tsveta had
not taken a shine to Draco, asking Draco if he would revisit in another couple months when “she
was in a better frame of mind.” Retch.

Unfortunately, his arrival at the Weber estate did not go off as anticipated. There was no Granger
rushing into his arms, peppering him with kisses while tears rolled down her cheeks. There was no
warm embrace from the other members of the household upon realizing that Draco had
successfully avoided being brutally punished by a powerful dark wizard after cleaning up the mess
he and Otto left on the streets of Veliko Tarnovo.

Instead, there was a solemn and quiet breakfast scene, completely devoid of Granger, Theo, or
Otto. As was his modus operandi, Draco immediately panicked—terrified that some dark wizards
spotted and captured them during their voyage from Veliko Tarnovo to Rothenburg ob der Tauber,
and were now interrogating them, torturing them, or worse.

Recognizing the dread in Draco’s eyes, Ernst quickly rose from the large kitchen table and put an
arm around him. “They’re fine,” he said quickly. “But let me fetch Teddy. I think you need to
talk to him first.”

***

It was far from the worst news imaginable: Weasley brute hadn’t taken the events of the memory
charm well and had become a bit of a Potions junkie over the past six months. Draco felt fairly
agnostic about that. He would add it to the sky-high pile of things he needed to repent for, but in
his mind, the ends justified the means. The wizarding world had accepted Granger’s death as fact.
There had been no inquiries, no follow-ups, no hope that she was still out there somewhere. She
and Theo had been able to safely travel throughout Europe for months without detection.

But Weasley brute was family to Granger. And per Theo, discovery of his unwellness had caused
Granger to completely melt down, her devastation compounded when the Weasley brute
completely rebuffed her contrition efforts. Granger was now apparently in a near-catatonic state in
an upstairs bedroom, but her breakdown had contained enough references to this all being Malfoy’s
fault that Theo and Otto and Annike and Ernst didn’t think it was a good idea for Draco to be in her
bedroom when Granger roused.

Draco was in deep, deep shite.

Ernst tried dutifully to distract him, asking Draco for his assistance in clearing and washing the
breakfast dishes the Muggle way—a habit that Draco couldn’t even begin to wrap his head
around. Draco found it exceedingly laborious—the act of scrubbing dishes without magic (Salazar,
he didn’t even wash dishes with magic; the house elves did it), but even so, it failed to tear his mind
away from Granger and his trepidation regarding the extent of her anger toward him.

Draco had six days at best before he had to return to the Manor. He wanted to spend each and
every second of those six days in her arms. Telling her how much he loved her. Reading books
with her. Laughing with her. Watching movies with her. Kissing her. Dancing clumsily to
Muggle music with her. Making love with her.

Ernst was talking to him as they washed the dishes, but Draco heard none of it. He traveled back to
Christmas morning in their room in Bulgaria, when Draco laced that necklace around her neck,
trailing his lips down her neck, his hands moving to her breasts as she leaned back against him and
moaned, those huffy pants…

Merlin, STOP, his mind screamed, his trousers growing tight as he stood at a kitchen sink next to
the fifty-something-year-old uncle of his best friend.

And then the sound that broke his reverie completely.

“Malfoy.”

It came out of her mouth like venom. In a remarkable feat of physics for a witch with such short
legs, she was before him in just a few strides, the palm of her hand unsurprisingly connecting with
his cheek as he turned from the sink to face her.

She raised her hand again but Draco’s fingers reached out and wrapped around both of her wrists,
pinning her arms to her side and pushing her backward against the kitchen counter. “Use your
words, Granger,” he growled.

Her face wrenched upwards, her cheeks flush and her eyes burning against his. They were green
this time. “I told you,” she scathed. “I told you it would destroy him. I begged you not to do it.
But as always—,” she seethed, ripping her wrists away and pushing him backward with impressive
force, “you thought you knew better.”

“Granger—,” he began, unable to finish before she launched into her next tirade.

“For six months, Malfoy! For six months, I have been travelling around Europe, laughing, loving,
dancing, drinking—having a grand old time. And this whole time,” she sobbed, tears beginning to
spill down her cheeks, “he’s been suffering.”

“We’re all suffering, Granger.”

“Not like that,” she said hollowly.

“No?” Draco responded, feeling the frustration gather in his gut, rise through his throat, and out of
his mouth. He stepped into her, pressing her back against the counter. “You think Weasley brute’s
the only one hurting? We’re all fucking making sacrifices. We’re all pushing ourselves to the
brink. We’re all coming out of this completely fucking broken, so don’t ask me to feel particular
sympathy that this bloke broke before the rest of us.”

Granger raised her hand to strike him again, but he grabbed her wrist again. “I would trade landing
the Weasley brute with a potions hitch if it increased your chance of survival by one percent,
Granger! I would make that trade any gods-damned day of the week.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she hissed.

“Do you hear yourself?” Draco shot back. “The bloke’s not dead! And even if he were—Merlin,
Granger, I mean it’s not like there aren’t six more where he came from!”

Fuck. As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them. Not that a part of him didn’t mean it,
but FUCK—the look on her face was indescribable. He could’ve lived with it if it were anger. But
it wasn’t anger. It was hurt, resentment, and disappointment. The same way she looked at him for
years before they got together. Like all she saw was a bully and a Death Eater.

“Hermione,” he began, his voice strangled. “Please—.” But she had fled the room before he could
get another word in edgewise.

He looked around the room—first to Theo, then to Otto, then to Ernst—all of whom bore an
identical grimace.

“I’ll, uh, go talk to her,” Otto said softly. But before he left the room, he approached Draco
slowly, his expression cautious.

“There’s a word in old German, it has no translation in English,” Otto began. “But it means a gift
offered fearfully in the wake of an argument. Drachenfutter.” Draco blinked, unmoving. “The
literal meaning is ‘dragon food.’” There was a pause as Otto sighed deeply. “I apologize for my
actions on Christmas. I think there’s still a lot you need to learn about right and wrong, Draco. But
there’s obviously a lot I need to learn from you, as well. So I’ll go talk to Hermione…on your
behalf. You mean well, I know.” He put a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Drachenfutter.”

Draco nodded as Otto quietly filed out of the room. Ernst let out a long exhale as he turned back to
focus on the dishes.

“You know I love you,” Theo said as he approached Draco from the opposite side of the kitchen.

“Theo, I don’t need to hear it,” Draco sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, you do, Draco,” Theo whispered, his hand now squeezing Draco’s shoulder. “Sometimes
you need to hear it. Because you’re a fucking prick,” Theo said, poking Draco in the chest and
ducking his head so he could capture Draco’s gaze, which was cast downward. Despite himself,
Draco chuckled dryly.

“Now, you’re substantially less of a prick than perhaps you were a few years ago, but a prick none
the less. You probably always will be.” Theo sighed, tucking his finger under Draco’s chin to
draw his head upward. “And despite that, Granger loves you beyond measure. But, mate, if you
keep cocking up like that, you’ll lose her.”

Draco exhaled and nodded, wrapping an arm around Theo. “Someone get the Weasley brute down
here so we can hash this out please.”

***

Draco winced as Otto worked another healing charm—his fourth—on Draco’s face, while Theo
applied similar charms to Draco’s chest and abdomen. Despite the fact that the Weasley brute had
significantly diminished in stature since Draco last saw him, the man still packed a serious punch.

It was, without a doubt, the worst beating Draco had ever taken in his life. Not that he had ever
taken more than a handful of punches in his life—the majority of them now regrettably from a
Weasley—but this one was leaps and bounds worse than all of Draco’s previous violent encounters
combined.

Because despite Annike’s and Ernst’s misgivings about it, Draco had insisted they drag the
Weasley brute from his bed and have him meet Draco in the front courtyard so Draco could tell
him the complete truth regarding the night he mucked with the Weasley brute’s memory and take
whatever punishment that was then hurled his way.

It was all my idea.

Granger fought me every step of the way.

I had to pry her from your body.

She never wanted to leave you.

She hit me so many times my face was raw.

She laid on the floor sobbing for hours after I apparated her to Liverpool.

She is the love of my life and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

So take it out on me.

And Merlin, did he ever. The Weasley brute beat the ever-loving shite out of him. But if this was
his penance, he would take it. If this helped heal Weasley brute and encouraged him to forgive
Granger, Draco would take it. He would do anything to have the next few days with her. Because
that might be all they had left.

***

Otto’s fifth healing charm mended Draco’s face to something close to human, and Theo’s healing
charms eased the tenderness of Draco’s chest enough that he felt he could breathe normally again.

After Theo and Otto left, a crushing loneliness enveloped Draco as he faced the increasingly
realistic scenario that he would be spending the night alone. With Granger just down the hall and
with only days left together. He laid there for hours, sleep predictably elusive, as his favorite
memories of her played like loops in his head.

When she snogged him in the broom closet after defending him to Slughorn. The look in her eyes
when he first showed her the top of the owlery. Every single moment of their first night together in
the Room of Requirement. When they told each other they loved each other on the floor of the
kitchen in the cottage. Her singing along to Phantom of the Opera while they did homework
together. Her smile when he appeared outside the window of her Muggle home. Watching her
struggle to wash her hair in that bath in Liverpool. Making love on that desk in Honfleur. And
later watching her drunkenly dance around the room with Theo. The look on her face when he told
her that he would be staying with her for a month. Watching her and Otto reenact the dancing
scenes from White Christmas. The sight of his grandmother’s diamond ring laying across her bare
chest.

At some unknown hour, he heard his door crack open, a sliver of light filtering into his room and
backlighting a diminutive figure in the doorway.

Oh, thank Merlin.

“Hermione, please,” he gasped, his voice breaking. She tip-toed silently across the room and
tucked into bed next to him. She was quiet for a few moments, and Draco didn’t dare speak, too
afraid that whatever came out of his mouth would shatter this apparent détente they had stumbled
into.

“Otto told me what you did,” she whispered. “You didn’t need to do that, Draco. I don’t care how
mad I am, I never want to see you hurt.” She sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.

“Fuck, Granger!” Draco hissed, the sudden sharp light blinding him.
“Oh gods, Draco,” she gasped softly, a look of horror painted across her face as her body began to
tremble.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he lied as her fingertips trailed down his bruised body, from his
hairline to the top of his trunks.

She shook her head. “How could you think I would want this?”

“I didn’t think you wanted this. Merlin, give me some credit—I know you better than that. But
the Weasley brute needed to know the truth—that I dragged you kicking and screaming into that
situation. None of it was your idea or even something you had any choice in. And if unleashing
some of that pent up damage and rage on me is something that would help move him forward even
an inch—to bring him back to you,” he sighed, “I’ll take that beating every fucking day if I have
to.”

His bloodshot eyes met hers, a striking emerald green and quivering with emotion as her hands
continued to delicately dance across his battered frame. “He did come to talk to me tonight,” she
whispered, her voice clotted with concern. “He still seems…lost, maybe? I don’t know. He’s still
angry and hurt. But he is speaking to me again.” She let out a shuddering exhale, a lone tear
sliding down her cheek. Draco brought his hand up to her face and brushed his thumb across her
cheekbone, and then drew her head down to feather a kiss to her forehead.

“I never want to see you anything like this again,” she gasped. “It’s breaking my heart.”

He chuckled into her hair. “Trust me, Granger, I would very much prefer to never look like this
again.”

She turned off the bedside lamp and curled into him, her head coming to rest on his chest. Honey,
lemon, and parchment enveloped him, and despite the physical ache in almost every square inch of
his body, Draco was in paradise.

“You have changed me for the better,” he whispered into the top of her head. “I hope you can see
that.” He sighed. “But I’m never going to be like you or Otto. I promise I will work for the rest of
my life to become someone who is even remotely worthy of you, and I understand in your mind
that doesn’t include someone who would completely fuck with someone’s head just to marginally
increase your chances of survival. But I would kill every single person on this planet if it meant
protecting you, Hermione. I would sacrifice every last bit of my humanity to save you, protect you,
honor you. Even if you didn’t ask me to. Even if you didn’t want me to. I can’t help it,
Hermione. And I can’t find it in my heart to be sorry about it. That’s the only way I know how to
love you. Completely and all-consuming.”

She leaned up, her lips capturing his delicately as her hand ran through his hair and then softly
down the side of his face. “I know, Draco,” she said quietly. “And I know you’re better. You’re
better than you give yourself credit for. And I love every single part of you. Even when I’m
angry. Even when I feel like I hate you. I love you.” She brushed her lips to his chest several
times before she settled her head against it, her breathing slowing as she fell asleep in his arms.

And as he fell asleep, Draco quietly filed this exchange away as another favorite memory of her.

***

The entire household, including Weasley brute, was seated at the kitchen table when Draco and
Granger finally made it downstairs the next morning. “Sorry!” Granger said sheepishly when she
realized the rest of the estate had roused before them. “We, uh, obviously overslept.”
Annike waived her off with a smile. She rose from her seat and approached them, taking Draco’s
face in her hands to inspect the bruising. She sighed heavily, a rankled gaze falling upon the
Weasley brute, who merely shrugged in response. “I’ll do some more healing charms after
breakfast,” she said softly, pressing a delicate peck to Draco’s forehead. He pulled back
involuntarily.

“Sorry,” Annike chuckled. “My maternal instincts know no bounds sometimes.”

“No—I’m sorry,” Draco replied. “I’m just not used to—.” Annike nodded and turned away before
he could continue. It wasn’t as though his mother didn’t show Draco affection—she did. But there
was always a certain aristocratic restraint to it that was absent here. And despite his physical
reaction suggesting otherwise, Draco found he quite liked it.

He slid into the seat next to Granger, which was unfortunately across from the Weasley brute.
“You look like shite,” the Weasley brute addressed him.

“So do you,” Draco instantly returned.

Fuck, he grimaced. I had just gotten back in good graces.

But much to Draco’s surprise, the Weasley brute looked up from his breakfast plate, an amused
smirk on his face. He then took a swig of what appeared to be polyjuice potion in front of him and
stood. “Thank you, as always, for breakfast,” he said, squeezing both Annike’s and Ernst’s
shoulders. “But my shift starts in twenty minutes, so I must dash.”

“Wait,” Draco said, as the Weasley brute—who now donned a completely different and
unrecognizable appearance—stood to exit the kitchen. He took a few steps toward Draco and
crossed his arms, his expression expectant. “I never thanked you,” Draco began, “for what you did
for Granger back in August. Absorbing the crucio for her. I know mucking with your mind was a
right awful way to pay you back for it, but,” Draco sighed, his eyes turning to Granger, “I am
grateful beyond human expression that you did that for her.”

A pleasant expression crossed the Weasley brute’s face. “She’s worth protecting,” he replied
simply. “I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.”

Draco nodded and extended his hand. Weasley brute observed it curiously before that same
amused smirk crossed his face again. “We’re not there yet, dear cousin. But I appreciate the
gesture.” He strode out of the room without a glance back.

“Cousin?” Draco queried, perplexed.

“Oh gods!” Granger exclaimed, bringing her hand to her mouth. “All this time—I can’t believe I
completely forgot to tell you!” She chuckled to herself before continuing. “Charlie married your
cousin, Tonks, last summer. So the Blacks and the Weasleys now share a branch across their
family trees.”

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Theo throw his head back in laughter. Draco dropped his
forehead to the table. “Merlin, this world gets more disgusting by the second,” he muttered as the
table erupted into laughter around him.

***

The days, of course, began to pass quickly. Ernst brewed a polyjuice for Draco so he could
explore the city with the others, turning Draco into another Regulation member, some bloke named
Adler Roth. Draco’s silver locks turned dirty blonde and reached his shoulders, his eyes a pale
blue, his features still sharp but more delicate. And a rose tattoo on the side of his neck, which
Draco quite frankly hated.

But he loved the freedom it afforded him. Walking hand-in-hand with Granger, Theo and Otto
hand-in-hand ahead of them, in what Draco imagined was perhaps one of the most beautiful cities
in the world to spend the Christmas season was pure bliss. The city’s legendary Christmas markets
continued to bring bustling crowds of Muggles even after the holiday itself passed.

“Reiterlesmarkt,” Otto explained, “is the proper name for the Christmas market. It was named
after a local Teutonic legend, which began during pre-Christian times. It told of a fearsome spirit
on horseback, Reiterle, who carried around the souls of the dead in tow when he visited during the
winter season. But as Christianity spread through Europe, the horseman was transformed into a
loving, gentle man who gave gifts to all people on earth: Der Weihnachtsmann. Or as you call
him, Santa Claus.”

“Love when those centuries-old pagan legends take on a convenient, Christian life of their own,”
Draco deadpanned, as Granger swatted him. Otto chucked appreciatively, and Theo paid no mind
because Otto was donning a new, immaculately tailored suit and peacoat, and Theo couldn’t keep
his eyes from Otto’s form.

They must have stopped at each and every market stall, sampling Franconian mulled wine—
glühwein, as Otto called it, bratwurst, schnitzel, and some fried pastry that Otto referred to as
schneeball. Some of the stalls sold art or performed music. One seemed to be putting on a puppet
show featuring some ghastly looking creature they referred to as Krampus. They didn’t get five
minutes into the show before Theo ran off, hands over his ears, muttering something about
Muggles being barking mad while Otto chased after him.

And for the first time in their more than year-long romance, Draco and Granger could be
affectionate in public. He tried to forget that she was snogging the physical form of some Kraut
tosser and relish in the thrill of what it would feel like to let the whole world know that they were
in love. It was, like everything else with Granger, magical.

***

Draco awoke on New Year’s Eve with a knot in his throat, knowing it was his last full day with
Granger. Knowing that there was very little travel left for him, and even if there was an excuse for
him to come back to this area, the Dark Lord was getting close to simply drawing Potter out of
hiding and beginning the War in earnest.

He planted, slow, deliberate kisses to the back of Granger’s neck, trailing them to the top of her
shoulder blades. She let out a sleepy sound of acknowledgment, pressing her back closer against
his chest. His lips traced over the same trail again, his hand reaching across her abdomen to pull
her even closer into him.

“Draco,” she moaned softly as his lips moved over her shoulders and up her neck, tugging on her
ear with his teeth.

“What do you want, Hermione?” he hummed into that delicate spot under her ear. His heart nearly
flew through his chest when her hand moved over his, guiding it from her abdomen and between
her legs, already warm and wet. “Fuck,” he growled, teasing delicate circles around her center with
his fingertips. She whined as her hips began to roll against him. He bit into her collarbone as he
became impossibly hard as those huffy pants returned.

She gasped loudly as he slipped a finger inside, her hips rocking against him with increasing
urgency. “Fucking hell, Hermione,” he groaned, sinking his teeth back into her shoulder in a futile
effort to release some of his arousal. He slipped in a second finger and brushed his thumb over her
center, burying his head into the crook of her neck and drowning in honey, lemon, and parchment
as she continued to whine and rock against him.

“I need you, Draco. Now,” she gasped. His head snapped up as he removed his hand and used it to
hitch her leg up, quickly maneuvering himself so that he pressed against her entrance, her back still
flush against his chest.

“Is this okay?” he gasped hurriedly. “This way?”

For all the mind-blowing sex he and Granger had over the past year, not facing each other was not
a position they had ventured into. But he wanted her—desperately—and he didn’t want to even
take the time to move over her to be inside of her.

“Gods, yes,” she replied, breathless, burying a moan into her pillow as he pressed into her. He
buried his head into her back as they began to move against each other. The position didn’t allow
for the same range of motion that he was used to but fuck—the sheer breadth of body contact and
new angles he was experiencing were enough to send him over the edge instantly.

His lips moved along her spine, his hand moving back to her center and rolling firmly against it.
“Draco, oh god,” she whispered as he felt her tighten around him. A lightning strike ripped
through them both moments later, leaving them breathless and sweaty.

After a few moments, Granger pulled away and turned to face him. “Happy New Year’s Eve,
Draco,” she mused.

He artificially scrunched his face. “Gross, Granger—morning breath,” he teased. She picked up
her pillow and threw it at him as they both collapsed into laughter.
 Vindicated

Per Annike and Ernst, New Year’s Eve was generally a large celebration at their estate, including
almost every single Regulation member across Germany. But given the anonymity of their current
house guests, they kept it simple this year, the only attendees being Annike, Ernst, Lina, Theo,
Otto, Granger, Draco, and…Charlie. As Draco had regrettably found himself calling the Weasley
brute.

And as loathe as he was to admit it, Draco liked Charlie. Unlike Weaselbee and the Twatty Twins,
Charlie, similar to his sister, inherited that most recessive of Weasley genes—a brain capable of
intelligent thought. And as the days had passed and Charlie’s healing appeared to progress more
rapidly, Draco learned the bloke had a decent sense of humor—and not in the juvenile, dung-
bombs-in-the-dormitory type of way. He actually had the kind of wit that came with being sharp
and well-read.

After beating the piss out of Draco in the courtyard, Charlie’s relationship with Granger resumed to
that of brother and sister. And although Draco didn’t appreciate the moments that Charlie’s and
Granger’s familial friendship stole away from his time with her, Draco too experienced healing in
watching their relationship mend.

Charlie seemed to appreciate Draco’s honesty and respect his pragmatism, but that was probably
the extent that could be said of Charlie’s sentiments toward him. That was fine— Draco was quite
used to that reaction to his existence.

Of course, Charlie got along with Theo and Otto famously; like everyone else, he marveled at their
magic and quickly asked for tutoring. The defensive spells they could teach him. Theo’s utterly
sensational Patronus charm—not so much.

“How does he do it?” Draco had asked Granger one night. “I know he’s an incredibly talented
wizard, but Merlin—that’s just other-worldly.”

“Otto and I talked about this on the plane after Theo had taken sleeping draught. We don’t know
for certain, but we think it has something to do with the power of love and happiness on someone
who otherwise knew so much pain. It would explain Hugh too. It’s just that much more powerful
for them.”

***

As they did most evenings, the household made dinner together, with Draco and Theo relegated to
the simplest of tasks. This evening, Draco was assigned to merely washing vegetables and setting
the table, while somewhat unfairly Theo was tasked with assisting Otto in mixing the cocktails,
which predictably resulted in Theo repeatedly whispering into Otto’s ear, blush eventually
creeping up Otto’s neck, ears, and cheeks, until the two finally took leave for about twenty minutes
before returning with clothes noticeably more wrinkled than when they had left.

Draco looked longingly at Granger, who merely shook her head and chuckled.

Dinner was—as it always was—fabulous. They ate and drank heartily, and in a rare moment of
“excessive magic,” as they called it, Annike and Ernst used their wands to clear the dishes from the
table and load them into a device that Draco had learned to be a dishwasher.

Lina departed at the conclusion of dinner, apparently having a group of friends she preferred to
spend the countdown to midnight with. Charlie also excused himself, having explained earlier that
his wife—Draco’s cousin, Merlin—could not join them because the holiday season was a
particularly dangerous time for those on the Dark Lord’s Undesirables list to travel, magically or
otherwise. And he just preferred to spend the “most romantic part” of the evening in his room.

But the rest of them retired to one of the Weber’s living rooms, as Ernst turned on the television
and Annike nipped down to the cellar to grab some bottles of champagne, providing everyone
generous pours when she returned.

Draco watched as Annike finished pouring the champagne, and folded into Ernst’s arms warmly
and effortlessly. Ernst glanced down at Annike, a small but tender smile forming across his
cheeks, which she mimicked. She angled her head upward, placing her lips quickly and delicately
to his. I love you, Draco saw her word to Ernst, which he reciprocated while planting a firm kiss to
the side of his wife’s head.

His gaze moved to Otto and Theo. Otto’s were arms draped around Theo while he whispered
something in Theo’s ear, Theo throwing his head back against Otto’s shoulder in laughter, as Otto
proceeded to trail a line of kisses down Theo’s neck. Otto brought his head back up and whispered
something else to Theo, the two of them locking eyes momentarily before Theo ran his hand
through Otto’s hair and brought their lips together.

Draco had spent every New Year’s Eve of his life at the Manor—his mother hosting a party that
was legend among Pureblood witches and wizards. But this New Year’s Eve—Granger in his
arms, and Theo in the arms of a wizard who loved him insatiably, all within the home of two of the
most warm and accepting people Draco had ever met—Merlin, this was truly legendary.

He had never watched the New Year countdown on the television before, but watching the
anticipation play out before him filled Draco with an electricity that caused his limbs to tingle. He
summoned one of the champagne bottles and refilled his and Granger’s flutes as the one-minute
mark flashed on the screen.

Draco took a generous sip, and placed his lips behind Granger’s ear.

Fifty-seven. “I love that you ran around the Hogwarts Express like a madwoman before First Year
trying to help Longbottom find his toad,” he whispered. She tried to turn to face him, but he
continued to feather delicate kisses to her neck.

Forty-nine. “I love that you stood up to my father in Diagon Alley before Second Year.”

Forty. “I love that you slapped the shite out of me Third Year.”

Thirty-two. “I love that you stuck by Potter Fourth Year when everyone else abandoned him.”

Twenty-seven. “I love that you helped form a secret society against the Dark Lord Fifth Year.”

Twenty. “I love that you saved my sorry arse before Sixth Year. And then again during it. And
after it.”

Fourteen. “I love tangling my hands in your wild hair.”

Ten. “I love getting lost in your eyes.”

Seven. “I love drowning in honey, lemon, and parchment.”

He paused, his hand gingerly turning her face toward his.

Three. “And I fucking love that you’re Muggle-born. I fucking love that you disprove everything
I was ever taught.” He ran his hand through her hair. “You are twice the witch that I will ever be
a wizard and I fucking love it, Hermione. I love it. I love you.”

There was an eruption of cheers in the background as 1997 turned into 1998, but he and Granger
merely stared at each other, breath stilled in their throats before her mouth captured his, and
everything else melted away.

***

Draco had no words for the love he and Hermione made that night. There was no lust. No
frenzied grasps or huffy pants. No urgency. Just Draco and Hermione taking all the time they
could to love each other. It was similar to the night before he defected. But this time, the need to
absorb every inch of each other while they still could was real.

“Where would we live?” Draco gasped against her neck as they moved together.

“Cambridge,” she responded, wrapping her arms more tightly around him. “A modest—,” she
paused, capturing Draco’s mouth with hers for several moments before responding. “A modest
house filled to the brim with Muggle appliances that you can’t make heads or tails of.”

Draco chuckled against her cheek, pulling her closer to him as he continued to slowly move in her.
“And what would we be doing for a living?” His mouth moved down her neck, burying his head
in his favorite spot between her neck and shoulder.

He felt her hand tangle in his hair. “Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical
Creatures,” she responded breathlessly, her lips connecting with his again. “Until I can get it
changed to a more suitable name.” He chuckled, dropping his head back into the crook of her
neck.

“And me?” he asked, peppering kisses across her jawline.

“Potions professor at Hogwarts,” she responded simply, causing Draco to break out into a laugh.
“You’re amazing at Potions, Draco!” she exclaimed. He shook his head and sunk his teeth into her
shoulder to quiet her.

“Where would we get married?” he asked, drawing her leg up and over his shoulder. She moaned
and arched against the bed.

This line of questioning was completely absurd—he was aware. They were far too young to have a
conversation like this. But he needed to know. He needed to know so he could dream of it—this
life they invented for each other during their last night together.

“Isle of Man,” she gasped. “My parents have a summer place there. It’s one of my favorite places
on earth. It’s funny, you know—.”

He pressed his lips to hers. “Isle of Man it is.” He moved his lips across her cheek and began
teasing her earlobe with his tongue and teeth as she moaned his name.

“I’m not taking your last name,” she breathed. “I like mine.”

“Good,” he replied, drawing his lips down her neck. “I like yours too.” He brought his mouth
back to hers. “And children?” he asked.

She was starting to come undone—blush creeping across her cheeks as her eyes fluttered. “At least
two,” she responded, her hips rocking harder against him. She reached up and pulled his head
down so his lips met hers. “They’ll both be Gryffindors, of course,” she whispered, as Draco
laughed into her neck. “Absolutely not,” he responded. “You’re a Slytherin at heart, Granger.”

She twirled her fingers in his hair and pulled his head so her gaze met his. She pressed her lips to
his again. “They’ll look just like their father though,” she gasped. “And act like him. Possessive,
spoiled—.” Her breath hitched as he felt her tighten around him, and they came together not more
than several moments later.

“But they’ll have their mother’s courage,” Draco finished for her, kissing her deeply.

They laid side by side for gods know how long before she finally reached out and brushed his
cheek. “This is it for me too, Draco. You’re it.” She pulled herself back into him, laying her lips
upon his. “No matter what happens, Draco. It’s me and you.”

***

And then it was morning and the entire household gathered in the Weber estate drawing room to
send Draco off. The room was saturated with such emotion that it was suffocating, Draco trying
desperately not to collapse into a fit of sobs before everyone. He focused on the fireplace behind
them; the mere sight of it filling Draco with a splintering pain that rivaled a crucio.

Lina addressed him first, throwing her arms around him with impressive ferocity despite her
relatively small stature. “Be careful, Draco,” she whispered as they parted. He smiled warmly at
her and moved onto Annike and Ernst, who embraced him together. Annike was an emotional
wreck, and Ernst’s eyes were misty. “Take care of yourself, son,” he said, squeezing Draco’s arm.
Something in Draco’s chest shattered at that completely undeserved but sincere affectionate
address.

Charlie was next. He and Draco regarded each other silently for a few moments before Draco
finally spoke. “Thank you again, Charlie, for protecting my girl.” Charlie returned with a stiff
nod. “Anytime, Draco.”

And then there was Otto, who silently wrapped an arm around Draco and held him there for
several breaths before speaking. “You’re a good man, Draco. It has been a privilege getting to
know you. And I look forward to when the four of us just get to have the time we deserve.”

Draco felt the tears start to trickle down his cheeks. “This man,” he said, pulling back from the
embrace, his eyes shooting to Theo, “is without a shadow of a doubt, the greatest soul that has ever
walked this earth. And no one deserves him. But you, Otto Neuhaus, you are as close as they
come to deserving.” Otto nodded, his eyes slick. Draco stepped to move onto Theo, but paused.
“And I’m sorry for threatening to kill you last week. I can’t say I didn’t mean it, but I should really
learn to keep those things to myself.”

This provided a brief moment of comedic relief within the group before Draco finally moved on.

Theo. He was crying almost as much as Granger, throwing himself into Draco’s arms with such
force he nearly knocked the wind out of him. “I’m sorry,” Theo sobbed into him.

“Theo, what in the crippling fuck could you ever have to apologize to me for?”

“You protected me,” Theo gasped, burying his head in Draco’s shoulder. “You saved me from
having to take the Mark. I should’ve done it for you before Sixth Year. I fucked up.”

Draco pulled Theo’s head from his shoulder and pulled Theo’s gaze toward Draco’s as he pressed
their foreheads together.

“Theo, you are the best fucking friend I could ever ask for. More than I deserve. More than
anyone in my life growing up you taught me love, loyalty, acceptance, and empathy. Now I know
some of that took a while to sink in for me—,” Draco and Theo both laughed. “But eventually it
broke through. And it brought both the greatest love we have ever known.” Draco sighed and
closed his eyes for a moment. “Do don’t ever think about apologizing to me, okay?”

Theo nodded. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” Draco replied, wrapping Theo tightly in his arms for several moments.

And then—Granger. Hermione. Fuck, the look of her ground his heart into ash.

He knelt in front of her, her face a soaking and patchy mess, but still the most beautiful thing in the
whole fucking world. “We’re not licked yet,” he whispered, bringing his hand to cup the side of
her face. “I will never stop fighting for us, Hermione. And when that day comes that all of this
shite is over and we can finally be together in earnest, I will cherish this journey that brought us to
that most wonderful, perfect place.”

She nodded against his palm, covering it with her own hand.

“I love you,” she gasped.

He pulled her into his arms and stood, kissing her deeply for several minutes before setting her
back down on her toes. He stepped toward the fireplace, pulling her with him until he teetered on
the edge of the hearth.

“I love you, Hermione,” he said. “And I’ll—.” He stopped abruptly. He couldn’t bring himself to
say it. Not this time. “I will see you again. I promise you.” He kissed her one last time before
stepping into the fireplace fully, dropping the Floo powder and murmuring his new two least
favorite words: Malfoy Manor.

***

It was quiet when Draco arrived at the Manor, and for a fleeting but promising moment he thought
he actually might be able to sneak off to his room without detection. But of course, his mother
rounded the corner in the next instant, a bright smile drawing across her face as she ran to him and
threw her arms around him.

“Oh, my heart, I have missed you!” she exclaimed. “Come, your father and I are having breakfast
and would love to hear about your holiday—.”

In an uncharacteristically cold move, he wordlessly pushed his mother away and strode toward his
bedroom. “Picked up a bug in Bulgaria, mum. I saw a healer there and it’s quite contagious.
Please just have the elves send toast and water up when they can.” He didn’t look back. He
couldn’t let her see the tears running frantically down his cheeks.

He ran up the stairs two at a time, slamming his bedroom door behind him and quickly cast a
muffliato before he let out a wail so loud and pitched that it split his soul in half. He collapsed onto
the floor of his bedroom, curling into a ball as he screamed and wept and pounded his fists into the
carpet until he lost consciousness.

***
When he finally awoke, still on his bedroom floor, it was dark outside. He checked his watch. It
was close to midnight. A tray of now-stale toast and room temperature water teetered on his
bedside table. Ignoring both, he yanked open his door and crept quietly down to the dungeon.

“Lovegood?” he called out, praying to Merlin she answered him. Not that he liked the idea of
Lovegood still being locked away in this loathsome pit—quite the opposite, actually—but if his
call was met with silence it met something much worse had befallen his captured comrade.

“Hello, Draco,” came a dreamy voice from somewhere in the darkness. A flood of relief filled his
chest. “Did you enjoy your holiday? I’d love to hear about it.”

Draco flicked open the dungeon door and entered, casting a lumos so he could find her. When the
light finally reached her, Draco inadvertently gasped. She was nothing but skin clinging to bone
and impossibly filthy. But still, she bore a pleasant smile and somehow a flare of life still existed in
her eyes.

“Lovegood,” he gasped, dropping to his knees in front of her and placing a hand on either side of
her face. “I instructed Blaise to take care of you. How—.” The words died in his throat.

“Oh, he did,” she trilled. “But I think after the first week he forgot. It was the holidays after all, so
I understand he probably had a lot on his mind. Your mother did visit with me sometimes though.
She’s quite lovely, Draco. She’s iridescent, like you used to be. But now,” she paused, bringing
her hand to his face, “you’re the most brilliant shade of gold I have ever seen.”

He shook his head, trying to temper the white hot anger flowing through his veins. “Lovegood,”
he said slowly, “I’m going to take you to my room, okay? Nothing untoward, I promise. But you
could use a bath, some food, and some rest. Would that be that okay?”

“You got in trouble last time you did that, Draco.”

“Let me worry about myself later, Lovegood,” he responded, pulling her into his arms and creeping
through the Manor back to his room.

***

Draco summoned Briony, his favorite of the Malfoy house elves, to his room and requested a plate
of buttered toast, juice, and water. It was a shite meal, but Draco didn’t want to introduce
Lovegood to anything too heavy, given it appeared that she had not eaten a proper meal in weeks.

She preferred to eat on the floor even though Draco offered his bed or armchairs. If there remained
any unbroken bits of Draco’s heart and soul, watching Lovegood tear through toast on his bedroom
floor like it was fine cuisine surely shattered them.

She became lightheaded when she stood, prompting Draco to help her undress and get into the
bath, very consciously keeping his eyes trained to the floor as he did so. He sat on his bed and
waited for her to finish, transfiguring a pair of his pajamas into something clean that she could
comfortably wear.

When she emerged, he moved from his bed to the floor. “Rest, Lovegood,” he said. “I’ll bring
you back down before everyone wakes, but you have a few hours.” She quietly crawled into his
bed, her blue eyes locking with his.

“Can you tell me about your holiday?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you, Lovegood. I’m sorry.” He paused, flinching at the disappointment in her eyes.
“But can I tell you a bedtime saga instead?”

“I very much like such stories, Draco,” she responded.

“It’s about three brave friends, travelling the globe to fight for love and freedom against the forces
of hate and tyranny.” Lovegood reached her hand out and Draco took it in his.

They remained that way long after Lovegood fell asleep—hands entangled. She had four
comfortable hours of sleep before Draco pulled her into his arms and deposited her back in the
dungeon with a fresh plate of toast and juice. “I’ll be back later,” he promised as he exited the
dungeon and crawled back to his room.

***

He only slept for several hours before he owl’ed Blaise and asked him to come to the Manor as
soon as possible. Draco paced across his room as he waited, waves of electric rage pumping
through his veins.

Shortly after 9AM, Blaise appeared in the fireplace in Draco’s room. “Mate!” he greeted, throwing
his arms open for a hug. “Let’s hear all about that Bulgarian—.”

Blaise’s statement was cut short when Draco drove his fist into his cheek. A familiar bloom of
scarlet rushed across Blaise’s face. Draco had failed to take his Slytherin ring off again, only this
time it was intentional. Blaise staggered backwards, his eyes wide with shock. Draco wound his
arm back and punched Blaise again, felling him.

“Draco, what the fuck?!” Blaise exclaimed, throwing his hands in front of him as Draco prepared
to strike him a third time.

Draco paused and brought his arm back to his side. “I told you to take care of Lovegood, did I
not?” he seethed, standing over Blaise.

“Mate, I did!” Blaise protested, his hands still defensively in the air. “I mean I wasn’t here every
day, but I checked in on her. Brought her food and whatnot.”

“Really?” Draco hissed, kneeling so he could get closer to Blaise, who was sprawled out across his
floor. “Then why did the girl I find in the dungeon last night look like she was half dead? Like she
hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks?” Blaise said nothing—he merely stared back at Draco,
blinking occasionally.

“You shagging her or something?” Blaise responded.

Whatever bounds of sanity were left in Draco snapped as he pulled his friend from the ground by
the collar of his shirt and threw him as hard as he could into the wall behind them. “Is that the
extent of your humanity, Blaise? Extending decency to only to those you’re ramming your cock
into?”

Blaise went slack-jawed. “Mate—,” he began, but Draco sacked him in the gut before he could
continue. Blaise doubled over, gagging and retching.

“I am not your mate, Blaise,” Draco scathed, grabbing Blaise’s collar and jerking his head upright.
Draco stepped into him such that they were only a breath apart. “I am your commanding officer.
And as such, I am telling you that if you ever disregard an order that I give you like that again, I
will kill you in ways so creative they will write about them in history books. Do you understand?”
Blaise stared at Draco, horror-struck, for several moments before he managed a small nod.

“Good,” Draco said, pushing back off of him and stepping away. “Get the fuck out of my house
then.”

Blaise remained glued to Draco’s wall for several moments before finding the courage to walk
back toward the fireplace. He paused when he reached it, his eyes meeting Draco’s for several
breaths before he entered it, grabbing a handful of Floo powder.

“And Blaise,” Draco began. “Don’t even fucking think about telling anyone about this.” Blaise
managed another small nod before he Floo’ed out.

Draco sighed and steeled himself for breakfast with his parents.

***

It was a predictably stilted conversation, his father resentfully curious about Draco’s meeting and
new-found relationship with Tihomir Tarnovsky, and his mother peppering him with questions
about Tsveta, who she had heard was “quite smart and beautiful.” Both appeared disappointed
with the brusque responses they received, his mother particularly crestfallen that there had been no
match made in heaven between Draco and Tsveta.

“I want you to find love, my heart,” she cooed, drawing her hand to his face.

“I have found it,” he responded softly. “I love you, mum.” She smiled wistfully. “And father,”
Draco continued, half-heartedly. “And Blaise, sometimes.” He internally gritted his teeth. “And
Theo, always.” His mother brought her hand to her mouth, a tear quickly escaping her eye.

“And someday,” he said, taking her hand from her mouth and holding it in his, “I will hopefully be
able to bring home a witch whose love moves universes and who is beyond worthy of your respect
and affection. And who will look absolutely divine wearing Grandmother Black’s ring.”

His mother beamed, while Draco closed his eyes and allowed himself to become momentarily
immersed in honey, lemon, and parchment.

***

Draco was summoned for a meeting with the Dark Lord later that afternoon. He occluded so hard
he feared he might become stuck on that heathered hill by the sea forever, which honestly wasn’t a
completely unwelcome prospect, but Draco still desired the chance to live out his life with Granger
in a world outside the confines of his mind.

The Dark Lord was “profoundly grateful” for Draco’s success in securing the continued support of
every dark witch and wizard that had allied with him in the First Wizarding War. There was more
recruiting to be done—the Dark Lord hoped to eventually gain the loyalty of those who remained
neutral during the last War—but for now Draco’s mission was complete.

Tihomir Tarnovsky had contacted the Dark Lord directly to voice his impress with Draco, alerting
the Dark Lord of the extent of Draco’s magical abilities.

“I should like to see you perform such a Patronus spell one day, Draco,” the Dark Lord had
commented.

You and me both, Draco thought.

And then the Dark Lord gave Draco something he definitively did not want: a promotion. Draco
was now his second-in-command, falling only behind Snape in hierarchy.

There was a delightful poetic justice in the Dark Lord being so blind with ambition that he
promoted defectors to the very top of his ranks, but this ascension in rank only meant that Draco
would be spending immeasurably more time around the Dark Lord. At a time when Draco’s
emotions were running so wild they brought him to the edge of mania. He imagined it would also
create tension with his aunt, whom he just ousted from her position.

***

“Occlumency primer, now,” Draco hissed as he Floo’ed into the Headmaster’s Office at
Hogwarts.

“No hug or belated Happy Christmas for your most favored professor?” Snape drawled.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Happy belated Christmas, Severus,” he replied. “Now, hit me with
everything you have. I need my occlumency to be flawless.”

“I trust you had a lovely holiday with Miss Granger?” Snape asked, ignoring his request.

“Best holiday of my life,” Draco softened, folding into one of the arm chairs across from Snape’s
desk.

“Good,” Snape replied. “Because, Draco—.”

“I know,” Draco said quickly. “Please don’t say it. I know. He’s getting restless.”

Snape merely nodded. “And how is my godson?”

An involuntary, beaming smile spread across Draco’s face. “Severus,” he began. “He’s the
happiest he’s ever been.” The sides of Snape’s lips tugged slightly upward in the closest
expression that Snape had to a smile. “Granger is the best friend he always deserved to have.
Their bond is just—Merlin, it’s indescribable.” He sighed. “And his maternal aunt and uncle are
the heads of the White Rose Regulation, although I suppose you knew that.”

Snape gave a stout nod. “Yes. I met Annike and Ernst once. Incredibly impressive—magically
speaking—and even more so personally. I hoped Theodore would find some healing there.” It
made sense, Draco thought, that Snape had met them before. He had always been close with
Theo’s mum.

“They’re back there now—Hermione and Theo,” Draco responded. “They were successful in
allying all the other Order-adjacent organizations and now they’re just…biding their time with
Annike and Ernst.” Draco hesitated before he continued, wondering how much he should divulge
about the sources of Theo’s new-found happiness.

Snape cared deeply for Theo—that much Draco knew. He was Theo’s godfather after all, largely
at the insistence of Theo’s mum, who Theo very much resembled both in looks and personality.
Snape had tried, to the best of his ability, to watch over Theo after her death; although Nott Senior
had made that an exceedingly difficult task.

And so, Draco decided, Snape deserved to know the full extent of Theo’s happiness. That it wasn’t
just Granger and his aunt and uncle—that Theo had found something truly special, and it brought a
new light to him.
But he proceeded with caution, recognizing that while Snape cared immensely for Theo and was
not truly a Death Eater at heart, something as delicate as Theo’s sexuality was not Draco’s news to
share.

“Theo—he met someone.”

“Oh?” Snape cocked his head.

“They’re perfect for each other, Severus. And just completely in love. I mean—a bit of a bleeding
heart for my taste, but I think maybe that’s what Theo needs.”

Snape observed Draco for several moments, an uncharacteristic softness in his gaze. “And you
find this wizard deserving of Theo’s affection?”

“Gods, yes—,” Draco began and then abruptly stopped.

Wizard.

Draco felt his jaw go slack. “I—you knew?” he gasped. “Theo said that Granger was the first
person he ever told.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Of course he didn’t tell me, Draco.” He sighed heavily. “But I can easily
recognize the look of a person who wants someone they can’t have.” His soft gaze grew unusually
emotive. “When he was younger, I thought perhaps he fancied a witch who was Halfblood or less.
But as I continued to watch him, I realized that he wasn’t looking at witches at all.” He drew a
hand over his eyes for a moment before his trademark stoicism returned. “I wanted to teach him
occlumency so he could better shield that part of himself, but he’s so bright that I knew he would
catch on as to why I was teaching him. I could sense how scared he was, and I didn’t want to
frighten him further by revealing that I knew.” Snape sighed again. “Maybe it was a mistake—not
teaching him. Merlin knows he suffered horrendously regardless.”

“You did what you thought was best, Sev. There’s no shame or blame in that.” Snape’s eyes
turned to Draco, his expression appreciative. “And if it helps, Theo is now so happy he can
produce an army of Patronuses capable of moving corporeal forms.”

Draco chuckled as Snape’s eyebrows arched.

***

The weeks passed slowly, with Draco spending most of his time occluding to the cottage on the
hill, chatting with Dream Granger, telling her of his days, asking her for advice, telling her how
much he loved her.

When he was wasn’t occluding or tending to the Dark Lord’s daily ministrations, he spent as much
time as he could with Lovegood, picking back up on his habit of bringing her games, books, and
food. She began to put some weight back on, a somewhat healthy glow returning to her hair and
skin.

And when not with Luna, he spent time alone in his room, reading. Otto had given him a book list
to help further Draco’s education on prejudice in the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Draco had
gotten through quite a few of them in the past few weeks, finding them heartbreaking, horrifying,
and as Otto would be proud to hear, educational and life-changing.

He was reading Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison that Saturday morning when all hell finally broke
loose.
His mother unexpectedly burst into his room, slamming the door behind her and pressing her back
to it. Draco quickly discarded the book under his bed. “Mum?” he asked, concerned by her frantic
expression.

“Do not leave this room, Draco,” she said, her eyes wild. He rose and stood in front of her, trying
to pry into her mind. But it was useless. As gifted as he had become at occlumency, he was a
positively shite Legilimens. “Promise me you will stay up here,” she gasped, wrapping her arms
around his midsection and pressing her head into his chest.

“Mum, what on earth?” he began as a wild racket erupted downstairs. Draco reached for the door,
his mother keeping her vice-like grip on him and digging her head harder into his chest in a futile
effort to still his movement.

“Draco, don’t!” she screeched as his hand wrapped around the door knob, yanking open the door.
He stepped into the hallway and looked over the railing into the drawing room—the source of the
commotion.

No.

No.

Not this.

Please gods, no.

In the drawing room below him were two redheads and a brunette screaming and struggling against
Greyback and several other Snatchers as a handful of Death Eaters, including his father and Peter
Pettigrew, filed into the room.

“Go back to your room,” his mother quietly begged, her head still pressed to his chest. “I don’t
want you to have to see this.”

Draco ignored his mother, pushing past her as he sprinted down the stairs, realizing that if anyone
else in the Manor magically disarmed Potter and became the master of the Elder Wand, they were
all well and truly fucked.

As he grew closer, he realized that Ginny must have hit both Potter and Weaselbee with stinging
hexes in an attempt to conceal their identities. But neither of the two dumb fucks she was with
thought to do so with her. And so it was undeniable that Undesirable Number Three, Ginevra
Weasley, was standing in the middle of the drawing room in Malfoy Manor.

Fuck, why didn’t Theo and I make image-altering potions for them too?

Ginny screamed and writhed against Greyback’s grip, her face nearly as crimson as her hair. “I
told you!” she screamed. “I’m Penelope Clearwater! I have nothing to do with the Order!”

“This is it, Draco. Finally,” his father said, positively giddy with the prospect of being able to turn
Potter and the Weasleys over to the Dark Lord, possibly redeeming himself. Draco resisted the
urge to crack his father’s jaw, and instead reached out to take Ginny’s chin in his hand.

Her motion stilled when her eyes met his; positively feral with panic, but something resembling
relief crossing her expression upon realizing that Draco was there.

I’m so sorry.
“Wands,” he said softly, dropping his hand from her chin and holding it out toward her
expectantly. She remained frozen, her eyes not leaving Draco’s face. “Wands, Weasley,” he
repeated. She didn’t move. “The wards here are configured such that they won’t work anyway.
And I think you want me to have them.” He gave her a reassuring nod and watched as her hand
traveled to her pocket, producing a Yew Wood wand.

“Thank you,” he whispered as he moved onto Weaselbee. “Same goes,” he said, holding his hand
out. Weaselbee looked at him reluctantly for several long seconds before following suit.

Draco took several steps to his right. “Fuck you, Malfoy!” Potter screamed at him.

“Yes, hello to you too, Potter,” Draco sighed, extending his open hand.

“If you think I’m giving you my wand, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Potter spat. Literally.
He spat in Draco’s face.

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco lamented, wiping the spit from his cheek. “Why does it always have to be
so bloody difficult with you?”

“You can take my wand when I’m dead, Malfoy!”

“Or I can accio it, Potter. But I prefer to ask politely.”

“Harry!” Ginny shrieked. “Give it to him!”

“WHAT?!” Harry hissed.

“Harry, please,” she begged forlornly. That seemed to have an effect on Potter, as he begrudgingly
acquiesced, fishing his wand from his pocket and handing it to Malfoy.

“Take them to the dungeon,” Draco’s father commanded, and Draco watched as the group of
Snatchers began to haul the group in that direction, Ginny’s eyes glued to Draco the whole time.

She’s waiting for me to save them. I need a fucking plan. Now.

“WAIT!” a shrill voice sliced through the scene (and Draco’s frantic scheming). The heads in the
room whipped toward the source of the noise—his Aunt Bellatrix. A haunted look was drawn
across her face as she approached the Snatcher that held the possessions they seized from the
group. “Is that—?” her voice strangled in her throat.

Draco followed her line of sight to a massive and ornate sword dangling from the Snatcher’s
hands. Bellatrix’s head whipped back toward the trio, fire in her eyes and poison on her tongue.
“Where did you get this?” she growled, her voice savage. “Have you been in my vault?”

Oh fuck.

“It’s a fake!” Ginny blurted out. “It’s just a fake!”

“LIAR!” Bellatrix screamed, advancing on her.

Oh Merlin fuck.

Bellatrix’s eyes manically darted around the room. “Take the boys to the dungeon. The Blood
Traitor bitch stays.”

Oh Merlin Jesus Mary and Joseph fuck .

The room began to move in slow motion as Draco watched Potter try to hurl himself to the floor in
an effort to break loose of the Snatcher’s grip. Weaselbee was able to get an arm free, wrenching
himself around to punch his Snatcher in the face, who then returned a blow so powerful it knocked
Weaselbee out cold.

Potter was able to twist an arm free but didn’t use it to try to attack his Snatcher. He reached for
Ginny, who reciprocated the motion, their fingers brushing momentarily before the Snatcher
refastened Potter’s arm behind his back and began dragging him and Weaselbee out of sight and
into the dungeon.

Ginny crumpled, Greyback being the only force keeping her upright. Her head twisted to face
Draco, the sheer terror and agony in her eyes shattering him like glass.

He knew what was coming next.

He closed his eyes, and brought himself to that heathered hill, taking in gasping gulps of the salty
air. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he fled up the hill toward the cottage, the sounds of the sea
birds and the waves against the cliffs failing to steady him.

He ripped the door open and found Granger where she always was, curled on that aged and
overstuffed armchair, book in hand in front of the fire.

“Draco!” she greeted him pleasantly, concern quickly overtaking her expression as she surveyed
him. “Draco, what is wrong?”

A spine-splintering scream ripped through the cottage. Her eyes grew wide with alarm as she rose
shakily from the armchair.

“They have them. Snatchers got them,” Draco cried. “Hermione, help me. I don’t know what to
do.” Another gut-wrenching wail poured over the roof, rushing in through the open windows.

Hermione dashed past him and down the hill at impressive speed, Draco struggling to keep up.
They stopped, breathless, when they reached his wall.

The sensation of his mother’s hand around his wrist, crushing it, momentarily brought Draco out of
his occlusion. He slowly turned his head toward her, watching as she struggled to keep the tears in
her eyes, her hand firmly pressed to her lips as her whole body quivered.

Another anguished howl. Against his better judgment Draco tracked the sound with his eyes, his
gaze falling upon Ginny, sprawled across his drawing room floor, his aunt hovering over her,
crucio’ing her while also cutting into her arm with a short knife.

Bile rose in his throat as he struggled to remain upright.

“Cissy!” Bellatrix barked. “Use your legilimency. Tell me where the bitch got the sword.” Draco
felt his mother hesitate before she started to move forward.

He grabbed her wrist. Don’t, he flashed before her.

What?, she replied. Draco, I have to.

Lie. Don’t actually use your legilimency to read her mind. Say you did it and that the torture has
made her thoughts garbled and unreadable. Tell them to give her a break, let her recover, and
then you’ll come back to it.
Okay, my heart. But why?

Because your occlumency is not what it once was. And if you read her mind and cannot properly
shield that information, you’re going to get me killed.

A haunted look tore across her face, but she quickly composed herself and joined her sister at
Ginny’s side. Several moments passed before she spoke. “You’ve tortured her too much, Bella.
Her memories are disjointed and not making any sense. Give it a rest and let me try again later
when she’s recovered.”

“Ha!” Bellatrix spat back. “Cissy, you’ve gone too soft.”

Draco shut his eyes as more fevered screams ensued, mixing with Potter’s voice wailing her name
from the dungeon.

When he opened his eyes, he was back on the hill before his wall, Granger in front of him, her
heartbreaking honey eyes pleading.

“Draco, please,” she said, placing her hands gently against his chest.

“Hermione, I can’t,” he whispered. “It’ll expose me. And you. I can’t let that happen.”

“This is more than just us now, Draco,” she breathed. “She’s my best friend. She would do it for
you. And I would do it for Theo.”

Draco closed his eyes, trying to focus on the breeze, the salt, the heather.

But when he opened his eyes, it was Ginny standing before him, her hands on either side of his
scar. Her eyes met his—a devastating shade of blue and heartbreakingly terrified.

Draco took a deep breath and watched as his wall blasted apart.

“GET THE FUCK OFF OF HER!” he roared, advancing toward his aunt and hitting her with
stunning spell after stunning spell. Bellatrix flew violently across the room, her form repeatedly
bouncing against the floor. She finally rolled to a stop, a pool of blood forming where her skull
had smashed against stone.

The room cracked, the silence deafening. He turned to face his parents and the other Death Eaters,
their faces drawn and pale with shock. No one moved.

“Tell the Dark Lord I’ll see him in hell,” Draco hissed as he gathered Ginny in his arms and
apparated to the dungeon.

***

“Alright, Gryffin-fucks, time to leave,” Draco announced as he wordlessly flung open the dungeon
door.

“I’m a Ravenclaw,” an airy voice supplied.

Merlin.

“And Potter, before you open that fucking mouth of yours—save it. We have about fifteen
seconds before we’re all dead.” He shifted Ginny in his arms as he pulled one of the wands out of
his pocket.
“Lovegood, look alive,” he quipped as he tossed her one of the wands. “Portkey this,” he said,
wrenching one of his boots off. Lovegood touched the wand to the boot, murmuring the
incantation.

“All good?” he asked. Lovegood nodded. “Okay, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

***

They tumbled roughly onto a vacant beach, a clapboard cottage visible in the distance.

“Give her to me, Malfoy,” Potter hissed as Malfoy began to stand, Ginny still in his arms.

“It’s always the fucking dramatics with you, Potter,” Draco muttered.

“I’m serious, Malfoy. Fucking give her to me.” Potter reached for Ginny, yanking her toward
him. Draco heard her whimper as her grip around Draco’s neck tightened and she curled further
into him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking wanker?” Draco screamed, delivering a stout kick
to one of Potter’s shins. “She was just fucking crucio’ed! Don’t grab at her.” Draco kneeled back
down, cradling Ginny in his lap.

There was a resounding crack as Potter’s fist connected with Draco’s cheek.

“Accio, wand,” he heard Potter growl, pressing the tip of the wand against Draco’s forehead.

Draco spit out a mouthful of blood. “This is low—even for you, Potter,” he said coolly. He
watched as Weaselbee moved forward and put his hand on Harry’s wand, moving it from Draco’s
forehead. He shuffled to stand between Potter and Draco.

It would’ve been a touching gesture if Draco didn’t still fucking hate Weaselbee’s guts. And if his
arse wasn’t directly in Draco’s face.

“What are you doing, Ron?” Potter exclaimed. “He fucking—he killed Dumbledore! He’s a Death
Eater!”

“Yeah, he is a Death Eater,” Weaselbee returned hotly. “He also just saved our lives.”

“He wouldn’t have had to save our lives if he hadn’t killed Dumbledore!” he howled.

A sound from Ginny—coughing. She untucked her head from Draco’s chest, rolling it to face
Potter. “Malfoy didn’t kill Dumbledore, Harry. You did.”
 Chemistry

Theo gave Hermione several hours after Draco left before he appeared in her room, tucking himself
in next to her and pulling her into his arms. She sobbed into his chest, her wails so pitched she felt
like her bones might shatter.

Gods, she hated this version of herself. She missed the courageous, logic-forward Gryffindor she
had once been. But for as much joy, love, and learning the past year had brought her, she had also
been confronted with such ugliness, unfairness, and pain that she found her stoicism reserves
utterly depleted.

Otto appeared in the early evening, a bowl of macaroni and cheese in hand—Hermione’s favorite
—and plopped down at the end of the bed. “Thought I might be able to entice you with your
favorite meal,” he said softly. Hermione hesitated, during which time Theo sat up and grabbed a
forkful for himself.

“Merlin, Theo!” Otto lamented as he swatted him away.

“Thank you, Otto,” she chuckled, sitting upright and brushing errant tears from her cheeks. “I’m
sorry,” she began, taking the bowl from Otto’s hands, “for the amount of times you two have had
to take care of me.” She sighed, bringing a forkful of macaroni to her mouth. “It’s embarrassing.
I’m stronger than this.”

“Hermione,” Otto soothed, tucking a finger under her chin and bringing her gaze to his, “there
would be no Theo and me if not for you. Despite the enormous pain you were working through
last time we were here, you stopped at nothing to bring us together. And you have stood up for us
every step of the way.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “You stood up for Draco when
he had no one else. You found the grace to not only forgive him but to love him. And you have
stopped at nothing to protect and defend him. You care so deeply for the people around you that it
consumes you. To love like that, Hermione Granger, is courage. Don’t apologize if it breaks you
down every now and again.”

Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks as Otto embraced her and planted a peck to her temple.
“Alright, the rest of us are going out to dinner in town,” he sighed, standing. He looked pointedly
at Theo. “The macaroni and cheese is for Hermione. I will bring you leftovers, okay?” He leaned
down and gave Theo a quick but affectionate kiss.

Theo rolled his eyes but as soon as the door closed, he opened his mouth and Hermione shoveled a
forkful in.

***

When Hermione awoke the next morning, Annike was bedside, her warm, sapphire eyes
twinkling. “Morning, dear,” she said gently, pushing back a few intrepid curls that had fallen into
Hermione’s eyes while she slept.

Hermione smiled back sheepishly, instinctively looking over her shoulder to find Theo absent.

“Teddy woke early, actually,” Annike chuckled. “He went with Otto to Waldeinsamkeit this
morning. Since you all are back for the foreseeable future, Otto is trading off teaching days with
his assistant professor, and Teddy said he wanted to explore the library there while Otto is
teaching.” Hermione looked at Annike quizzically, and Annike merely shrugged in response.
Theo had never been a bookworm; he certainly never spent time in the Hogwarts library except
when Draco or Hermione had dragged him there. Theo excelled on his intelligence and talent
alone.

“Anyway,” Annike continued, “Teddy asked that I come in here so you weren’t alone when you
woke up. Charlie wanted to be here, but his shift started about an hour ago.”

“Thank you, Annike,” Hermione responded, sitting up.

“I brought you some breakfast—Ernst’s special, as usual,” she smiled. Hermione looked down at
her night table to find a small tray with buttered toast, scrambled eggs, ham, and a cup of freshly
brewed coffee. Hermione smiled appreciatively toward Annike, bringing the tray into her lap.

“How are you feeling?” Annike asked softly.

“Um,” Hermione replied cautiously, feeling the emotion already start to sting at the backs of her
eyes. “Hollow. Tired. Like I’ve lost the best parts of me.” She took a small bite of toast and
shook her head. “Sorry,” she sniffled, meeting Annike’s eyes. “It’s silly. To feel this way as I sit
in this beautiful house in this stunning city surrounded by people who care about me. I really don’t
have room to complain.”

Annike’s expression shifted. “After the end of the First War, I told myself I was okay. Even after
my sister died, I told myself I was okay. I did not hold space for myself to grieve because I did not
think I deserved to when others had lost so much more than me.” She sighed heavily, putting a
hand over Hermione’s. “And I felt like others were depending on me, so I put on a brave face and
continued to function through brute force. But even on my best days, I felt so empty.”

Her eyes shimmered with emotion. “And then one evening before bed, Ernst completely broke
down in front of me. He had lost both his brothers in the War, and of course later my sister, who
he loved dearly. I watched this man who I had been married to for ten years and had hardly seen
sniffle just fully shatter before my eyes. And I broke down right there with him. From there on
out, we made it safe for each other to not be okay. To be messy, and emotional, and raw. We held
space for our grief and didn’t allow ourselves to feel guilty for it even though there were others
who suffered more than us.”

Her gaze met Hermione’s again. “It took us both a long time, but we learned to opt out of a
hierarchy of suffering. Because it could always be worse, Hermione. No matter how bad things
are, there is always someone who likely has it worse. But that doesn’t mean that you are not in
pain. And you not addressing and owning that pain doesn’t make it any better for anyone for
whom it might be worse.” Annike exhaled deeply. “Everyone in this house will hold space for
you to not be okay, Hermione. But I want you to extend the same grace to yourself.”

Hermione set the breakfast tray to the side and wrapped Annike in a fierce embrace. “Thank you,”
she gasped. “For everything, Annike.”

Annike chuckled softly and held Hermione for several breaths before breaking apart. “I’m going
into town today to pick up some items for dinner and just get out of the house. Most of the
seasonal tourists have left, so it’s good for a breath of fresh air. I don’t want you to feel obligated,
but if you would join me, I would very much like that. And I think maybe it would be good for
you to get out of the house.”

Hermione nodded appreciatively, quickly finishing her breakfast and excusing herself to change
into clothes suitable for a January morning in Bavaria.
***

Annike had, of course, been correct. The chill in the air and the relaxed pace of the post-holiday
town brought a calm to the torrents raging inside Hermione. They began the morning simply
walking around the town’s four-kilometer Tower Trail, a medieval structure of walls and fortresses
originally constructed in 1142AD to defend the then-village and its accompanying castle against
intruders. It served no real purpose any more, other than to offer breathtaking panoramic views of
the town.

Annike peppered Hermione with historical facts about the town and the Tower Trail, most of
which Hermione had already heard from Otto, but politely declined to bring that to Annike’s
attention. When they reached the end of the loop, Annike paused and exhaled deeply, her hands
gripping the rail as she looked out over Rothenburg ob der Tauber.

“My favorite story about this town, though,” Annike began, “is much more recent. Toward the
end of World War II, the United States Army was poised to firebomb the entire town. They
planned to level it completely, convinced that some of the residents of Rothenburg were housing
Nazis.” She sighed. “By and large, they weren’t wrong. But they also would have killed
thousands of otherwise innocent Germans in the process and completely destroyed this beautiful
town. Do you know why they didn’t, Hermione?”

Hermione shook her head. This was one historical story that Otto had not furnished to her.

“Because the assistant United States Secretary of War’s mother had visited Rothenburg when she
was a young woman and brought home a painting of the town. So he grew up looking at that
painting in his home. And despite enormous pushback and almost losing his position, he refused to
allow the orders to firebomb Rothenburg go forward. Instead, he sent a special envoy of top
military negotiators to encourage the town to surrender. And it did—without a single death or shot
being fired.”

Annike turned away from the town, her eyes fixated on Hermione. “Sometimes all it takes is one
person doing the right thing, no matter how hard or impossible it may seem, to change the course
of history.”

***

When Annike and Hermione arrived back at the Weber estate late in the afternoon with dinner
supplies in hand, they found Theo and Otto at the kitchen table, a Hermione-level mountain of
books spread in front of them. Theo was scribbling away in the margins of one of the books, while
Otto delicately peeled through the pages of another in front of him, his arm slung over Theo’s
shoulders.

“Working on another spell, Otto?” Annike chuckled as she began unwrapping several Cornish hens
she had procured from the town’s butcher, methodically seasoning them.

“Hmm?” Otto asked distractedly. “Oh, no,” he replied, his eyes still trained on the text in front of
him. “Theo is—kind of. I’m just helping.”

“Theo!” Hermione exclaimed, dropping the Brussel sprouts she was about to start chopping and
moving toward the table. “That’s amazing! Tell me about it!”

“What?” Theo responded in a tone even more preoccupied than Otto’s. He broke himself from his
reverie, shaking his head. “It’s nothing, Granger. Don’t worry about it. It’s dumb.”
“Stop,” Otto chided, pressing his lips to Theo’s ear. “It’s not dumb at all, Theo. It’s brilliant.
You’re brilliant.”

Theo paused for a moment, his head turning toward Otto and a small but appreciative smile tugging
at his lips. Theo turned back toward Hermione, sighing. “Well, it’s not a new spell or anything.
But remember when we were in Bulgaria and Otto was casting his defensive spell—.”

“Our defensive spell,” Otto corrected, planting another kiss below Theo’s ear.

Theo let out an exasperated sigh. “Anyway, it didn’t work as well as it had when he and I casted it
together. But you and I saw him, Granger. He had his posture and angles right—it should’ve
worked just as well. But it didn’t. So it got me thinking. Maybe the power of certain spells isn’t
just about physics. Maybe it’s also about…chemistry.” Theo turned back toward Otto, their eyes
locked as the rest of the room clearly disappeared around them. “Maybe the reason the defensive
spell worked so well is because Otto and I casted it together.”

A bittersweet swelling bloomed in Hermione’s chest as she watched the two wizards regard each
other tenderly for several breaths before Theo turned back toward her. “So I’m just looking
through some old books and seeing if there’s anything discussing other spells that worked better
when certain wizards or witches were jointly casting them.” He shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe
it’s completely stupid—.”

“Stop,” Hermione, Otto, and Annike said in unison.

“I just thought I’d see what’s out there,” Theo concluded. “But you know me—I’m rubbish with
books,” he sighed. “Could use your help, Granger.”

“Say no more,” Hermione smiled, cracking open the book nearest to her.

***

Hermione, Theo, and Otto suspended their study efforts not long thereafter in order to assist
Annike and a returning Ernst, Charlie, and Lina with dinner. Much to Theo’s chagrin, Otto boasted
of Theo’s new project and the small success they had encountered right before dinner preparation
commenced when Hermione found a sixteenth century text discussing a spell similar to a
disillusionment charm could be strengthened if performed simultaneously by two or more
wizards.

After dinner and cleanup, Hermione, Theo, Otto, and Charlie began to retire to the living room to
watch a movie as they still did most nights, although Hermione was admittedly running low on
new movies for them to watch, and Rothenburg ob der Tauber predictably did not have a video
rental store. But as Hermione was about to cross into the living room, she felt Charlie’s hand wrap
around her arm, stilling her motion.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked.

“Of course, Charlie,” she said evenly while her stomach churned, wondering if the whole memory
charm issue was not as put to bed as she thought it was.

Charlie ushered her into a small room off the front hallway that Ernst and Annike used to store
their more rare and expensive bottles of bourbon, scotch, sherry, and cognac. Hermione brushed
her fingers over some of the labels as Charlie closed the door behind him. “Tonks is coming to
visit in a couple days,” he said, barely suppressing a beaming smile.

“Charlie, that’s amazing!” Hermione responded, throwing her arms around him. “I’m so happy for
you—I know how much you’ve been missing her. And gods, I can’t wait to see her—.” The rest
of Hermione’s sentence died in her throat. “Oh,” she continued, fidgeting. “She’s going to be
furious with me,” Hermione said softly.

“I don’t know, kid,” Charlie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “In some ways, what I went
through was harder on her than it was on me. And the fact that it was the Malfoy lad who did it,”
he let out a resigned huff. “There’s already a lot of justified familial resentment there. The fact
that the lad seems to have changed might not be enough for her to accept what he did to me, let
alone that you are with him. I mean, that ring you wear around your neck should have been hers if
that family wasn’t so damn prejudiced.”

Hermione nodded slowly.

“But Tonks is also one of the most loving, forgiving people I have ever met. So maybe the fact
that you are alive and you have changed the Malfoy lad so profoundly will trump what she’s had to
endure the past six months. I just don’t know. But I want you to be prepared for what could be a
tense few days or more.”

Hermione nodded again, biting into her lip. “She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t blow his cover you
think?” she asked, emotion stinging her eyes.

“No, Golden Girl,” Charlie soothed, pulling Hermione into him. “This is Tonks we’re talking
about. She’s brash, blunt, and uncontrollable, but she’s not vindictive. I don’t care how much
resentment there is between her and her cousin, but she wouldn’t want to see the little twat hurt or
killed.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and Charlie snickered in response. “I’ve got the right to call
Draco Malfoy a twat for the rest of my life, kid,” he said, giving her a quick peck to the temple.
“C’mon, let’s get back to the movie. I’m dying to see this Jurassic Park you’ve yammered on
about.”

***

Hermione, Theo, and Otto all sat silently in her room like three disobedient children waiting for
their parents to come in and dole out their punishment. Because Tonks had arrived thirty minutes
earlier, with Ernst ushering the trio into Hermione’s bedroom as Charlie whisked his bride away to
relay to her the revelations that had been made to him in the preceding weeks.

Otto was visibly more relaxed than Hermione or Theo, having absolutely no reason to think that
Tonks would feel anything toward him other than kinship. Theo appeared outwardly calm, but
Hermione had gotten to know his nervous ticks: running his fingers along the neckline of his shirt,
cracking his knuckles, scratching under his ear.

Tonks had no reason to feel any sort of disdain toward Theo himself—Hermione was sure the two
of them had never even had the occasion to be within ten kilometers of each other. Nor had Theo
ever had a reputation during their school years for being anything other than an accomplished
student and Draco’s relatively innocuous shadow. However, Nott Senior engendered a particular
level of antipathy outside of the Death Eater community (and even amongst some of those within
the Death Eater community, per Draco) given his reputation for excessive cruelty and viciousness.
Knowing little else about Theo, it wouldn’t be completely unfair for Tonks to hear the name and
expect the worst.

And then there was Hermione, who was quickly wearing a hole in the bedroom carpeting as she
paced back and forth across the length of her room. “Merlin, Hermione, you’re making me motion
sick,” Otto said in the closest tone he had to frustration. He stood and strode to where she was
pacing, grabbing her wrist and tugging her hand away from her mouth, where she had been
chewing on her cuticles.

Still holding onto her wrists, Otto’s eyes bored into hers. “Breathe,” he instructed. “Three seconds
in, six seconds out.” Hermione did as Otto advised. “Again,” he said, following along with her.
Despite the simplicity of the exercise, Hermione found it worked quite effectively, her pulse
slowing and the echo of her pounding heart no longer bouncing around in her skull.

Several breaths later and there was a thundering in the hall, the door to Hermione’s room flying
open, and a shock of pink careening across the room. Before she knew it, Hermione was toppling
to the floor, Tonks on top of her, peppering Hermione’s cheeks with kisses and tears. Hermione’s
head turned to the front of her room where Charlie stood leaning against her doorframe, an
affectionate yet smug smile painted across his cheeks.

***

Hours later, the group was still gathered in Hermione’s room, catching Tonks up on all that they
had witnessed and experienced over the past six months and beyond, including Hermione’s
retelling of Draco’s failed defection and his assistance in relaying certain Death Eater secrets such
as the co-opting of the Department of Magical Transportation and the budding plan to draw Harry
out of hiding by sacrificing Hogwarts students or professors.

Like Charlie, Tonks was far from whole-heartedly embracing Hermione’s relationship with Draco,
but seemed amenable to accepting that Draco had changed and was working on the side of the
Order to the extent possible. Predictably, Tonks expressed far fewer reservations regarding
Hermione’s friendship with Theo, even embracing him in the first instance, while simultaneously
informing him that his father was a “miserable cunt of a human,” a fact with which Theo readily
agreed.

Tonks took a particular shine to Otto, although her blunt and impetuous nature—including her
good-hearted but probing questions regarding Theo’s and Otto’s relationship—seemed to throw the
reserved and mild-mannered professor through a loop. Much like Theo, Tonks simply didn’t have
a filter and had no reservations about discussing the more intimate details of her and others’
personal lives.

Over the following weeks, Tonks grew incredibly close with everyone in the Weber household, but
developed a particularly special bond with Annike. It was only then that it occurred to Hermione
how much Annike reminded her of Tonks’s mother, Andromeda—including having a softhearted
sister who had the misfortune of falling in love with the wrong man.

Tonks also added another mind to Theo’s research. While Otto was still undoubtedly their best
resource, he spent most mornings and afternoons at Waldeinsamkeit, leaving Hermione, Theo, and
Tonks to pour over the books they procured from Waldeinsamkeit as well as the Weber estate
library during the day time hours. Only three weeks after Tonks’s arrival, the group had more or
less confirmed that there was magical precedence for some spells being strengthened when
performed together by certain pairings of witches and wizards.

This bore true when they tested Theo’s and Otto’s defensive spell with different combinations of
the Weber household. For example, the spell was strongest when Theo and Otto, Tonks and
Charlie, or Annike and Ernst casted it together. The second strongest was Hermione and Theo, but
that spell was still more susceptible to offensive attacks than when the romantic couples casted it
together. Hermione expected the next strongest pairing to be her and Tonks or her and Charlie, but
was surprised and touched to discover the next strongest combination was her and Otto.
And so Theo Nott, the professed non-academic and anti-bookworm set about drafting his first
essay—an article on the power of and uses for magical chemistry. For the next few weeks, he
roused earlier than anyone else in the household, already scribbling away at the kitchen table by
the time Hermione came down for breakfast. In the evenings when she entered Theo’s and Otto’s
room to wish them goodnight, she would find Theo in bed, his back against Otto’s chest, quill in
mouth as he fervently passed pieces of parchment to Otto for revisions.

***

Shortly after Theo began his academic essay, the household went out to one of the Webers’
favorite restaurants in Rothenburg, Gasthof Goldener Greifen, to celebrate Lina’s twenty-second
birthday. The restaurant was housed in a fourteenth-century stone-built inn and specialized in
traditional Franconian fare and a variety of local beers. Annike and Ernst ordered far too much
food and drink for the table—an impressive feat given how much Charlie could put down.

But toward the end of dinner, Hermione noticed Otto become peekish and subdued. She wondered
at first if he had not consumed too much alcohol or ate something that disagreed with him, but his
eyes kept flicking back and forth between their table and one across the restaurant where an
incredibly handsome man Hermione gauged to be in his mid-thirties sat with a noticeably younger
woman.

“Otto, you’re crushing my hand,” Theo whined.

“Oh, sorry,” Otto replied hollowly, wiping his brow.

“What’s wrong?” Theo asked, cupping Otto’s face with his hand. “Are you feeling okay?”

“It’s fine,” Otto said stiffly, his eyes once again darting back to the table with the older man and
younger woman. Hermione watched as Annike and Ernst followed Otto’s line of vision, their
expressions hardening. Otto nervously cleared his throat, focusing his attention back on Theo.
“Really, I’m fine. It’s nothing, babe,” he whispered as he kissed the side of Theo’s head. But
Annike and Ernst hadn’t taken their eyes from the table across the restaurant, fire in their eyes.

And then it fell into place.

Oh, hell no.

“Otto,” Hermione said softly, “is that your ex over there?”

Theo’s head immediately whipped into the direction of Annike’s and Ernst’s stares, his expression
falling a bit when he caught sight of the man.

“Um, yes,” Otto supplied meekly. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, grabbing Theo’s face and turning it
toward him. “He means nothing to me now, please understand that. Even when he did, Theo,
there’s no fucking comparison between how I felt about him and how cripplingly in love with you I
am.” Otto sighed, running his hand through his hair. “But he moved to Paris three months after
we broke up two years ago, and I guess I was just hoping I never had to see him again.” Theo
nodded and lightly brought his lips to Otto’s forehead.

Hermione’s blood sparked with rage. Not only because she was forced to observe this piece of
human garbage who so damaged Otto swindle another young woman while he probably had some
other unfortunate wizard waiting for him at home, but also because neither Otto nor anyone else in
the household had told her about the age difference. Because this wizard, while undeniably
stunning, was at least ten years older than Otto—if not more. And Otto had told her that they
started “dating” when he was sixteen.

Her ire boiled over as Hermione physically started seeing red. “What’s his name?” she heard
herself ask.

“Bren,” Otto replied.

“That’s a stupid fucking name,” Hermione retorted as she felt herself rise to her feet.

“Hermione?” Otto asked quietly. A devilish but approving smirk crossed Ernst’s lips as she passed
him and approached the table where Bren and his young date was sitting. From the looks of it, she
was only a year or two older than Hermione.

“Bren!” Hermione shouted as she rounded on the table. A shattering silence enveloped the
restaurant as all the patrons heads swiveled in her direction. She didn’t care.

Bren shot up from the table, his eyes wide with alarm as he scrambled to try to place Hermione.

“How could you?” she hissed, willing her eyes to fill with tears. Which they did. It appeared that
all this excess emotion she had been experiencing over the past year was good for something.

She now stood less than a foot from him, his expression frantic and confused.

Hermione feigned a sob into her hands, delighted that she could feel tears streaming down her
cheeks when she peeled her face back up to meet his.

“Miss, I’m not sure—.”

“You said—you said that you loved me!” she howled, the tension in the restaurant reaching a fever
pitch.

Bren’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I think you have the wrong
person, miss.” His eyes anxiously darted around the restaurant as lines of sweat clearly broke out
across his forehead.

“Oh?” she asked, lip quivering. “Am I thinking of some other man who likes to listen to Chopin on
Saturday mornings when he makes me breakfast?”

Otto had of course told her this small, otherwise insignificant detail of their relationship.

His face grew ten shades of pale as the woman he was dining with audibly gasped, her face turning
a violent shade of scarlet.

Hermione debated what to do at this point. She wanted to break his nose, but her right hook was
not what it once was. Instead she gasped, wide eyed and mouth open, and pointed behind him.
When he twirled around to follow the source of her fabricated surprise, Hermione raised her right
leg and gave him a stout jab with her boot to his lower back and watched with absolute glee as he
clumsily tumbled over his table, sending drinks and food flying in all directions.

The patrons in the restaurant collectively gasped, except for a loud roar of laughter that Hermione
knew came from Charlie and Tonks. She rounded the table, kneeling down next to his prone form
splayed over the table. “Get a personality, Bren, and maybe people your own age will want to fuck
you,” she hissed.

And with that, she turned tail and darted back toward their table, watching as Ernst threw cash
down. “Gotta go, gotta go!” she squealed as the maître d' descended on their table, the rest of the
table following her quickly out of the restaurant and into the street.

“That was bloody brilliant!” Charlie exclaimed, sweeping Hermione into his arms and twirling her
around.

“She gets it from me,” Tonks boasted, slinging her arm around Hermione when Charlie had placed
her back down.

Theo, of course, merely threw his arms around her and gave her a quick peck. “Seems we’ve made
a Slytherin of you, Granger. Draco would be so proud.”

“I cannot endorse what I saw in there,” Ernst said, barely able to suppress a smile, “but I do
acknowledge it.”

“Sorry, Ernst, Annike, and oh—Lina, your birthday! I’m afraid I ruined it,” Hermione lamented.

“Are you kidding me?” Lina shot back. “That was the best part!”

“I’ll have a word with the owner another time,” Ernst said, waiving off any further concern from
Hermione. “We’re devoted patrons. I’m sure he won’t hold one skirmish against us.”

After the adrenaline had died down, Otto quietly approached Hermione, wrapping his arm around
her waist and laying his head on top of hers. “Love you,” he whispered.

“Love you too, Otto.”

***

Following a typical Friday night dinner five weeks after Tonks’s arrival, the younger members of
the household, including Mika and Adler, filed into the living room, with Lina and Mika
summoning a variety of beer and liquor into the room where a series of drinking games broke out.
Hermione retrieved her boombox from her room, charming it to play a mix of Backstreet Boys,
Spice Girls, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, *NSYNC, and Aqua. Charlie complained at the
outset of every song—apparently, to the extent he listened to Muggle music it was strictly classic
rock—as did Adler, who was predictably more a fan of grunge bands.

When they were all well into their cups, Tonks introduced a game she called “The Dullest Person,”
the concept being whoever’s turn it was would list something they had never done, and if others in
the circle had engaged in that activity, they would have to take a drink.

“Can I start?!” Theo exclaimed.

“By all means” Tonks replied enthusiastically.

“I’m the dullest person because I have never had a professional Quidditch star playing seeker in
my drawers!” Theo barely got the sentence out before he collapsed into a fit of drunken giggles.

“Screw you, Theo!” Hermione retorted as she felt Charlie’s and Tonks’s wide eyes on her. “Viktor
Krum,” she sighed dismissively, taking a swig of her drink.

Charlie chuckled before following suit. “Rosie Herlihy,” he shrugged. “Captain of the Harpies in
the ’94-95 season.” Tonks punched his shoulder and rolled her eyes.

Seated next to Theo, Hermione went next. “I’m the dullest person because I don’t have a tattoo,”
Hermione said, glaring at Theo. Theo had Lynde tattooed on the inside of his bicep—it was his
mother’s middle name, a German name roughly translating to “gentle.” Hermione was also aware
this would get Charlie and Adler, and expected it might get Tonks and Mika.

In fact, everyone except Hermione took a drink. While Lina was a bit of a surprise, it didn’t come
close to the shock Hermione felt upon realizing that buttoned-up, professorial Otto had a tattoo.
“Otto!” she gasped. “Show us!”

“No way,” he snickered, taking a sip of his beer. But before Otto could stop him, a drunk Theo
untucked Otto’s shirt from his trousers and pulled it up, revealing a massive and intricate phoenix
tattoo that spanned the entire length of Otto’s ribcage, the wings of which wrapped around his chest
and back.

“That’s a fantastic piece, mate,” Charlie observed. “What’s the story there?”

“Thanks,” Otto responded sheepishly, unsuccessfully trying to cover himself back up. Resigning
himself to the situation, he sighed and continued. “I, uh, well, I got it in the throes of my breakup.
I was—well, I was beyond devastated. I could barely function. I prayed so hard for healing—and
what’s more healing than the idea that you can be completely destroyed and come back from it
even stronger? So the phoenix obviously resonated with me.” His gaze turned to Theo. “I didn’t
expect God to take me quite so literally, but I’m endlessly thankful that he did.”

The entire group was still and silent for several moments, the magic of what Otto had just said
sinking into them. But with her characteristic impulsivity, Tonks shattered the group’s reverie.

“Hold up,” Tonks said cheekily, quickly reaching across the distance between her and Otto,
shucking his shirt up further and exposing his chest.

Hermione’s jaw dropped as she saw Otto near-shirtless for the first time and realized that in
addition to being surprisingly tattooed, Otto was also surprisingly pierced.

“Nip piercings, Otto—you sneaky little freak!” Tonks exclaimed.

Otto’s face turned seven shades of scarlet while the rest of the group hooted, hollered, and
laughed. After several seconds, Hermione gingerly reached over the tugged his shirt from Tonks’s
grasp and lowered it back over Otto’s torso.

Thank you, he worded to Hermione, his hands still half covering his face. She smiled back and
squeezed his shoulder.

“Theodore Nott,” Tonks began, “you bagged yourself a genius and a closet freak right out of the
gate?”

“Not doing too badly for myself these days, huh?” Theo volleyed back, as he feigned a bow. Otto
still had his face buried in his hands, but Hermione watched as Theo untucked Otto’s head, their
gazes meeting as Theo whispered something to Otto, chuckling a bit before Otto smiled and Theo
captured Otto’s lips with his own.

***

Hermione was dismayed when she awoke on the living room floor the next morning. A splitting
headache flooded her senses as she sat up, realizing that everyone—including Mika and Adler—
had passed out in the living room, either on the floor or draped across the different couches and
arm chairs that dotted the room.
“I sense we will need some Irish coffees this morning,” a voice behind her observed. She turned,
wincing, to see Ernst standing at the entrance of the living room, surveying the damage.

“I’m sorry, Ernst,” she said, peeling one of Tonks’s arms off of her as she cautiously stood. She
staggered as the room briefly spun, Ernst grabbing her elbow to brace her. “This is embarrassing.”

He chuckled and waved her off. “You’re all eighteen and early or mid-twenties,” Ernst replied. “If
you could see what I was doing on a Friday night at your age,” he shuddered as he made an
exaggerated facial expression, “you would feel no shame about this.”

Ernst helped her into the kitchen where she plopped down at the kitchen table and fought the urge
to vomit. He first placed a glass of water in front of her, instructing her to drink the whole thing
while he made her coffee.

“I’m happy to make you a standard coffee, Hermione,” Ernst began, “but trust an old man when he
tells you that sometimes the hair of the dog really helps.”

Hermione laughed softly. “An Irish coffee it is then, Ernst,” she responded. “And maybe some
toast, if it’s not too much?”

“Coming right up!” he replied eagerly. He tucked into a seat across from her several minutes later,
toast, coffee, and the day’s newspapers in hand. Hermione sipped gingerly at her coffee and took
delicate bites of her toast, her stomach still roiling and head still pounding.

Ernst finished the local wizarding paper, depositing it further down the table for whoever was
interested in reading it next. Hermione briefly caught the title of the next newspaper: The Daily
Prophet. Despite the discovery of Theo—alive and well—Ernst and Annike still received the
Prophet, as the household was still anxious for news out of the UK, no matter how biased.

Almost as soon as Ernst had unfurled the paper, he dropped his mug, coffee splattering all over the
table as the mug shattered on the floor. Hermione gasped and jumped, but Ernst paid it no mind,
his hand drawn over his mouth.

“What is it?!” Hermione exclaimed, reaching for the paper. Ernst turned the front page toward
her. As per usual, the front page boldly read UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE.

But the picture and name under the title was no longer Harry.

Instead, Hermione’s gaze was met by a pair of stunning, sterling eyes and that silver-blonde hair
that she loved to run her fingers through.

UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE: Draco Lucius Malfoy.

 Gin
Chapter Notes

I was hoping to include the Gringotts break-in with this chapter, but suffering a bit of
writer's block with regard to the action scenes recently.

Good news is I've written out significant portions of the rest of the fic, so hopefully I
can post more regularly! We're getting close, y'all :)

Potter handled Ginny’s revelation with his trademark amount of grace, which is to say—none. In
the seconds and minutes following Ginny’s admission that it was Potter—not Draco—who slayed
their beloved former headmaster, a screaming match erupted on that otherwise serene beach
between Potter, Weaselbee, and Ginny, who despite being crucio’ed and carved not minutes
before, was still alarmingly animate and shockingly strong.

Draco struggled to keep his grip on the injured witch as Potter hurled baseless accusations at her
and Weaselbee, with Draco catching a sharp elbow to his jaw that had him seeing stars as Ginny
tried to fling herself out of his arms. He began to wonder if the War wouldn’t be quickly won if
they locked Ginny Weasley in a room with the Dark Lord with their fists as their only weapons.

It didn’t take long for the frenzied screeches and shouts to draw the occupants of the nearby
cottage out of their home and thundering across the beach. One occupant Draco immediately
recognized as Fleur Delacour, the Veela vixen who had driven all the boys at Hogwarts mad
during Draco’s Fourth Year. The other he did not know, but based on his hair color, Draco figured
he could take a successful stab at his last name.

The row between Potter, Weaselbee, and Ginny halted for several tense moments when Fleur and
Hippie Weasley reached the motley group and Hippie Weasley drew his wand on Draco, no doubt
preparing to blast him into oblivion.

“He defected!” Ginny exclaimed, wrapping herself around Draco like Devil’s Snare, making it near
impossible for Hippie Weasley to get a clean shot at him. “Months ago. And he just saved our
lives.”

Hippie Weasley regarded Draco cautiously for several breaths before he slowly lowered his wand
and kneeled next to him, wordlessly taking Ginny’s injured arm in his hand.

Blood Traitor, it read in crudely carved letters extending across her entire forearm.

“My aunt,” Draco said softly, wincing as he met Hippie Weasley’s eyes, which despite his
outwardly calm demeanor, were sparking with rage.

“Let me have her,” he whispered, extending his arms toward Draco.

“I’m fine!” Ginny huffed, trying to wriggle her way out of Draco’s arms and past Hippie Weasley.

“You’re not fine,” Draco, Hippie Weasley, and Weaselbee said in unison. Draco awkwardly
transferred a squirming Ginny into Hippie Weasley’s arms and watched as he tenderly but tightly
tucked his spirited little sister against his chest, slowly rising and turning back toward the cottage.
“C’mon,” Hippie Weasley addressed the group, nodding toward the cottage. “It’s protected by a
Fidelius Charm. We’re safer inside.” Draco hesitated as he watched the group collectively move
toward the cottage. “You too,” Hippie Weasley said casually, turning his head over his shoulder to
meet Draco’s gaze.

Potter stopped dead in his tracks. “Have you all gone completely mad?” he barked, color rushing
to his cheeks. “You’re actually trusting Malfoy? Welcoming him into your home? He’ll get us all
killed!”

A fresh, but equally vicious quarrel detonated between Potter, Weaselbee, and Ginny, with Hippie
Weasley struggling just as much as Draco had to keep Ginny steady in his arms while Fleur
aggressively shepherded the group toward the cottage.

As Draco came to learn, Luna’s Portkey had brought the group to “Shell Cottage,” a safehouse for
Order of the Phoenix members located on the outskirts of Tinworth, Cornwall. It reminded Draco
of the cottage he envisioned when occluding, only this one was larger and less worn—a small
miracle considering it was owned by the Weasleys.

***

Potter steadfastly refused to believe Ginny and Weaselbee regarding their version of events the
night Dumbledore was killed. Draco kept largely silent, certain that anything he had to say about
the night in question would fall on deaf ears when it came to Potter. Several hours and a lot of
noise later, Potter was finally forced to face the music when Hippie Weasley—who had officially
introduced himself to Draco as Bill—used a clever memory summoning charm on Ginny,
Weaselbee, and a reluctant Draco, all of which revealed the same recollection from slightly
different vantage points: Potter launching an avada at Draco at the top of the astronomy tower,
which hit Dumbledore square in the chest when he used his body to shield Draco from the blast.

Potter went completely berserk after the conclusion of Draco’s memory, which regrettably included
staring for several long moments into Dumbledore’s dead eyes. Mercifully, Potter lost
consciousness soon thereafter, with Bill and Weaselbee jointly carrying him into one of the
bedrooms upstairs.

“I shouldn’t have told him,” Ginny exhaled dejectedly, resting her forehead against the kitchen
table where she, Draco, Lovegood, and Fleur all sat. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Merlin, of course you weren’t thinking clearly!” Draco hissed. “My psychotic aunt had just
tortured you.” Draco sighed, pausing. “Look, he would’ve had to find out eventually. At least it’s
here where he could throw a tantrum and take some time to process it.” He shrugged. “You did
what you thought was best, Gin.”

Fuck.

Ginny slowly raised her head from the table, a shite-eating smirk replacing her previously
dispirited expression. “Gin, huh?” she quipped, quirking an eyebrow.

“Uh, yes, well,” Draco grumbled, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck as he felt heat and
color crawl across his ears and cheeks. “I may have spent a month with Hermione around the
holidays. Unfortunately, it seems that some of her verbiage wore off on me.”

Ginny smiled warmly at him. “Gin will do, Draco,” she responded, laying her injured arm across
the table, hand open. Blood Traitor.
Draco covered her arm with his, as he noticed both Lovegood and Fleur staring at them, mouths
agape and eyes wide with surprise.

“Hermione’s alive?” Lovegood trilled.

***

Bill and Fleur prepared a delicious pasta dish for dinner, over which Draco regaled the household
—sans Potter, who was still passed out in an upstairs bedroom—with the adventures of Hermione
and Theo. The success they had experienced, the magic they had witnessed, and the love they had
found.

There was, of course, the uncomfortable discussion regarding Charlie, but whatever resentment the
family felt toward Draco’s involvement with Charlie’s addiction seemed genuinely overshadowed
by their relief over the healing that Charlie seemed to have found at the Weber estate with
Hermione, Theo, Otto, Annike, and Ernst.

“I think we have a chance,” Draco said softly, after the dishes were cleared and the sun had set; the
only light in the airy kitchen being that cast from half a dozen or so candles dotting the room. “As
loathe as I am to have any optimism about this situation,” he sighed, his eyes drifting from to
Ginny, to Luna, to Weaselbee, to Fleur, and finally to Bill, who still regarded Draco with hesitancy,
“I don’t know. With the help of these other witches and wizards—if we can find the horcruxes,”
he shook his head. “I don’t know. I think we have a chance.”

Bill gave him a gentle nod, taking a sip of wine. “Speaking of,” Ginny interrupted. “Draco, we
need to find a way to break into your aunt’s vault at Gringotts.”

“What?” Draco asked hollowly, nonplussed. The rest of the table peered at Ginny with similar
perplexity. She sighed and rolled her eyes, apparently frustrated that no one was keeping pace with
her.

“Didn’t you notice how panicked she became when she saw the sword? When she thought that we
had been to her vault?”

Draco and Weaselbee nodded in unison.

Ginny threw her hands out like the answer was obvious, but Draco and the rest of the table were
once again left clueless. She repeated her eye roll. “Obviously she’s hiding something in the vault
that’s valuable to Voldemort. I’m betting it’s a horcrux. So we need to get in there.”

“Oi, break into Gringotts? That’s it? That’s your plan?” Weaselbee chortled. “Yeah, no problem,
Gin.”

Ginny shot Weaselbee an exasperated look as she peeled a long, dark hair from her pocket. “If
only I could think of a way to disguise myself as the vault’s owner and surreptitiously gain access
to it.”

As if on cue, an insistent tawny owl appeared at the kitchen window. Bill rose to greet it, with
Draco’s stomach twisting when he recognized the parchment carried by the bird was a breaking
news edition of the Daily Prophet.

Bill offered the owl a small token in return, leaning back against the kitchen counter as he unfurled
the Prophet article. His eyes scanned the page for several moments before his posture sank and he
sighed mournfully. “I’m afraid that hair isn’t going to do you much good, Gin-bear,” he said
resignedly.
Draco suspected what was coming next, but an alarmed fuck! still escaped his lips when Bill turned
the paper around and Draco saw his picture and name listed below the title Undesirable Number
One. He felt Luna wrap her hand around his arm, everyone in the room completely still. Bill
turned the paper back toward himself, reading aloud.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, 17, formerly the Dark Lord’s second-in-command, brutally murdered his
own aunt—and one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal supporters—earlier this afternoon in a brazen
defection that also resulted in the escape of Order of the Phoenix members and fellow
Undesirables, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Ginevra Weasley, and Luna Lovegood.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Draco said thinly, as his blood went cold and his body began to quake.
“I wasn’t thinking. I just needed to get her off of you, Ginny.”

Ginny knelt in front of him, her hands on either side of his face as she spoke softly to him. But all
he could hear was Bill’s voice as he continued to read from the paper.

“Despite the valiant efforts of St. Mungo’s best Healers, Bellatrix LeStrange succumbed to her
injuries at 6:05PM this evening after being hit twelve times with a stunning spell in what her
attending Healers are calling the most savage use of the Stupefy spell they have seen in their
careers.”

By the time Bill had completed the article, Draco had folded himself nearly in half. The dread
coursing through his veins came not from remorse over killing his unhinged aunt—although he
wasn’t particularly thrilled about that either—but rather concern over what this meant for his
mother. Was the Dark Lord torturing her? Certainly, he wouldn’t have killed her yet—he would
know that he could use her to draw Draco out of hiding. But the thought of what would befall her
in between now and that inevitable time haunted him down to his bones.

***

Draco wasn’t sure how long it took him to regain his composure and sit upright again. The whole
table was still there though, their eyes concernedly watching him. “Sorry,” he gasped, feeling
Luna’s arms wrap around his midsection.

“Nothing to apologize for, mate,” Weaselbee said solemnly, their eyes meeting briefly as Draco
nodded appreciatively.

“We need to figure out another way to get into the vault then,” Ginny continued, as undeterred as
Granger would be from completing their mission.

“Another way?!” Weaselbee exclaimed. “Ginny, are you barmy? You barely had a plan when you
could properly polyjuice yourself as Bellatrix, but now—.”

The rest of Weaselbee’s endless prattle was lost to Draco as he glanced down, his fingers delicately
plucking a long, silver hair from his jumper. He hadn’t had a proper haircut in weeks, but he knew
this one was far too long to be his, recalling his mother pressing her head into his chest when
Potter, Weaselbee, and Ginny had first arrived at Malfoy Manor earlier that afternoon.

“My mum has access rights to Aunt Bella’s vault,” Draco said hollowly, his gaze fixated on the
silver strand hovering before him. The rest of the table slowly turned toward his voice. “Ginny,
how do you fancy yourself a blonde?”

***
For the next week and a half, Potter didn’t leave “his” room. From what Draco observed, he
refused most food, preferring instead to subsist off of calming draught. He often begged for
something stronger, but the Weasleys, for understandable reasons, denied him anything that had
even the slightest potential for dependency.

The Weasleys and Luna saw to him constantly—an endless rotation of witches and wizards in and
out of Potter’s room, trying to convince him that somehow his suffering and torment was unique
and worthy of praise and admiration. The whole exercise made Draco positively apoplectic, so he
took great care to spend most of his time in Shell Cottage’s cramped cellar to develop a version of
the image-altering potion that he had created with Theo and Snape.

Bill, Fleur, and Luna lent significant assistance in these efforts. Much to Draco’s benefit, they
were all quite gifted at potions, and while they were no substitute for Theo and Snape, together the
group was able to fairly quickly brew a batch of marginal potency. It wasn’t yet a success from
Draco’s perspective, but he was reasonably confident they would get there after another batch or
two.

The plan was simple: Ginny would polyjuice herself as Narcissa Malfoy—and for which Draco
was supplying ample acting lessons—while Weaselbee would take the image-altering potion, and
from there Bill would further transfigure portions of Weaselbee’s appearance such that they would
be able to play him off as a foreign dark wizard that Narcissa Malfoy had reason to be seen with.
Meanwhile, Draco and Potter would hide under Potter’s invisibility cloak. They, too, would take
the image-altering potion in an abundance of caution; although if the occasion came where Draco
and Potter lost the cover of the invisibility cloak and had to rely on the potion, they were probably
shite out of luck and jolly-well fucked regardless.

On their twelfth night at Shell Cottage, they finally achieved a level of potency with the image-
altering potion that Draco deemed acceptable—nay, successful. Fleur had dug up an ancient
French text describing a similar potion, but with a slight variation to the brewing temperature and
stirring speed, allowed the potioneer more control over the appearance that the individual drinking
the potion would take on. It stopped short of a full polyjuice effect, but it did allow the potioneer
to choose features such as hair color, hair length, eye color, face shape, and skin color.

So on the night they completed that Fleur-enhanced potion and Weaselbee took a swig, Draco
watched in appreciate awe as the lanky ginger grew long, black locks and his eye color morphed
from a bright to a steel blue. His cheekbones shifted upward and his whole face became rather
pinched and drawn. Reptilian.

There would be no need for Bill to transfigure Weaselbee further—the potion had completely
transformed Weaselbee into someone completely unrecognizable to everyone except Draco.

Because the potion had turned Weaselbee into a near dead-ringer for Tihomir Tarnovsky.

“We’re ready,” Draco whispered, the reverence painfully obvious in his voice.

“We’re not ready,” Ginny huffed, marching down the cellar stairs. “Harry still won’t budge. He
said he’s done. He doesn’t want to fight anymore.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco hissed, slamming the vial of potion down on the table. “Move, Gin.”
Draco grabbed Ginny’s arm and pushed her aside as he bounded toward the cellar stairs.

“Draco!” Ginny responded, her arms reaching to halt his movement but stopping several inches
short.
“No!” Draco shot back. “You lot have been treating him with kid gloves when what Potter needs
is a fucking reality check. I have not come this far to watch everything fall apart because Potter
wants to hold onto his title as reigning drama queen of the fucking century.” He sighed angrily,
ripping his hand through his hair. “I don’t care if I have to imperio him—his arse is out of that
fucking bed tomorrow. Because as soon as the Dark Lord uses my mum to lure me out, it’s game
over. I will not let—,” he took a shuddering breath, “I cannot let her die for me. So we have to
make moves. Soon. Got it?”

Draco quickly turned heel and slammed the cellar door behind him before anyone else could get a
word in edgewise.

***

“Go away, Ron,” Potter lamented, his back to the door.

“It’s not Ron,” Draco supplied evenly.

Potter whipped around, his green eyes a poisonous shade of green and burning into Draco. “You
can especially fuck off, Malfoy,” he hissed.

Draco sighed, folding into the chair next to Potter’s bed. “I may not be the messenger you want,
Potter, but I’m the messenger you need. Because despite my inclinations to the contrary, you’re
not stupid. You know everyone else who has been filtering in and out of this room all week will
tell you anything they think you want to hear because they love you. I, however, loathe your
existence and if I didn’t think we needed you to win this War, I would gladly leave you in this bed
to rot.”

Potter’s expression was still irksome, but something shifted—an evenness came over his features,
as if he realized someone was speaking truth to him for the first time in days.

“And seeing as I’m the only other person in this place who has dabbled in dark magic and killed
people, I think I’m in a unique position to tell you exactly what you need to hear.”

Potter began to open his mouth. “Shut the fuck up, Potter. For once in your life, just listen.”
Draco took a deep breath before he continued. “You’re realizing what I was forced to realize last
year when the Dark Lord made me take the Mark. That the world isn’t black and white, good and
evil, right and wrong. Up until Ginny told you about Dumbledore, you got to live in a fantasy
world where you—the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the veritable hero of this entire saga—
were purely a force for light and good. But we’re all good, Potter. And we’re all evil.”

Potter was conspicuously quiet, regarding Draco with a cautious understanding. Draco took this
unexpected moment of reticence to continue. “The world is not black and white, Potter. It’s six
thousand shades of grey, and we’re all just doing our best to work our way through it. You can no
longer claim to be the perfect protagonist. A man without sin. You killed someone. But that
doesn’t mean that you can’t still emerge from this thing a hero.”

“I killed someone?” Potter retorted indignantly. “I killed Albus Dumbledore. Do you know what
that man meant to me? To the entire wizarding world? No, Malfoy, there’s no scenario in which I
come out of this redeemable, let alone a hero.”

“Why do you think you get a monopoly on suffering, Potter? Like you’re the only one who has
been irreparably damaged by the events that have occurred during this War and the last?”

Potter’s eyes narrowed at Draco, but he said nothing, so Draco continued. “What about Ginny and
Weasel, who have had to spend the past six months on the run and away from their family? Or
Hermione who had to fake her own death and spend the past six months away from some of the
people who love her most? What about Astoria who was crucio’ed into oblivion because of her
relationship with Weasel? And Weasel who has to live with the fact that she destroyed herself
protecting him? What about Longbottom, whose parents don’t even know who he is? Or
Lovegood, who had to spend over two months living in a dungeon half starved? What about
Charlie, who spent the past few months with a crippling potions addiction and separated from his
wife? What about Theo, whose father murdered his mother and then beat and hexed Theo because
he thought it was funny? And while I’m sure that you’re not of the inclination to feel any sort of
empathy toward me, I will tell you that having to spend the past six months away from Hermione
has shredded every last living part of me. And to the extent there were any pieces of me left
whole, the fact that my stunt back at the Manor is likely getting my mother tortured—those
leftover pieces of me have been ground into dust.”

Potter was still silent, merely blinking at Draco.

“You continuing to lay in this bed won’t change the fact that Dumbledore is fucking dead. But
what it will change is the entire fucking outcome of this War. It will mean all the sacrifices and
suffering everyone else has endured to get to this point will have been for nothing. And that,
Potter, won’t make you a martyr. It’ll make you a fucking coward.”

Draco stood but hesitated when he reached the doorway. “I’ve taken you for a lot of things,
Potter. But a coward was never one of them.”

***

That evening, for the first time in twelve days, Potter emerged from his bedroom and joined the
group at the dinner table.

Everyone appeared to hold their breath as he sat down, as if an overly expressive exhale might send
Harry spiraling. So the group ate in relative silence, the only sounds being the clattering of
silverware against dishes and the passing of communal bowls of food as those at the table filled
their plates.

Fifteen minutes into dinner, Draco finally broke the trance-like state the household had stumbled
into. “Merlin, this is ridiculous,” he muttered, dropping his fork onto his plate as the rest of the
table looked on in anticipatory horror. “Hello, Potter. Thank you for gracing us with your
presence this evening.” Potter said nothing, but looked at Draco for the first time in their lives
without vitriol. They held each other’s stares for several seconds, Potter slowly chewing on a piece
of roasted asparagus. He nodded once—an acknowledgment—and then trained his focus back on
his plate as he resumed eating.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Luna asked in her signature dreamy tone.

“Like I’m holding my mind together with both fucking hands and much effort,” Potter
deadpanned.

The rest of the table remained cautiously silent, but Draco threw his head back in laughter. Potter
glanced up from his plate, a nearly imperceptible but appreciative smirk tugging at one side of his
lips. “That’s good, Potter,” Draco quipped, reaching forward to take a sip of his wine. “I know the
feeling,” he smirked as he brought the glass to his lips.

“So,” Potter began, addressing the table but principally looking at Draco, “what’s the plan?”
 Gringotts
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

In an unexpected yet refreshing twist, Potter readily signed onto the Gringotts break-in plan that
the group—largely Ginny—had hatched while Potter had been attempting to turn himself into a
giant bed sore. He was particularly impressed with the potion, as they gave Weaselbee a small
dose to demonstrate its potent effect for Potter.

“Why will we be taking it though?” he asked, turning to Draco. “I mean, if it comes down to us
being discovered under the Invisibility Cloak, we’re pretty well fucked, no?”

“For once I actually agree with you, Potter,” Draco replied, folding into a chair behind him. “If
we’re relying on the image-altering potion, it means things have gotten completely cocked. We’re
probably fucked. But if we’re discovered, not instantly appearing as Draco Malfoy and Harry
Potter might buy us minutes—seconds even. And I’ll take what we can get.”

Potter merely nodded in response.

“There’s one more thing I need to make clear,” Draco said, the tone of his voice silencing the
room. “I will use Unforgiveables to get out of there alive.” Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but
Draco continued undeterred. “Not crucio. Never that. But if things go sideways and using an
imperio or an avada against a bunch of Death Eater-adjacent goblins gets me one step closer to a
future with Granger—Hermione—I will do it. Without question or hesitation.” The room was
deadly still. “And you can hate me for it or think that I’m an evil bastard for it, but just don’t get
in my way.”

Ginny and Weaselbee both appeared to be on the edge of objection, but Potter broke through first.
And for once, he was the voice of reason.

“Fine.”

***

A stiff shake woke Draco in the middle of the night on the eve of their departure to Gringotts.
Shell Cottage only had three bedrooms, but Bill and Fleur had charmed their two guest rooms to
turn into separate, small dorms such that everyone had their own space to sleep.

“Fuck!” Draco hissed, reeling backwards and pulling his sheets over him as he realized it was
Potter standing bedside.

“And you say I’m the one for dramatics?” Potter drawled, tucking into a chair that sat across from
Draco’s bed. He flicked his wand at Draco’s bedside lamp, a sharp light flooding the room.

“Merlin, Potter!” Draco exclaimed, drawing his arm across his eyes. “Lest we forget you have
nearly killed me twice, so I hardly call anxiety over your sudden appearance at my bedside
dramatic.” Draco lifted his arm slightly, peeking an eye out at Potter. “Unless this is a last call
type of situation, in which case, I must tell you, Potter, I’m flattered but supremely uninterested.”

Potter’s face scrunched in disgust. “Christ, Malfoy, your mind is a horrifying place,” he replied.

“Astute observation. Ten points to Gryffindor,” Draco returned. “So if you’re not here to try to
kill me or fuck me, what’s your deal, Potter?” He sat up, watching Potter’s face crumble as his
eyes fell upon Draco’s sectumsempra scar.

It had dulled from a violent purple to a dull grey in the year plus since Potter had cracked Draco’s
chest open, but it was still the first thing anyone would notice about Draco upon seeing him
shirtless. An earlier, vainer version of Draco would’ve minded, but if he was honest, he actually
quite liked it. Not because he thought it looked particularly dashing, but because every time they
were in the throes of passion, Granger would take the time to wrap her fingers around the back of
his neck, pull him in closer, and slowly brush her lips along the length of the scar. As he would do
to hers. And even in these prolonged absences, he swore he could still feel her breath along his
chest, bringing a warmth to his heart that was generally absent without her.

Potter steadied himself in the chair. “To apologize, Malfoy,” he said softly. “Properly.” He
fidgeted a bit before continuing. “I don’t really know where to start—Merlin, I tried to kill you,”
he gasped. “I let myself get so twisted after Sirius died,” he shuddered, bringing his hand to his
mouth, “that I couldn’t see right from wrong, truth from lies. I needed an outlet for the anger and
despair that was consuming me, and it ended up being you and Hermione.”

Draco nodded.

“I needed a villain. I needed someone to suffer for the injustice that I felt was done to me. And
I’m not going to lie, Malfoy, you were a mighty soft target.” He ran his hand through his hair.
“And Hermione just steadfastly standing up for you that summer—.”

Draco felt his heart begin to race at the thought of it. Her devotion to the light even back then,
when he had given her every reason to hate him. Gods, I love you so much, he thought, willing her
to be able to hear his thoughts even hundreds of kilometers away.

“It drove me off the edge,” Potter concluded. “So I’m not sure how to really apologize for
everything that I did to you, but I want you to know that I am…sorry. Profoundly so.”

Draco hesitated for an uncomfortably long time, unsure of how to respond. He sighed, reluctantly
feeling himself erring on the side of absolution. “I certainly gave you every reason to hate me,
Potter,” he lamented. “And while I can’t say I’m sorry for all of the torture I laid upon you,
because to be frank, I still find you quite insufferable, but I acknowledge that I was a fucking prat
for most of the time we spent together at school.” He shifted slightly, still holding Potter’s gaze.
“But I know what it feels like to let grief and resentment consume you.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever be mates, Potter,” Draco continued. “But for purposes of surviving this
War, I forgive you. And I trust you. And I hope you can extend to me the same grace.”

Emotion clouded Potter’s face as he stretched his hand forward and Draco took it, a slow, gentle
handshake seven years in the making.

Potter leaned back in his chair. “When we eventually meet up with Hermione, do you think you
can—.”

“No,” Draco supplied instantly, giving little regard to Potter’s crestfallen expression. “Hermione
and I are partners,” he explained. “I will not tell her what to think or do. And I will not advocate
for you on your behalf. She is a brilliant witch capable of coming to her own conclusions. Our
roles are not to sway each other, but to support each other. So if she wants to forgive you for how
you treated her—fine. And if she doesn’t—that’s also fine. That’s between you and her, not me.”

“Right, okay,” Potter responded, standing. “Well, I’ll see you bright and early, Malfoy.” Potter
hesitated in the doorway for a moment, and Draco hexed himself for the words that were about to
come out of his mouth next.

“We’re not so different, you know.” His eyes met Potter’s as he lingered in the doorway. “Both
forced into positions of significance that we didn’t ask for, but greedily accepted. Only to learn
that the heightened status we once revered was actually a curse. Opposite sides of the coin, but
similar nonetheless, Potter.”

***

It was still dark out when the household roused to see Draco, Ginny, Weaselbee, and Potter off.
Draco’s stomach was in so many knots that he feared he would need a Healer to physically unwind
it. Their plan was as perfect as they could expect to get—but there were still one thousand and one
ways it could go wrong. If he was honest with himself, Draco gave them about thirty percent odds
of making it out alive and uncaptured.

Merlin, they weren’t even sure what they were looking for—not really. Potter surmised that the
Dark Lord had turned items belonging to the founders into Horcruxes—he knew for sure that
Helga Hufflepuff’s cup was one and Lovegood had suggested that Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost
diadem might be another—but there were still an additional two horcruxes unaccounted for and
they had no sodding idea what those might be. So maybe they were looking for a cup or a diadem,
but maybe not.

We are so fucked.

Still, Draco cheers’ed his doomed compatriots as he, Potter, and Weaselbee downed their image-
altering potion and Ginny finished her Polyjuice Potion. As expected, Weaselbee turned into a
near-spitting image of Tihomir Tarnovsky, while Draco had designed his and Potter’s potions to
turn them into other dark wizards he had encountered during his European travels that year.

There was a cracking in Draco’s chest when he saw Ginny present as his mother—the guilt over
what fate she might be suffering because of his actions tearing at whatever remnants remained of
his soul.

“I need a minute,” he said quickly, feeling the emotion clot at the back of his throat. He braced
himself on the kitchen counter, a few intrepid tears escaping from his lids. There was a gentle
hand on his back that he could now easily recognize as Lovegood. She said nothing, merely leaned
her head against his arm and rubbed his back, comforting him as he had once done for her.

He gave himself three minutes to grieve but just as quickly collected himself. The Polyjuice Potion
wouldn’t last forever, and he wasn’t sure how many levels of inquiry Ginny (Narcissa) was going
to be put through to confirm her identity. Bill had cast a charm between Draco and Ginny that
allowed a certain fluidity between their minds—almost like Ginny was getting legilimency powers
but only as it pertained to Draco, allowing him to communicate wordlessly the answers to any
inquiries they posed. Draco had transfigured Ginny’s wand to look like his mother’s, but doubted
that would be enough.

“We’ll probably have to use a confundus charm at some point,” he had said. He paused for
several moments thereafter. “Fuck, I mean I don’t see any way we don’t need to use an imperio at
some point,” he sighed. “Goblins aren’t dumb. There’s a reason that no one has ever
successfully pulled this off before.”

“I agree,” Potter had responded solemnly.

“I’ll do it,” Draco smirked. “Save your fractured soul, Potter.”

And so, Draco figured, they were as ready as they would ever be. They stood at the apparition
point outside of Shell Cottage, Weaselbee holding onto Ginny because the weapons-grade git had
never learned how to apparate himself. How Granger ever fantasized about a future of spoon-
feeding this child parading about in a man suit continued to baffle Draco. But with a whoosh they
were gone, toppling onto the winding streets of Diagon Alley.

He watched the rest of his party’s faces fall as they took in the transformed Diagon Alley. Draco
forgot that they hadn’t seen it in nearly a year. Dark Arts shops now lined the streets, while most
of the familiar stores they had frequented as children had been boarded over. Undesirables posters
littered the storefronts and lampposts, most of them bearing either Draco’s or Potter’s pictures, but
occasionally you would catch one with a Weasley or other Order member on them.

“C’mon,” Draco whispered, pulling the Invisibility Cloak tighter over him and Potter as they began
winding through the Alley toward Gringotts. Draco’s blood pressure spiked when they reached the
entrance, realizing that the guards at the doors had Probity Probes, devices designed to detect
concealment charms. But Potter was a step ahead of him, quickly and wordlessly hitting them with
a confundus charm, allowing the group to pass through the doors unchecked.

Draco watched with a certain amount of pride as Ginny glided effortlessly through the main hall of
Gringotts, perfectly capturing the aristocratic sway of his mother’s stride. “Good morning,” she
said in a flawless polite-but-detached tone upon reaching the front desk, a goblin with a tag bearing
the name Bogrod greeting her. “Narcissa Malfoy,” Ginny said confidently, pointing her chin
upward. “Here to visit the LeStrange-Black vault, to which I was given access in the event of my
sister’s passing.” Ginny was able to pull off a subtle hint of emotion at the end of the sentence.

Bogrod eyed her warily, seeming particularly put off by the wizard behind her. “Tihomir
Tarnovsky,” Ginny said, anticipating the goblin’s next question. “Lucius’s and my son, Draco
Malfoy, was in the middle of a betrothal to Mr. Tarnovsky’s beautiful daughter, Tsveta.” She
sighed forlornly. “Which will obviously no longer happen.”

Bogrod let out a haughty chuckle.

“Mr. Tarnovsky and I are here to retrieve certain treasure that my family and I had offered as part
of the marriage settlement. We believe it should still go to the Tarnovskys, all things considered.”

Bogrod still seemed dubious, but proceeded. “Your PIN, Mrs. Malfoy?” he asked.

073179, Draco transmitted to Ginny. It was Theo’s birthday—July 31, 1979. Draco’s mother
thought that Draco’s birthday was too predictable, so she picked a pin matching that of her
surrogate son’s date of birth.

“Wand?” he queried further. Ginny hesitated before handing it over. Draco drew his wand under
the cloak, waiting for a tell that the goblin had discovered the wand was a fake.

It didn’t take long. He inspected it for no more than ten seconds before Draco saw an eyebrow
arch. “Imperio,” he hissed quietly, watching as Bogrod’s facial expression relaxed and he handed
the wand back to Ginny with a “very well.”

“Probably could’ve gotten away with a confundus for that,” Potter whispered.

“Yeah, not taking that chance, Potter,” Draco returned, keeping his wand trained on Bogrod as he
requested the Clankers and led the group into a dark passageway. Bogrod wordlessly summoned
one of the bank carts and the group piled in, Draco taking the opportunity to rip the Invisibility
Cloak from over him and Potter. He was tolerating the Chosen One better than he thought he
would, but ten minutes in such close quarters with him under the Cloak was enough.

Ginny’s eyes bulged as she watched Draco and Potter come into sight. “Calm down—I
imperius’ed him,” Draco responded simply. Ginny narrowed her eyes at Draco, which he
responded to with an eye roll. “Worry about my soul later, Gin.”

The cart picked up speed, tossing its occupants about as it whizzed around countless twists and
turns before it pitched over the edge of a steep cliff, racing at breakneck speed down the final
descent and plunging the group through a waterfall that Draco knew well—the Thief’s Downfall.

It washed away illusionment charms, so Draco was unsurprised when he watched the group
restored to their true appearances. He had warned them about this, ensuring that they pack extra
Polyjuice and image-altering potions for their return trip.

The cart came to a sudden halt, roughly chucking the group onto the stone floor before it zoomed
back up the rails and out of sight. The vault was in sight, the only thing remaining between the
group and their destination being the white Ukrainian Ironbelly that guarded the vault. Draco had
prepared them for this, but Ginny and Weaselbee still skidded backwards when the dragon’s eyes
fell on them and it greeted them with a ferocious roar. But Draco knew the dragon posed no real
danger, watching expectantly as a simple shake of the Clankers reduced the dragon to a cowering
puddle.

Bogrod opened the vault, and Draco stepped forward, whispering the counter curses to all of the
wards and traps that he knew laid just inside the doors. It took several minutes, during which time
he could spot Ginny fidgeting from foot to foot behind him. “Trust me, Ginny,” Draco soothed,
“it’ll take way longer if I don’t do this first.”

Concluding the last of the counter spells, Draco entered the vault, the rest of the group following
closely behind.

“Bloody hell,” Weaselbee whispered. “How are we supposed to find anything in here?” His eyes
were wide, travelling across the vast expanse of the vault.

“Yeah, well,” Draco said uncomfortably, realizing that any one of the items in the vault likely had
greater value than all of the Weasleys’ life savings combined. “Family tradition dictates that we
keep the most prized and important items in the shelves towards the rear of the vault. What does it
look like again?” he asked as the group shuffled toward the back of the vault, the shelves coming
into plain view.

“Like that,” Potter said simply, pointing toward a small gold cup with two handles and a badger
engraving.

“Godric, that was easy,” Ginny observed quietly.

No.

Oh, fuck.

A high-pitched whining filled the vault as the vault began to shake, items raining down on them
from the shelves above. Draco had forgotten about the protective charm that was triggered by the
use of terms or phrases that any lawful occupant of the LeStrange-Black vault would never use.
Words like Muggle-born, Tom Riddle, or…Godric.
Potter hit the cup with a levicorpus, screaming out when his hand wrapped around it. “Fuck—I
know it burns, Potter!” Draco yelled over the clattering objects and increasingly loud whining.
“But just hold onto it for a little while longer.” He grabbed Potter by the back of his jumper as
they raced toward the vault’s exit, the Imperius Curse on Bogrod now broken. Bogrod tried to stop
the group, but Draco quickly punted the diminutive creature out of the way, sending Bogrod sailing
into a pile of golden goblets as Draco shut and latched the door behind them.

“What’s going to happen to him in there?!” Ginny exclaimed.

“Don’t fucking know, don’t fucking care,” Draco responded hotly, pushing his hair back from his
eyes. He could hear the army of carts full of goblins careening down the rails. They came into
sight quickly—at least thirty of them by Draco’s count.

“What’s the fucking plan? What’s the fucking plan?” Weaselbee cried.

Draco closed his eyes for just a moment, picturing the cottage, the hill, the heather, and the sounds
of the waves to steady himself. Then he mimicked the posture and poses that Otto taught him,
casting the disorienting protego shield, his veins flooding with relief as he watched the
approaching goblins slow significantly, some of them dropping to their knees, their hands coming
over their ears.

“What is that?” Ginny gasped in awe.

“A spell Theo’s boyfriend created,” Draco responded, feeling sweat break out across his brow as he
tried to hold the spell in place.

“Will you teach it to me?” she quickly returned.

“Yeah, sure, Gin. You free for a lesson now?” he yelled in exasperation. “Merlin, blast these
fuckers and if we make it out of her alive, yes, I will teach you!” Instantly, Ginny, Potter, and
Weaselbee began launching stunning spells and other hexes at the goblins, knocking out a
considerable portion of them. But Draco could hear more descending on them from the opposite
direction.

“I can’t hold this much longer,” he gasped, his wand arm beginning to tremble. Salazar, how did
Otto make this look so easy? “We need to get out of here.”

Draco watched in horror as Potter turned to his left, hitting the dragon’s chains with a revulsion
jinx, releasing it. “Are you fucking mad, Potter?” Draco hissed, turning the protego shield toward
the new horde of oncoming goblins.

“No,” Potter said simply, pulling Draco and the other two with him toward the dragon. “Grab
ahold!” he screamed and Draco found himself fuck out of options other than grab onto one of the
spikes along the dragon’s spine and hold on for dear life.

The dragon let out a monumental roar, shaking rocks and dust loose from the ceiling of the
cavernous room, and then began to breathe fire at the goblins, who stopped dead in their tracks and
began to turn heel and flee. And then the dragon took flight.

“Merlin fuck!” Draco screamed as they hurtled forward, Ginny launching gouging spells ahead of
them, blasting through the stone passageways to make room for the dragon to fly. Draco, Potter,
and Weaselbee followed suit, as the dragon wound violently through the twisting corridors until it
broke through to the main hallway, a chorus of screams and thundering feet echoing through the
chamber.
The dragon’s jaws opened once more, a burst of flames and smoke filling the hallway before the
dragon launched itself upwards, crashing through the domed glass ceiling atop Gringotts and
bursting into the sky above Diagon Alley, the screams from observers below following them until
they were well clear of the city.

***

“This is bloody brilliant!” Weaselbee exclaimed delightedly as the dragon reached a smooth,
cruising altitude, its riders no longer having to hold onto its spikes to stay atop of it. Draco still did
—in fact, he found himself wound in a near fetal position around the spike that he clung to,
desperately trying to get his pulse to slow to a pace that didn’t leave him susceptible to heart
failure.

Ginny chuckled looking at him. “Doesn’t your name literally translate to dragon?” she teased,
sitting up and crossing her legs like she wasn’t sailing hundreds of feet in the air on the back of a
feral beast.

“My name translating to dragon doesn’t mean I can ride the bloody beasts!” he shot back, trying
desperately not to look down. “Gods, I think I pissed myself,” he groaned, as the rest of the group
threw their heads back in laughter. “How do we get off this fucking thing?”

Draco suppressed the urge to vomit when he saw Potter casually glance over the side of the
dragon. “Hmm, I think we’ll need to jump,” he said simply.

“Please tell me you’re fucking with me,” Draco responded.

“Not fucking with you,” Potter returned. “We’re actually only about twelve meters above land and
there’s a lake ahead.”

“Fucking hell,” Draco spat. “It’s a fucking miracle any of you are still alive.”

Ginny chuckled and took Draco’s hand in hers. “You jump, I jump, Draco,” she said, smiling
warmly at him.

“Gin, remind me to tell you about a stupid sodding movie that Granger made me watch about a big
boat and a small door, because I’ve got to be honest with you, that phrase doesn’t have the
comforting effect on me that I think you intended.”

***

“He knows,” Potter gasped as they dragged their soaked and freezing bodies to shore. “Tom
knows that we found another horcrux. He’s furious—absolutely mad with anger. He just killed an
entire room of people.”

Draco’s lake-chilled blood iced in his veins. “My—?” he couldn’t get the words out.

“No,” Potter shook his head. “She wasn’t there.”

Draco nodded, his knees buckling in relief as he sank to the ground. He felt Ginny’s hand squeeze
his shoulder.

“He knows we found the cup in the vault and stole it. But he also ran through the rest of the
horcruxes in his head,” Potter panted, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “I saw them all.” He
sighed, running his hand through his hair. “One is definitely Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. And
that one’s in Hogwarts.”
“That’s it?” Draco hissed. “It’s in Hogwarts? We have to somehow find it in an entire fucking
castle?”

“Nope,” Harry responded triumphantly. “His mind went to exactly where the diadem is. He hid it
behind a loose stone in the wall of the Slytherin common room.”

“Harry, that’s fantastic!” Ginny cooed, throwing herself into his arms and kissing him
passionately. Draco groaned and looked away, as did Weaselbee.

“And the other two?” Weaselbee inquired when the two had finally extricated themselves from
each other.

“The snake is one,” Harry responded.

“Nagini is a fucking horcrux?!” Draco exclaimed as Potter nodded. “Fuck,” he gasped, dropping
his head into his hands.

“And the last one?” Ginny asked.

“Uh, well,” Potter began, fidgeting uncomfortably. “It appears that I am the last horcrux.”

***

A cripplingly long and painful silence followed Potter’s revelation.

“Does that mean you have to—,” Ginny gasped.

“I don’t know,” Potter responded solemnly.

Another long silence, followed by the only thing Draco could think to say. “Well, let’s focus on
collecting the diadem, destroying the cup and the diadem, and killing Nagini because that’s a long
fucking list of chores right there. We can cross the human horcrux bridge when we get to it.”

Potter nodded appreciatively. “We need to get to Hogwarts though. He’s getting ready to send his
forces there now. He wants to get to the horcrux before we do.” Potter sighed. “The closest
apparition point is Hogsmeade.”

“We can’t apparate to Hogsmeade,” Draco murmured. The rest of the three looked at him
quizzically. “Death Eaters have charms up to alert them of your presence there. And there’s an
anti-apparition jinx in place, so once we’re there, we’re stuck.”

Potter chewed on this for several minutes before responding. “It doesn’t matter. We’re going to
have to chance it.”

“Merlin,” Draco muttered. “Do you hear yourself? What are you suggesting—that we just show
up to Hogsmeade, which is booby-trapped specifically for you and crawling with Death Eater and
Dementors, with the plan that we’re just going to what? Outrun them?”

“Basically,” Potter shrugged.

“No. Absolutely not,” Draco shot back.

“We don’t have a choice!” Potter lamented. “Tom is about to move. And the next closest
apparition point is tens of miles away. We don’t have that kind of time. If he gets that horcrux
first—if he attacks the school before we’re there—it’s all over.”
 Draco groaned and dropped his head into his hands. His mind raced through all he had heard
amongst other Death Eaters over the past year plus. There had to be something…

And then it hit him.

“There’s suspicion that Hogs Head Inn is a secret Order safehouse with a direct line to Hogwarts,”
he choked out. “It’s warded to all get out and the Death Eaters can’t make heads or tails of it.
They haven’t seen magic that strong since Dumbledore—,” he paused, looking at Potter who took
in an exaggerated inhale. “They haven’t seen magic that strong since Dumbledore died. They
can’t get anywhere near it to even try to break down the wards.”

“Okay then,” Potter breathed. “To Hogs Head we go.”

***

Several hours later and thousands of kilometers away, a Protean-charmed Galleon buzzed.
Hermione rushed to it, realizing as she picked up the Galleon that Draco had given her and saw it
wasn’t flashing red that it was the other Protean-charmed Galleon that was buzzing.

The one that had come in the letter to the White Rose Regulation via Dumbledore. The one that
was also undoubtedly buzzing for the Shield of Hibernia, Abraxan Society, Sword of Cittadini, and
Krali Marko Resistance.

She opened the drawer that it was kept in, her heart stopping as the gravity of the moment sunk in.

Hogs Head Inn, Hogsmeade, Scotland. ASAP.

“It’s happening,” she gasped as she felt Theo’s arms wrap around her.

Chapter End Notes

Relatively short update this time - sorry! But we're getting close and I promise the
ending will be worth it :)

Also working on another fic -- this one a Hermione x Theo pairing ten years post
Hogwarts, so if that's something that sounds like it's up your alley, please check it out!
Will probably post the first two chapters later this week.
 Cavalry

“Hermione!” Neville gasped, the color draining from his face as he staggered out of the portrait. “I
thought—I—how—we all thought—the Prophet—.” He tripped over his words with the same
speed that he tended to trip over his own feet. He stood there, breathless, for a few moments
before he wrapped her in a fierce embrace. “I mean, you’re alive!”

“Yes, Neville,” Hermione chuckled. “Well, it’s a bit of a long story,” she began as they pulled
apart. “But Theo and I have been travelling the continent rallying foreign allies of the Order to
fight with us.”

Neville’s jaw went slack as his gaze moved behind her. “Theodore…Nott?” His eyes then fell
over the rest of the crowd behind her—Tonks, Charlie, Annike, Ernst, Lina, and Otto. “Tonks!
Charlie!” he exclaimed. Hermione could see his face searching, frantically trying to place the
Regulation members. “I don’t understand.”

“Like I said, Neville,” Hermione stated, his eyes coming back to rest on hers. “It’s a long story.
These are some of the members of the White Rose Regulation—Germany’s version of the Order of
the Phoenix. They’re here to help. And more are coming. Not just from the Regulation either.
From other Order-adjacent organizations all over Europe. Help, Neville. We brought help. As
much as we could find.”

A tear escaped from Neville’s left eye and rolled down his battered cheek. It looked like he had
been beaten quite recently. He wrapped her in another tight hug. “You really are the Brightest
Witch of Our Age, Hermione.”

“I need to give a lot of credit to this wizard right here,” Hermione whispered, pulling Theo in next
to her. “None of this would’ve been possible without him. And he’s brilliant, Neville, just wait till
you see the kind of magic he can do.” Theo grinned sheepishly and then gasped as Neville pulled
him in for a hug as well.

“Uh, thanks, mate,” Theo said, hesitantly patting Neville’s back.

“Our second Slytherin!” Neville exclaimed excitedly. “That reminds me, Hermione, you’ll never
guess who arrived here with Harry, Ginny, and Ron.”

Hermione’s knees buckled, Theo bracing her with an arm across her back. She had prayed that the
Galleon going off meant that the group had made it to Hogwarts and that they were still together.
But to hear confirmation of it—that was a different flood of relief completely.

He’s here, she thought, looking down the dark passageway behind the portrait in Hogs Head.
Steps away from me.

“Go,” Theo whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “Otto and I will stay
here and greet the foreign witches and wizards as they arrive.” She looked back at him, tears
welling in her eyes.

I love you, she mouthed.

“I know,” he chuckled. “Now, go.”

And without even so much as a breath, Hermione felt her legs moving under her at an impossible
speed, Neville confusedly shouting behind her. Her hair whipped behind her, tears whisking
horizontally across her cheeks. She reached a closed door at the end of the hallway and shoved it
open without a moment’s hesitation, bursting into the Room of Requirement like a runaway
bludger.

A dozen or more heads whipped in her direction, a palpable sensation of shock radiating through
the air in the room as her former classmates struggled to make sense of her standing before them,
chest heaving and eyes wild—very much alive. And while she could feel the tension and
confusion swirling around her, she paid it little mind, her mind very much preoccupied with only
one thing: finding that shock of silver-blonde with the matching sterling eyes. But none of the
surprised faces gaping at her were the one she so desperately needed.

He should be easier to find than this. He should be—.

The earth stood still when her eyes finally fell upon him in a far corner of the room, examining a
piece of parchment that Harry had passed to him. As if sensing the shift in the room, he looked up
from the parchment, his eyes meeting hers for the first time in months.

A sob tore from her throat as she rushed forward, her eyes trained on him as he dashed toward her,
both of them zigzagging in between the crowd of Hogwarts students that stood between them.

She launched herself into his arms when she reached him, afraid the velocity might tumble them
backwards. But he caught her handedly, wrapping his arms around her back as she wrapped her
legs around him. She grabbed his face and brought it to hers, crashing her lips against his as their
tears pooled together on their cheeks.

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” she gasped in the brief moments when their lips broke apart.

“I love you so much, Hermione.” He crushed her closer to him, his heart pounding so loudly she
could feel it echoing in her chest.

She wasn’t sure how long they remained tangled in each other before they broke apart long enough
to notice the collective shock and awe on the faces of almost every single one of their former
classmates’ faces. The air in the room felt like a string pulled too tight, ready to snap.

“Get a room!” a familiar voice from across the room shouted. Hermione followed it, a fresh sob
escaping her lips as her eyes fell upon Ginny. Older, thinner, and more tired, but burning just as
bright.

A combination of a laugh and a cry tumbled from Hermione’s mouth as she briefly tucked her head
into Draco’s shoulder as she tried to gain some level of composure.

“Um,” Hermione began softly, addressing the room while still wrapped around Draco. “It’s lovely
to see you all again.” She got a few nervous chuckles in return, but by and large the room was still
regarding her like the Ghost of Christmas Past. “Well, to state the obvious, I’m not dead,” she
continued. Her eyes left the crowd of faces and settled squarely on Draco. “And to further state
the obvious, I am madly in love with Draco Malfoy.”

***

“Ginny!” Hermione squealed as she ran to her friend and embraced her for the first time in nine
months. “Gods, I have missed you.” They stayed hugging for several minutes, as if afraid that if
they broke apart, the other would disappear again.

But Ron then appeared behind Ginny and Hermione rushed into his arms next, marveling that how
even after months on the run, that familiar scent of cedar, cinnamon, and broom oil still welcomed
her. “’Mione,” he whispered, tucking his head against hers. “Merlin, it’s good to see you.”

“Easy, Weasel,” she heard Draco comment behind her as she rolled her eyes.

Her gaze fell on the dark-haired, bespectacled figure behind Ron, who nervously shifted from foot
to foot. Hermione’s arms fell from Ron as she and Harry stood facing each other for several long
moments, neither sure how to move. He wanted to say something—reach out and embrace her.
Even after all this time, she could still read her once-friend like a book.

There was an ocean of things between them that needed to be said. But they had neither the time
nor the energy to unpack that right now.

Sod it, Hermione thought as she wrapped her arms around him.

A rush of air escaped his lungs as he held her, quiet sobs causing a quaking in his core. “I’m sorry,
Hermione,” he gasped, “I’m so sorry.”

Hermione bit her lip to keep herself from apologizing back. She had a habit of doing that even
when she had nothing for which to be sorry—and this was distinctly one of those times. There
were aspects of the past two years that she could’ve handled better, but she remained steadfast in
her conviction that she had done nothing wrong. So instead she replied with the only honest
answer she had. “It’s going to be okay, Harry.”

They held onto each other for several minutes, their embrace breaking only when a familiar voice
with a heavy brogue broke through their reunion.

“Calvary’s here, kid.”

Hermione wheeled around, knowing exactly who stood behind her, but his presence before her at
Hogwarts as promised nonetheless causing goosebumps to rush down her body.

“Hugh,” she gasped.

She barely had time to get his name out before an exuberant Bridie Malone wrapped her in a hug
that was really more of a tackle, sending both witches tumbling to the ground. “Missed you too,
Bridie,” Hermione chuckled.

Hugh reached a hand down, pulling Hermione to her feet. “It’s good to see you, Hermione,” he
said softly as he wrapped an arm around her. “And it looks like you and Theo worked your magic
on everyone else in the same way you did for us.”

He swept Hermione around and her breath caught in her throat as she watched dozens of foreign
witches and wizards pour into the Room of Requirement, as the room physically expanded to
accommodate the increased headcount.

Mary, Michael, Jack, Tommy, Ewan, Niamh; Alexandre, Fosette, Germaine, Hildy; Annike, Ernst,
Lina, Otto, Mika, Adler; Lucia, Elio, Matteo, Mia; Piotr, Viktor, Elitsa—and countless other
foreign witches and wizards that Hermione only vaguely recognized, no doubt other members of
the respective organizations that she and Theo either only briefly met or didn’t get the opportunity
to meet.

When they arrived at Hogwarts, Hermione estimated there were about twenty students holed up on
the Room of Requirement. Over the past nine months, the efforts she and Theo had made across
Europe had at least quadrupled their numbers—not to mention that many of their foreign witches
and wizards had powers and practice far beyond her comprehension.
Tears ran down her face as Theo appeared before her, taking her into his arms. “We did it,
Granger,” he whispered.

***

Neville had summoned Order of the Phoenix members—also by Protean charmed Galleons—
resulting in more tearful reunions as Hermione emotionally explained the past year to Molly,
Arthur, Fred, George, Percy, Lupin, Kingsley, and Moody.

“He’s officially on his way,” Harry whispered to Hermione as he pulled her away from the other
Order members. “And Hermione, his ranks are enormous. More than I ever expected.”

“I know,” she replied. “Draco warned me about that.”

“We need to find a way into the Slytherin common room as soon as possible. And then to the
Chamber of Secrets—we need a way to start to destroy these.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But Harry, the pure magical talent in this room is incredible. And while some
of it can’t be taught in the timeframe we’re talking about,” she said, her eyes moving from Hugh, to
Michael, and then to Theo. “Some of it can. You taught us a lot in this room years ago, some of
which saved lives—I’m sure of it. So I want to take just a couple hours to do that here.”

He sighed uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Two hours,” he said. “No more.”

***

Alexandre went first, instructing the other witches and wizards on an ancient but simple French
spell that stripped your opponent’s wand of all magical powers—essentially just rendering their
wand into a glorified bit of driftwood. Problem, of course, being that it was impossible to practice
in this context. They were already short on wands, with some of the Hogwarts students having had
theirs confiscated prior to seeking refuge in the Room of Requirement, and poor Luna having
never retrieved hers after being imprisoned at Malfoy Manor. So practicing a spell that threatened
to disable additional wands was out of the question. But the spell was straightforward enough that
Hermione hoped that it could be replicated in real time without much practice.

Next came Piotr, who taught them a particularly nasty acid hex. Hermione grimaced as he
demonstrated the hex against a piece of tapestry, watching as chemical burns crawled across the
length of the drapery. It was vicious, and she could see the looks of apprehension and disgust on
the faces of some Order and Regulation members. But if it saved lives, Hermione wanted them to
know how to use it.

Otto was last, displaying a variety of his defensive spells, including the disorienting protego spell.
These were easier to practice than the other two, but as those just learning Otto’s defensive spells
came to understand, they were hard to execute successfully. But ever the teacher, Otto came to life
as he demonstrated the different postures and angles necessary to auspiciously cast the disorienting
protego spell.

“Godric, he’s fine,” Hermione heard Lavender comment to Parvati as Otto demonstrated the effect
of his protego spell. Hermione’s eyes drifted to Theo and Draco next to her and the three shared a
knowing look and chuckle.

“Eat your fucking heart out,” Theo said under his breath.

And then, of course, Otto and Theo demonstrated the final spell—their spell. Mouths went wide as
a line of different witches and wizards tried and failed to break through the spell with offensive
magic.

“Now, this spell can be cast by a solo witch or wizard,” Otto explained as they concluded their
demonstration. “But it’s much stronger if it’s cast by a pair that—,” he paused, his eyes drifting to
Theo as he clearly tried choose his next words carefully. “That share some sort of bond.”

“Oi, like mates?” Seamus queried.

“Yes, sure, like mates,” Otto quickly replied. “But Theo has actually done extensive and brilliant
research on the subject—.” Hermione grinned as she watched color bloom at the base of Theo’s
neck as he bit back a smile. “And he’s found that—.” Again, Otto paused, very consciously trying
not to out his boyfriend to the entire room. “Well, his research shows that the spell is strongest
when cast by romantic partners.”

“You’re telling me there’s a spell that would be stronger than what you two just did?” Seamus
followed up.

“Um,” Otto began, the typically articulate wizard at a loss for words while he desperately looked to
Theo for help.

“Fuck,” Draco hissed quietly, his hand squeezing Hermione’s anxiously as she felt her pulse race.
Her stomach twisted into an impossible knot as she watched Theo, his expression unreadable.

Theo had made great strides in the past several months in terms of accepting his sexuality. Where
legal and safe, he seemed to have no issue being open in public with Otto when they had been
travelling together, but this—coming out to a room full of former classmates, most of whom were
predisposed to dislike him based on his status as a Nott and a Slytherin—was a different story
entirely.

Theo closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “No, this is the strongest that the spell
gets,” he said without an ounce of hesitation in his voice. And in an act of Gryffindor-style
bravery, Theo reached up and pulled Otto’s face to his, kissing him so passionately that Hermione
felt herself spike a fever.

Hermione glanced behind her, catching Lavender and Parvati slack-jawed. “Sorry, Lav,”
Hermione said flippantly, an artificial smile crossing her face. “Better luck next time.”

Next to her, Draco stifled a bout of laughter. He leaned down, pressing his lips below her ear.
“You vicious little Slytherin,” he whispered. “Gods, I love you.”

***

Hermione, Harry, Draco, Ginny, Ron, and Neville regrouped at the end of the two-hour training
that Harry had permitted. Before he was able to launch into his plan, Hermione interjected.

“There’s one more thing, Harry,” she said quickly.

“Merlin,” he groaned. “We’re out of time, Hermione. Less than an hour, probably. They’re on
the other edge of the Forbidden Forest. They’ll be here in no time.”

“I know, I know,” she rushed. “But this is important. We need a buddy system.”

“What?” Harry and Draco hissed in unison.

She sighed loudly. “Look, as talented as the German witches and wizards are, they specialize only
in defensive magic. I’m not sending them out there without a second to cover them.” Her eyes
roamed to Otto, who was tucked into a corner of the room, his arm snaked around Theo’s waist as
he playfully peppered kisses to Theo’s cheek as Theo collapsed into laughter.

Her eyes came back to the group. “And Luna, Dean, Ernie, and Terry all don’t have wands. If
they’re going to insist on staying, there needs to be someone watching out for them.”

“She’s right,” Neville said.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry acquiesced. “Go make the announcement, Neville.”

“You’re with me, Granger,” Draco growled, pulling her into him and trailing a line of kisses down
the side of her neck. “Fucking kill anyone who comes near you.” Hermione chuckled, running her
fingers through his hair as he dropped his head to her shoulder.

“No,” Ginny responded simply. “You have to be with Harry.”

“Fuck off, Gin,” Draco volleyed playfully.

“No, I’m quite serious, Draco,” she said. “You’re Undesirable Number One because Voldemort
thinks you are the master of the Elder Wand. He needs to get to you first before he would make an
attempt at Harry.” She sighed. “You and Harry need to stick together because you’re the two
people that he needs—or thinks he needs—to win this.”

“Fuck me,” Draco groaned as Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

“Two sides of the same coin, indeed,” Harry said, Hermione not quite understanding the statement,
but a comforting look of acknowledgment came over Draco’s expression.

“Fucking fine. So then who’s your buddy, Granger?” Draco asked.

“Theo,” Hermione supplied instantly, flinching when she saw the momentary look of hurt that
came over Ginny. “Shite, Gin, I’m sorry. I just…I got so used to him being my wingman over the
past year.”

“It’s fine,” Ginny responded, evening her expression. “I’ll just be with Ron.”

“Oi, don’t I feel special,” Ron returned, but otherwise didn’t protest Ginny’s proposal.

“But you better tell Theo that I’ll duel him to the death if he tries to oust me as your future maid of
honor,” Ginny winked.

“You got it, Gin,” Hermione laughed, keeping to herself that if she were to marry Draco today, it
would unquestionably be Theo who she would pick to stand immediately beside her. She loved
Ginny fiercely, but the bond she and Theo had developed over the past nine months—Merlin, she
needed him to breathe.

“Theo loves you like crazy, Hermione,” Draco began, “but he’s going to want to protect Otto like I
want to protect you. I don’t know if you’re going to get him to agree to be your second.”

“If that’s the case, then it’ll be the three of us. I will not leave Theo now, Draco. I can’t. I cannot
do this without him,” she whispered, out of earshot of Ginny.

“Merlin, I love you,” he whispered back, pressing his lips to hers.

“I love you too. So much.” She exhaled deeply and continued, her normal pitch returning. “Plus,
I fully plan on protecting Otto better than Theo could protect him,” Hermione replied, smirking.
“And better than you could protect me.” Draco frowned, looking at her quizzically.

“Hugh!” Hermione shouted across the room in what she recognized was a blatant act of
favoritism. “I need to talk to you for a second.”

***

Much to Hermione’s surprise and relief, Hugh readily agreed to be Otto’s second despite the fact
that Otto was neither a family member nor a Shield member—and even though Otto’s offensive
magic was substandard, to put it kindly.

“There’s one more thing, Harry,” Hermione quickly supplied.

“Merlin, what?” Harry hissed. “Hermione, we are out of time!”

“I know, I know,” she replied. “But listen to me. We are in a room full of witches and wizards
with experiences and magic vastly different than our own. Before you go opening up the Chamber
of secrets, why don’t we see if any of them know of other ways to destroy a horcrux?”

Harry paused for a moment. “That’s actually not a totally terrible idea,” he said contemplatively.
Ginny rolled her eyes and swatted him.

Hermione looked to Theo who made a loud, whistling noise, capturing the room’s attention.

“Um, hi,” Hermione said awkwardly, unfamiliar and uncomfortable with addressing a room of this
size. “I think—I think we are going to have to move soon. But before we do—we have one of the
horcruxes with us in this room. But we lost the sword we had been using to destroy them. The
sword was coated in basilisk venom, which we know can destroy horcruxes. If we need to, we
think we can retrieve more venom from a chamber below the school.”

She watched as most of the Hogwarts students and Order members flinched. “But if anyone knows
an alternative that would allow us to destroy it faster, we’d be open to hearing it.”

Silence.

Fuck. Well, it was worth a shot.

“Fiendfyre,” a hesitant voice said softly. Ernst stepped forward. “Fiendfyre can destroy
horcruxes.” He sighed heavily. “But it’s near impossible to control once you start it. If the witch
or wizard doesn’t know what they’re doing, they could easily kill everyone in this room. I’ve
never even attempted it.” He turned to face the room. “Anyone?”

More silence.

“Me.”

The eyes in the room all drifted to the source of the affirmation, leaning smoothly against one of
the armoires in the room, a smug smirk on his face.

Of fucking course.

Hugh.
***

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Ernst asked skeptically, as Hugh drew his wand.
The rest of the room’s occupants were pressed against the back wall—trepidation apparent on
every single face.

“Yes, old man,” Hugh replied derisively, as a bark of laughter escaped Annike’s lips. “Stop
hounding me and stand back.” Humbled if not offended, Ernst took a large step backwards,
wrapping his hand around Annike’s.

Hermione watched as Hugh took a deep breath and then made a twirling motion with his wand, a
burst of effervescent purple flames exploding out of it and quickly growing in size, burrowing
toward the ceiling of the room like a reverse funnel cloud. It continued to grow, the heat
emanating from it already reaching the back of the room.

Hugh dropped his wand—nearly causing Hermione to vomit on the spot—until she realized it was
intentional. She watched him use his hands, slowly and deliberately—and seemingly with great
effort—to temper the flames, shrinking the twisting funnel cloud with the same motions you would
expect from someone trying to push an oversized item back into a box.

In a single whoosh, the flames disappeared completely. And so had the cup. The silence in the
room felt like a string pulled too tight, the air in everyone’s lungs stilled.

And then an impossible, bone-splitting roar echoed across the castle.

“He’s here,” Harry whispered.

 Wards

The group spilled out of the Room of Requirement. Between Hogwarts students, the Order of the
Phoenix members, and the foreign witches and wizards, there had to be near eighty or ninety of
them, although based on what Harry told Hermione of his visions of Voldemort’s army, they were
still vastly outnumbered. Not to mention Voldemort’s army horrifyingly included magical
creatures such as mountain trolls, giants, werewolves, dementors, and acromantulas. But still,
Hermione willed herself to believe, they had a chance.

No sooner had their brigade began moving through Hogwarts’ hallowed halls than they ran into
Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Slughorn—no doubt preparing the students of their
respective Houses to depart the school. And some of them, for battle. The four professors near
collapsed upon sight of the group, each of them turning seven shades of pale when their eyes
landed on Hermione and Theo.

“Miss—Miss—Grang—,” Professor McGonagall stuttered before her body took a hard lean to the
right, Professor Slughorn catching her slack weight before she crushed poor Professor Flitwick
below her, who quickly hit her with a charm to render her alert. But all four professors still
regarded Hermione, Theo, and the rest of the group with slack jaws and wide eyes.

“We haven’t time to explain properly, Professor,” Hermione said quickly. “Voldemort—.”

“Yes, Miss Granger, we are aware,” Professor McGonagall replied. “We’re gathering students in
the Great Hall—those under seventeen will be evacuated, and those over seventeen can choose to
stay and fight or be evacuated alongside the underage students. The other professors are setting up
defensive charms and spells around the school, but I’m afraid they won’t hold for long.”

As if once again realizing the peculiarity of the situation, her eyes fell on the battalion of witches
and wizards standing behind Hermione and Theo. “What?” she began.

Theo interjected quickly before Professor McGonagall could continue. “Per Dumbledore,
Hermione and I have spent the past nine months travelling throughout Europe, rallying allies of the
Order. We have the Shield of Hibernia from Ireland, Abraxan Society from France, White Rose
Regulation from Germany, Sword of Cittadini from Italy, and Krali Marko Resistance from
Bulgaria. All here and ready to fight with us.”

“Mr. Nott?” Professor McGonagall gasped.

“I know,” he said, smirking. “You missed me, Minnie. You don’t have to say it.” Despite the
gravity of their current situation, a small smile crossed McGonagall’s face.

“Well,” she clipped. “I guess it’s time to get you lot down to the Great Hall. The students and staff
will be delighted and relieved to see you.”

***

As Professor McGonagall predicted, the crowd of students, professors, and staff gathered in the
Great Hall whooped and cheered upon the sight of Harry Potter and the infantry of witches and
wizards that accompanied him. That is, except for those in Slytherin, who seemed to regard the
arrival of Harry, Hermione, Draco, and the other witches and wizards as a mixed blessing.

At an earlier time in her life, Hermione would’ve stood in stark judgment of her former classmates
who balked at the choice between the dark and the light. But Hermione had long ago stopped
seeing the world in such contrast, instead looking upon her Slytherin classmates with sympathy,
recognizing that for many of them, there was no good outcome of this War. Many did not
subscribe to Death Eater ideology, but had parents that were Death Eaters or Death Eater-adjacent.
It was truly a lose-lose.

But no sooner had the group entered the Great Hall than a magically amplified voice tore through
the celebration, rendering Hermione’s blood cold.

“I do not wish to kill anyone tonight. No one need die. Bring me the Blood Traitor, Draco Malfoy,
and Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and you shall all be spared, welcomed into my movement,
after which there shall be no more wars or bloodshed. But first, I must have Draco Malfoy and
Harry Potter.”

The room was deadly still, a hundred haunted faces coming to rest on Harry and Draco who stood
shoulder-to-shoulder in the center of the room.

Hermione looked up at Draco, a steely veneer masking what she recognized to be absolute terror.
She could see the tension in his jaw, the subtle tremors in his hands. She wrapped hers in his,
calming his quaking. “Draco,” she breathed, bringing her other hand to the side of his face and
angling it down toward hers. “I’m right here.” His eyes watered a bit. I’m scared, he mouthed,
unable to put sound behind his voice. “I know,” she whispered back. “Me too. But we’re almost
there, Draco. We’re so close.” She sighed. “I love you.” He leaned down and captured her
mouth with his.

***

“Well, what are we waiting for?” an unfamiliar voice screeched. “Grab them!”

All the heads in the Great Hall turned from Harry and Draco to the source of the voice, a petite
brunette Slytherin, who Hermione recognized to be a Fifth Year named Callie Briggs.

“They’re Blood Traitors!” she screamed. “You heard him! He’ll spare us if we just turn them
over! Why are we even thinking about this?!”

But if any of Draco’s Slytherin comrades were tempted to move, the sudden pitch and twisting of
Callie’s body as she screamed and collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain, stilled their motion.
Draco stared at her, wide-eyed and shaking. Someone was crucio’ing her.

“No one moves,” rang an unyielding voice, followed by the click-clacking of heels.

Pansy.

She came into view, ending the crucio, but taking care to drive the back of her heel into Callie’s
hand as she floated over her to stand in front of Draco and Harry.

“Next person forward is the next person down,” she clipped with a resolve that chilled Hermione’s
bones. “You can leave if you want, but anyone who thinks that they’ll spare themselves by turning
Draco Malfoy over to the Dark Lord is sadly fucking mistaken. Because I will kill you in ways
that would make the Dark Lord blush before you get within a whisper of him. Got it?”

The venom in Pansy’s words paralyzed the entire Great Hall, everyone seemingly afraid to even so
much as breathe. Hermione wasn’t sure how much time passed—a few minutes perhaps—before
McGonagall finally stepped forward and helped a weeping Callie Briggs to her feet and began the
process of shepherding underage students, as well as those of age students unwilling to fight, back
toward the Room of Requirement and out of Hogwarts.

Much to Hermione’s chagrin—but not to her surprise—most of Slytherin fled. But Pansy didn’t.
And neither did Blaise, Daphne, Crabbe, or Goyle.

“We’re with you, Draco,” Pansy said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “But Draco,” she
warned, some of that trademark harshness returning. “You better know what the fuck you’re
doing.”

***

The initial plan had been for Harry, Draco, Otto, and Hugh to head to the Slytherin common room
together, Hugh of course needed to administer the controlled fiendfyre to destroy the horcrux. But
as the group was set to depart, Molly Weasley’s voice rang out, the terror in it turning Hermione’s
body to stone.

“The wards are breaking!”

Every with and wizard remaining in the Great Hall rushed toward the courtyard, watching in horror
as spells and curses started making it through the defenses that Professor McGonagall and the other
professors had so painstakingly put in place. And in the distance, you could see the first wave of
Death Eaters, Snatchers, and other allies advancing toward the castle.

Voldemort, it seemed, had run out of patience already.

Hermione turned to Draco, panicked. “If the wards have broken, you can’t take Hugh and Otto
with you,” she said hurriedly. “We need Otto for the defensive spell and we need Hugh for…well,
Hugh.”

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, looking to Harry.

“Well,” Harry sighed. “To the Chamber we go.”

Draco’s eyes fell back on Hermione, a longing sadness in them before he quickly pulled her into
him, nearly crushing her with the ferocity of his embrace. He roughly pulled her head up to his,
their lips crashing together. She could feel tears on her cheeks, unsure if they were hers or his.
“Please be careful,” he gasped. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she returned, pressing her lips back against his.

“I’ll see you soon.” He peppered frantic kisses to her cheeks and forehead as he let her go and
stepped back.

“Not if I see you first,” she mused, shooting him a final, brave smile before he departed for the
Slytherin common room with Harry.

Hermione took a moment to compose herself, before shifting her focus to the sheer panic
unraveling around her. Some students, professors, Order and Order ally members had been
dispatched to strategic parts of the castle and grounds, ready to launch spells, hexes, and curses at
Voldemort’s forces as they attacked from different parts of the grounds. But the greatest threat
came at them head-on toward the courtyard.

“Theo,” she whispered, her eyes glued to the advancing army of Death Eaters.

“Yeah,” he responded. “Go time, Granger.” His head rolled toward hers, winking and smirking as
he took his hand in hers.

***

Hermione, Theo, Otto, Annike, Ernst, Tonks, and Charlie gathered in the courtyard, backs against
each other, assuming the posture and angles of Theo and Otto’s defensive spell. A magnificent,
glowing dome arched out over them, covering the entirety of the courtyard and a significant portion
of the Great Hall. The hexes and curses making it through the crumbling wards bounced off the
defensive shield, forged in friendship and love between the seven witches and wizards.

The sight of it took Hermione’s breath away. For all of Dumbledore’s faults, he had been correct in
this: if Voldemort lost, it would be because he never understood that power didn’t fuel magic.
Love did.

Theo had always possessed raw magical talent. But it wasn’t until he found love and acceptance in
Hermione, Annike, Ernst, and Otto that he truly became a force to be reckoned with. And Hugh, as
hard and gruff as he was on the exterior, harbored greater love and emotional depth than perhaps
anyone else that Hermione had met. And Otto, easily one of the most skilled and powerful wizards
that Hermione had known, loved without abandon.

It was love—not power—protecting them and the fifty-odd witches and wizards still gathered in
the courtyard and Great Hall, as the defensive spell continued to ward off all the hexes, and curses
the Death Eaters and their allies futilely launched toward the castle. At the edge of the courtyard,
but behind the spell’s protection stood Hugh, Alexandre, Piotr, Professor McGonagall, Professor
Slughorn, Kingsley, and Aberforth, safely casting additional protective spells beyond the reaches
of the defensive spell currently being cast, in an effort to stave off the advancing horde of Death
Eaters.

Hermione wasn’t sure how long the group was able to hold the protective spell before the sheer
volume and velocity of the Death Eater curses being lobbed at them began to tear away at it.
Maybe ten or fifteen minutes. But soon enough, Otto turned to her, his wand arm trembling as
sweat rolled down his face. “We need to fall back, Hermione. It’s too much.” Hermione
reluctantly nodded, recalling those at the front of the courtyard as the protective spell gave way.

And then she watched in horror as Theo rushed forward instead of falling back, her grasping at air
as he slipped past her. “Theo!” she and Otto screamed, sprinting after him and dodging a volley of
Death Eater curses as they thundered across the courtyard.

“Hugh!” Theo yelled, as he met him near the front of the courtyard. Hermione’s heart raced as she
realized how close the army of Death Eaters and other allies had gotten—no more than several
hundred feet away now. She grabbed Otto’s hand as they casted a small, semi-effective protective
spell just large enough to cover them, Theo, Hugh, and Professor McGonagall who had also chased
her foolhardy student across the courtyard.

“Children!” Professor McGonagall addressed them tersely. Under different circumstances,

Hermione might have chuckled at this characterization, as exactly none of them were minors—
Merlin, Hugh was at least thirty.

But Hermione finally understood what Theo was preparing to do and steeled herself for what was
to come next.

Theo nodded once at Hugh, and Hugh reciprocated. In unison, the two thrust their wands skyward,
a bellowing EXPECTO PATRONUM escaping their mouths as that now-familiar deafening crack
echoed across the night sky, which turned a blinding silver and white as a veritable army of
dragons and thestrals exploded from their wands. The dragons and thestrals lingered in the sky for
a moment before they began diving into the crowd of Death Eaters, fevered screams ensuing as the
Patronuses began attacking them.

Despite having seen such magic now a handful of times, the magnificence of it still tore the air
from her lungs. Next to her, Professor McGonagall, seeing such magic for the first time, nearly
fainted for the second time that evening, with Theo quickly wrapping an arm around her to keep her
upright. “Try to keep up, Minnie, dear,” he jested as they retreated back down the courtyard, the
remaining parts of Voldemort’s army breaking through the last of the wards.

The dementors moved in first, Theo and Hugh allowing some of the other witches and wizards in
the courtyard to take care of them with their standard expecto patronum spells. Aberforth casted a
particularly effective one, vanquishing at least a thirty or more dementors at once. It would’ve
been rich magic had Theo and Hugh not already blown the roof off of everyone’s magical
expectations.

But no sooner had the dementors been vanquished did a series of shrill cries erupt from the sky, as
several two-legged winged creatures descended on the castle. “What the fuck?!” Theo hissed, eyes
skyward. If Theo had ever paid a lick of attention in Care of Magical Creatures, he would’ve been
able to correctly identify these horrifying beasts as wyverns, smaller, less powerful cousins of
dragons.

Although smaller and less powerful, they were still an unwelcome sight as bursts of green fire
poured from their jaws, blasting away bits of the courtyard creating a rainstorm of stone and brick.
Hermione and the rest of those still remaining in the courtyard retreated to the Great Hall, but
Charlie stepped forward, summoning Bill to his side, and the two began casting a series of spells
that seemed to confuse and disorient the wyverns, although this mostly served to make their sprays
of green fire more erratic, one such plume bursting through a window in the great hall and singeing
poor Padma, whose sister quickly escorted to the infirmary.

“For fuck’s sake,” Pansy hissed, storming past Hermione and into the courtyard, quickly and deftly
hitting each of the three wyverns with the Killing Curse, pulling Charlie and Bill out of the way as
the creatures’ bodies fell from the sky.

“Wyverns are critically endangered!” Hermione heard Charlie gasp.

“You’ll be critically endangered if you don’t shut the fuck up, Weasley!” Pansy volleyed back,
further dragging Charlie and Bill back toward the Great Hall as the first wave of Death Eaters,
Snatchers, and other creatures aligned with Voldemort crossed into the courtyard.

Those in the Great Hall began to split up, with some witches and wizards marching forward to
confront the advancing troops in the courtyard, while others fell back, waiting to attack those Death
Eaters who made it past the courtyard.

“What do we do?” Hermione whispered, watching bursts of light from the towers as Order
members and allies stationed there shot spells at the invading troops with varying success. Theo’s
hand wrapped in hers again, a jolt of comfort to her system.

“Fall back,” Hugh said, as Ron and Ginny joined them. Screams, blasts, and flashes of light now
emanated from the courtyard, growing closer. “Better cover, less vulnerabilities.” Next to them, a
window exploded as a Snatcher leapt through it, Hugh felling him with a simple flick of his wand
and a sideways glance. “And we’re a strong group. We should take on whoever is making it
through.”
The group reached a wordless agreement, cautiously walking backwards through the Great Hall
and covering each other as Death Eaters, Snatchers, and other creatures broke through the
courtyard defenses and poured into the castle.
 Mates

As he crossed into the Slytherin common room, Draco encountered what he could only describe as
an out of body experience. The last time he had set foot in the room was on his seventeenth
birthday, after visiting his mother at the Manor but before joining Hermione in the Room of
Requirement for what he would argue was their last night of relative innocence. It was less than a
year ago, but also a lifetime. Because in the intervening months, Draco had killed two people,
travelled to twenty countries, made deals with dozens of devils, clawed his way through the Death
Eater ranks, chased Hermione all over Europe, gave her his grandmother’s ring, watched Theo
finally find happiness, ripped a gaggle of Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw from the Dark Lord’s
clutches, and became Undesirable Number One.

This place that was once home was now foreign to him, as was the ghost of a boy who slipped
through here for the last time ten months earlier, fully believing himself to be the villain of his own
story. But that boy had been wrong. Draco was not the villain. And while he certainly wasn’t the
hero either—he was happy to leave that to Potter—he found comfort in knowing that if he died in
this fool’s errand, perhaps he wouldn’t be remembered as the boy who made all the wrong
choices. Maybe, he hoped, he would be remembered as the boy who loved the goldest girl who
ever existed, and saw it through to the end.

He shook himself from his reverie, reminding himself he was in the middle of a battle in the middle
of a war with a real motherfucker of a target on his back. Potter was clumsily dawdling about the
room, muttering to himself about where exactly the loose stone had been located.

Merlin.

“Alright, Potter, let’s put a little giddy-up in this process, shall we?” Draco mused, blasting the
wall closest to Potter with a revulsion jinx, watching with smug amusement as any loose stones fell
from the wall to the floor. “I’m in a bit of a rush, you see.”

“I would’ve thought of that, you know,” Potter muttered as he began to reach into the cavities
where the stones had been shaken loose.

“Whatever you’ve got to tell yourself, Chosen One,” Draco returned, smirking as Potter rolled his
eyes at him. Draco bent down to a long-ago familiar space where he had kept the book on dark
spells and potions when he was still planning on killing Dumbledore. Still there, dog-eared and his
notes in the margins.

“Oi, what’s that?” Potter asked, shining a lumos into one of the hole where another one of the
stones had fallen from. He sighed dejectedly—clearly no diadem.

Draco tossed it to him, his fellow Seeker catching it without issue. Potter slowly peeled through
some of the dog-eared pages, his eyes slowly rolling up to meet Draco’s.

“You weren’t completely wrong, Potter. I was a Death Eater. And I was shagging Granger.”
Potter’s face scrunched. “And I was planning to kill Dumbledore.” He sighed. “I just didn’t have
the courage to go through with it.”

“No, Malfoy,” Potter replied. “You had the courage not to go through with it. You’re a decent
bloke, Malfoy. And if we survive this, I think you may be wrong about us not being mates.”

“Ugh, gross, Potter,” Draco volleyed back, an involuntary smirk tugging at his lips. “Stop trying to
seduce me and let’s find that sodding crown of yours.” Potter chuckled as the two set about
searching through the innumerable holes in the wall where the revulsion jinx has shaken out loose
stones.

Nearly twenty minutes later as they were reaching the last of the cavities and Draco was losing the
last of his hope, Potter gasped. He stretched his arm further into the wall, but then sighed in
frustration. Draco’s stomach sank.

“I can’t reach it,” Potter said simply, a rush of hope flooding Draco’s veins.

“Move, you fucking dwarf!” Draco exclaimed, pushing Potter backwards as he dug into the wall,
his fingers wrapping around something delicate and metallic. He wrenched his arm from the wall,
a small and elegant tiara clutched in his trembling hand.

“I hope you’ve been brushing up on your Parseltongue, Potter.”

***

Draco felt stomach twist inside out when they emerged from the Slytherin common room to a
cacophony of screams, yells, crashes, booms, and flashes of light.

Fuck, the defenses didn’t hold.

Oh gods.

Hermione.

Theo.

Otto.

He took a step toward the noise, desperate to confirm what he needed to be true. That they were
okay. And to fucking raze an entire army of Death Eaters to protect them if he had to.

But he paused, his gaze falling back on Potter, who regarded him with a compassionate
expression. “You don’t owe me anything, Malfoy. If you want to go to them, I won’t stop you.
But I could sure use your help.”

Draco stared at Potter for several breaths, the conflict clawing at his brain. He sighed, realizing
that for perhaps the first time in his life, his Slytherin loyalty was going to fail him. He took one
last long look in the direction of the fray before turning back to Potter. “Let’s get a move on then,
Potter.”

***

“Bit of a mess out there, no?” a shrill and giggly voice met them as they tumbled into the
bathroom.

“Shut the fuck up, Myrtle!” Draco and Potter shot back in unison.

“Ooooh, not very friendly today, are we?” she giggled again. “Anything I can help with?” she
asked, drawing a ghostly finger across Draco’s jaw, causing him to shiver.

“You could try fucking off for once,” Draco responded hotly.

But just as Myrtle was about to open her mouth to spew out another annoying remark, Potter began
speaking Parseltongue, causing Myrtle to shriek and wail and flee through one of the toilets.

“Ah, works every time,” Draco commented appreciatively.

Ahead of them, the sinks came apart, revealing a massive hole in the middle of the bathroom.
Draco reticently peered over the edge, having to swallow against bile rising in his throat when he
saw the depth of it. “Oh, fuck this, Potter,” Draco retched. “You go, and I’ll stand guard out
here.”

“Afraid of heights are we, Malfoy?” Potter teased. “I thought you fancied yourself a proper
Seeker. Although, your fear of heights would explain why you were never able to beat me in a
match.”

“Go fuck yourself, Potter,” Draco shot back. “You know I crushed you in that last match we had
together.”

“Oh you mean when I was in the throes of my mania? What an impressive victory for you.”

“Hey, a win is a win, Potter.”

Potter rolled his eyes, and in one sudden movement, grabbed Draco’s arm and pitched them down
the hole, laughing the entire way while Draco screamed bloody murder behind him.

After what felt like an eternity, they landed in a pile of assorted rodent bones, Draco once again
having to suppress the urge to vomit. “This is fucking foul,” Draco commented as the bones
cracked and crunched beneath his shoes.

“Hey, it’s your House founder’s abode, not mine,” Potter returned, ushering Draco further into the
Chamber, completely unfazed by the grime and pestilence surrounding them. “If you take issue
with the way he’s decorated, take it up with him, not me.”

Before long, they reached what appeared to be the central part of the Chamber, and were greeted,
perhaps unsurprisingly, by the massive skeleton of what had once been a basilisk. The sight of it
stilled Draco, but Potter approached it slowly, kneeling before it to pull one of the fangs from its
jaw. He strode back over to Draco as the two kneeled in unison, Potter regarding him with a single
shrug before he drew the fang back and plunged it into the cup.

Another monumental, spine-shattering roar reverberated through the air as a wave of water from
the front of the Chamber surged toward them. They both quickly rose to their feet and thundered
back in the direction from which they came, the roar of the water rushing behind them deafening.

But just as soon as it started had started, it stopped, a small, gentle wave of water briefly rushing
over them before everything came to a lull. The two wizards looked at each other and laughed
triumphantly.

One step closer.

“Not gonna lie, Potter, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t let me do the honors,” Draco jested.
“Destroying a horcrux? Not a bad resume builder.”

“You will get to destroy a horcrux, Malfoy,” Potter said, gingerly handing him the basilisk fang.
Draco didn’t take the fang, he simply looked at Potter, nonplussed. “Only seems fitting that it be
you, Malfoy. Seeing as I tried to kill you. Twice.”

No.
Absolutely the fuck not.

“Potter,” Draco choked out. “Are you mad? Absolutely not. I get that I’ve killed people before,
Potter, and Merlin knows you drive me insane, but I will not fucking kill you.”

“I’m hoping,” Potter began, thrusting the basilisk fang into Draco’s hand. “That it only kills the
horcrux inside of me—not me completely.”

“You’re hoping?”

“One of the books you supplied to Hermione, which Ginny then brought with us theorized that
horcruxes could be separated from a human host without killing the host,” Potter explained.

“Theorized?”

“You’re full of questions I’ve already provided answers to, Malfoy,” Potter chuckled. “Yes. As
far as the author was aware, a human had never been turned into a horcrux. But that was his
theory.”

“And if he was wrong? And this kills you?” Draco asked, his extremities going numb and cold.

“Well,” Potter sighed. “Then you’ve disarmed me and you become the master of the Elder Wand.
And it’ll be you, Undesirable Number One, who gets to kill Voldemort.”

“Hell of a gift, Potter, you really shouldn’t have,” Draco deadpanned. He closed his eyes and
shook his head. “My answer is still no. I’m not above killing someone threatening the people I
care about, but that’s not you. I can’t do this.”

“I am threatening the people you care about, Malfoy,” he responded simply. “As long as his
horcruxes survive, Voldemort cannot be defeated. And that puts everyone you love in danger.”
Potter and Draco stared at each other for several breaths, Draco cursing the fact that Potter was
right. “Please, Malfoy,” Potter said, his voice thin. “You’re the only person who would do this for
me.”

Draco sighed heavily and steeled himself, giving Potter a small nod in agreement. They kneeled
on the stone floor, holding each other’s gazes for a minute or two before Draco put his hand out
and Potter grabbed on. “Ready?” Draco asked, his voice shaking.

“Ready,” Potter replied, his voice remarkably calm.

Draco took a deep breath, drawing the basilisk fang above his head before driving it into Potter’s
thigh. Whatever sound Potter made was eclipsed by the now familiar guttural howl of the Dark
Lord, realizing that another one of his horcruxes had been destroyed.

Draco watched in horror as Potter’s eyes rolled back in his head, his entire body convulsing.
“Potter!” he screamed, bracing Potter’s body against his own. The convulsions lasted for only
several seconds, and then Potter’s body simply went slack against him.

No. Please, gods no. Don’t fucking make me do this on my own Potter, damn you .

But Potter was completely still, eyes serenely closed.

“POTTER!” Draco howled, shaking him.

Nothing.
Fuck.

Draco leaned his face down to Potter’s in a desperate attempt to see if he was still breathing.

“If you’re thinking of kissing me, Malfoy, I must tell you, I’m flattered but supremely
uninterested,” Potter croaked, a slight smile forming at the edges of his lips.

“Oh, fuck you, Potter!” Draco retorted, shoving Potter from his lap and onto the ground. Potter
rolled to his side, laughing, as both of them stood. Despite his better judgment, Draco took a step
toward him and pulled Potter in for a short embrace. “I’m glad you’re not dead, mate,” he
whispered.

***

The area immediately surrounding Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was still quiet when they emerged,
but the sounds of battle were not far in the distance. “Into the fray?” Potter asked, and Draco
nodded in response, desperate beyond all get out to get to Hermione, Theo, and Otto.

Merlin, please be okay.

He and Potter ran at break-neck speed through the various corridors, running into a few Snatchers
along the way, whom Draco spared little thought in avada’ing. Draco had taken great strides to
redeem the fractured parts of his soul, but this was literally war and he wasn’t above extending
what remained of his cruelty to his enemies. If Potter found it loathsome, he was gracious enough
to keep it to himself.

By the sounds of it, Draco and Potter had nearly reached the heart of the melee, when a soft,
familiar voice stopped Draco in his tracks.

“Draco, please.”

Draco’s blood turned to ice when he turned to see Ernst, face patchy and eyes full of tears,
crouched over the broken and bloody body of the man who had eagerly volunteered to be Ernst’s
second: Charlie Weasley.

No.

Oh gods, please no.

His whole body began to shake as his feet reflexively carried him forward ever so slowly until he
was at Charlie’s side, sinking to his knees. He was still alive, but his entire chest was split—worse
than Draco’s had been when Potter hit him with the sectumsempra during their Sixth Year. Draco
felt Potter kneel next to him, his body similarly quaking as his breath came out in hitches.

“I’ve…looked…better,” Charlie breathed, a smirk somehow tugging on his lips.

“None of the healing spells I’ve tried are working,” Ernst gasped.

“They won’t work,” Draco said hollowly. “It’s a sectumsempra curse—it can only be mended by a
specific counter-curse.” He turned to Potter, who merely shook his head.

Of fucking course the fucking git would take the time to learn a deadly curse but not bother to
learn the counter-curse.

“Who?” Draco began, his voice trailing off as Ernst nodded toward the prone form of Travers on
the other side of the hallway. Draco grimaced, realizing that Snape must have taught him the spell
at some point.

“Turns out…I…did…use the…Killing…Curse…on a…Death Eater,” Charlie again smirked.

“I’m going to go get Michael Malone from the infirmary,” Draco said hurriedly. “I’m not sure he
knows this curse, but from what Hermione has told me, he’s nothing short of miraculous.” But as
Draco started to stand, Charlie grabbed his wrist with impressive strength, given the
circumstances.

“Now as…good a…time…as any,” he huffed, extending his hand toward Draco, sending Draco
back to that moment in the Weber kitchen when Charlie had told him he wasn’t ready to shake his
hand yet.

Biting back a sob, Draco sunk back down to his knees and took Charlie’s hand in his, giving it a
gentle shake.

“Fortuitous,” Charlie began, “that…it’s you two…who…find me. The men…who…love my…
baby sisters.” Next to Draco, Harry sobbed. “Take…care…of them.”

“Always,” Draco whispered, his hand still around Charlie’s.

“And tell…Tonks…it was…the best ride…of my life.”

Draco sobbed and pressed his forehead to the cold and bloodied floor as Charlie’s eyes fluttered
closed and did not reopen. And just when he thought his battered heart couldn’t fracture any
further, a calamitous wail erupted ahead of him, his eyes falling upon Hermione, Theo, Otto, Hugh,
Weasel, and Ginny.

If there was any relief in seeing Hermione, alive and relatively uninjured, the look of utter
devastation on her face while she held a collapsed and wailing Ginny surely sucked it from his
veins. Even the look on Weasel’s face tore at his heart.

Hermione’s desperate and pleading eyes met his, and he merely shook his head. Her face crumpled
in despair as she slowly sunk to the ground with Ginny, as Theo turned into Otto and buried his
head in the crook of Otto’s neck, Otto’s eyes wide and horrified.

The group slowly shuffled forward, Draco stepping back to give space to those who knew and
loved Charlie Weasley far more than he did. He occluded as he watched it—this scene of utter
anguish and grief, reaching instead for that comfortable cottage by the sea with the heather swaying
in the wind and Hermione’s hand in his.

“We’re so close, Hermione,” he whispered, as she laid her head on his shoulder, seabirds
squawking in the distance. “It’s a wretched mess right now, but we’re so fucking close.”

The sensation of Potter’s hand on his shoulder shattered his daydream. The look on his face said it
all.

It’s time.

“Where is he?” Draco said softly.

“Just at the edge of the Forbidden Forest—waiting. He has a handful of other Death Eaters there
with him, but I can’t make out who.”
“Okay,” he sighed. He waited several minutes as Hermione continued to weep at Charlie’s side
along with Ginny and Weasel. He hated that he was about to break her heart even more.

Potter dropped the bomb first. “Ginny,” he said softly, approaching her and rubbing her back.
“Gin, I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

Her head whipped toward him, already impossibly tear-streaked and swollen, panic wild in her
eyes. Hermione followed suit, bearing a similarly pained and patchy face.

“No,” Hermione gushed, her tone pitiful. She stood quickly and wrapped her arms around him, her
grip impressively crushing for such a small witch. “Please, gods, no. We’re so close, Draco.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, pulling her head up toward his, feathering her forehead with a kiss. “This
is it, Hermione. This is the end.” He dropped to a knee before her, pressing his forehead against
hers. “We thought we were licked from the start, Hermione.” Another sob escaped her, her tears
rolling freely from her face to his. “And we saw it through. No matter what.”

She collapsed into him. “Please,” she begged. “I’ll run. I’ll run with you right now. I don’t care
anymore. You, me, Theo, Otto—we can all run. Back to the Weber estate. Please.” Those
devastating eyes that tore at his soul met his, and he leaned forward to kiss the tears falling from
them.

“You would never forgive yourself for that, Hermione. And you would never forgive me for
letting you.” She buried her head in his shoulder and wailed. “Hermione, look at me,” he
whispered. She lingered against his shoulder for several breaths before her eyes turned up toward
his. “I love you, Hermione. And I will see you soon.”

One way or another.

He pressed one last, long kiss to her lips and unlashed her arms from around his neck, Theo coming
to wrap himself around her as Draco joined Potter and headed for the Forbidden Forest,
Hermione’s and Ginny’s strangled cries following them the whole way.
 Sorting
Chapter Notes

TW: Depictions of violence

Song recommendation: When you get to the Forbidden Forest scene, "Everybody
Wants to Rule the World" - Lorde

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hermione wasn’t sure how to divvy up the grief that was pouring from her: how much of it to
credit to seeing Lavender Brown mauled by Fenrir Greyback, Ernie Macmillian avada’ed by
Thorfinn Rowle, Elio Micale crushed by a mountain troll, Charlie Weasley killed by a
sectumsempra, or Draco Malfoy—the love of her life—perhaps about to get himself killed by
Voldemort.

Every last living part of her was pouring from her onto that stone floor in the middle of Hogwarts,
while Theo wrapped her in his arms, rocking her while he cried alongside of her. Otto was doing
the same for Ginny, while Ernst, Hugh, and Ron moved Charlie’s body somewhere less exposed.

She had no concept of how long they remained like that, huddled and wailing on a cold stone floor
soaked in Charlie’s blood before the sounds of battle drew closer. She felt Theo’s arms release her
as he shuffled in front of her, drawing his forehead against hers. “I need you to get it together,
Granger,” he whispered. “I need you to be strong. I know it’s fucking impossible, but I cannot do
this without you. Do it for me?”

She remained paralyzed for several more moments before her eyes flashed up to meet his and she
nodded meekly. They stood slowly, observing that Ginny and Otto were already on their feet and
solemnly meeting Ernst, Hugh, and Ron further down the corridor.

As Hermione and Theo edged toward them, an enormous blasting sound ricocheted throughout the
castle, and Hermione watched in horror as the wall next to them began to cave in. She grabbed the
back of Theo’s shirt, yanking them both backwards as the wall violently collapsed, completely
blocking the corridor between Hermione and Theo, and Ernst, Hugh, Otto, Ron, and Ginny.

The color drained from Theo’s face as he rushed toward the rubble screaming Otto’s name in a
pitch so pained it splintered Hermione’s bones.

“Theo!” Otto’s voice rang back, causing Theo’s knees to buckle as Hermione braced him. “We’re
all okay! You and Hermione?”

“Fine,” Theo choked out. “We’re fine.” He paused for a moment, pressing his head against the
rubble. “I love you, Otto.”

“I love you, Theo. More than you could ever imagine. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Theo breathed, wiping a tear from his eye.

Hermione and Theo remained there for several minutes as they both gained their composure. But
soon, sounds from an adjoining corridor grew close.
“We should get out of here,” Hermione whispered. The fight wasn’t over—she knew that—but she
was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally, and if she could stave off dueling another
Death Eater or Snatcher for minutes or hours, she would.

***

They wound, hand-in-hand through various corridors, an eerie silence enveloping them. They
could hear the screams and crashes in the distance, but everything within their vicinity seemed
calm. Too calm.

When they rounded a corner near the Ravenclaw common room, Hermione’s heart stopped, her
breath freezing in her throat. She had only seen pictures of him in the Prophet, but she knew
exactly who they had run headlong into.

Theodore Nott Senior.

His eyes went wide with surprise as his gaze fell upon the son he had believed dead for months.
But then a cruel sneer spread across his face. Hermione’s gaze whipped to Theo’s, his expression
terrified but resolute, as he slowly edged himself in front of Hermione. She could hear him, his
voice barely perceptible, whispering the incantation to bring about the defensive spell that he and
Otto had designed, his posture at the perfect angles that they had devised.

“Stick with me, Granger,” Theo said in a low, shaky voice. “Stick with me.”

“I’m right here, Theo.” She mimicked the incantation and poses, reinforcing the spell. “Until the
very end.”

“Figures,” Nott Senior scoffed. “Just like your whore of a mother, running off with a filthy,
fucking Mudblood lover. You fucking coward.”

Theo kept a protective arm around Hermione, his wand leveled at his father. “Granger isn’t my
lover, dad—she’s Draco’s.” Theo laughed mirthlessly as he watched his father’s face fall. “What,
dad? Another disappointment from the boy you always wished was your son?” Theo threw his
head back in laughter again. “I’ll have you know I do have a lover—Pureblood. Not Sacred
Twenty-Eight, so still not up to your standards, I know. But my lover is very similar to Granger in
all the best ways possible: brilliant, well-read, funny, caring. One striking difference though. He
has a cock. And my gods, does he perform magic with it.”

Nott Senior’s face twisted into something so venomous it was inhuman as he wordlessly shot a
curse at Theo and Hermione, the defensive spell deflecting it. “Do you remember, dad? How I
would scream when your drunk arse actually clipped me with one your stinging hexes? What
about when you moved to the Cruciatus? Do you remember that? What my cries sounded like?”

Nott Senior growled, trying—and failing—to penetrate the defensive spell. “How does it feel now,
dad? That the son you always hated is a better wizard than you?”

But Theo had spoken too soon. Nott Senior leveled a curse at them that somehow broke through
that fucking beautiful spell that Theo and Otto had devised together, and it blasted Theo and
Hermione backwards.

Hermione felt the back of her head connect with the wall behind her, as Nott Senior approached her
first and wordlessly casted some curse that sucked the air from her lungs and set her skull aflame.
She watched, immobilized as he moved to Theo.

Nott Senior didn’t even bother to use magic. He pulled Theo from the ground by his neck,
thrusting him against the wall, his grip tightening around Theo’s throat. Theo’s feet weren’t
touching the ground. He slammed his fist into Theo’s gut, a rush of air escaping him.

“I knew it,” Nott Senior hissed, punching Theo again. “From the moment you were born. That
there was something wrong with you.” He punched him again, his grip on Theo’s neck tightening
as Theo’s face grew a painful shade of red. Nott Senior dropped Theo to the ground, proceeding to
kick and punch his only son, as Theo dragged himself into the fetal position.

“I should’ve smothered you in your fucking crib,” Nott Senior hissed, rendering another vicious
kick to Theo’s gut. Theo retched; there was no more air in his lungs to gasp out. “Killed you along
with your bitch mother.” He stomped on Theo’s lower back.

“Dad, please,” Theo wheezed, flat against the floor.

Something in Hermione snapped that the throbbing in her skull and breathlessness of her lungs
could no longer suppress. She rose shakily and leveled her wand at Nott Senior, the poisonous
word that she never thought she would use escaping her lips.

“Crucio.”

Nott Senior collapsed, a writhing tangle of limbs. His eyes were wide and his mouth stretched
open. But if he was screaming, Hermione couldn’t hear him. The only thing she could hear was
the momentous buzzing and crackling in her skull, rampant waves of electricity violently coursing
through her veins and rushing toward her wand, which was pulsating in her hand like a live wire.
Sparks began to fly from her fingers where they connected to her wand, the hum throughout her
body growing to a deafening pitch. The light from her wand glowed brighter and brighter until it
wasn’t light at all anymore. It was shockwaves of electricity blasting him through the heart.

He was dead in seconds. And the only thing that Hermione felt was regret that she hadn’t been
able to make the torture last longer.

***

As Harry had predicted, Voldemort had assembled a handful of Death Eaters to witness the
slaughter of Draco Malfoy, Undesirable Number One, and Harry Potter, The Boy Who Was
Perhaps About to No Longer Live. Unsurprisingly, but still much to Draco’s anguish, his mother
was among them, clearly under both a binding and silencing spell. Her face was beet red and
soaked with tears, veins in her forehead and neck bulging as she silently wailed and called out for
her only son. It was perhaps the most heartbreaking sight Draco had ever seen in an ever-growing
list of heartbreaking things he had been forced to witness in seventeen years.

Snape was there as well, unbound but very clearly occluding. Potter let out a sound beside Draco
—someone had hit him with a binding spell, just like Draco’s mother. But the Dark Lord left
Draco untethered, regarding him with a silent and sadistic look of triumph.

“Have you forgotten the house in which you were so magnanimously sorted, hmm? The house
reserved most ambitious, most righteous, most powerful wizards? Those unbound by the trivial
attachments and emotions that hold all other wizards back from their true potential? For those
destined to inherit the earth? Have you, Draco? Forgotten?”

Draco offered no response. He merely stared at Voldemort, unblinking. Voldemort was minutes if
not seconds away from killing him—of that he was sure. But he was no longer afraid. He could
feel the breeze and smell the salt in the air; sense the heather beneath his finger tips and hear the
waves against the cliffs. And Hermione’s hand in his. Voldemort could do whatever he wanted to
Draco for the next few seconds, minutes, or hours—but soon Draco would be there. With her.
Safe. Forever.

“Well, Draco, perhaps it’s time we make you remember,” Voldemort hissed. He flicked his wand
and the Sorting Hat came into view, zooming through the air and landing on Draco’s head. And
then it caught fire.

He screamed as the flames licked his flesh—searing, burning. He could feel his blood boil as his
skin blazed. He couldn’t breathe, fire and smoke filling his mouth. He tore at the hat in agony for
what felt like hours, but was likely mere seconds. And then, for no apparent reason, it stopped.
The fire extinguished, and the hat’s grip around Draco’s head loosened. “Hmm. Difficult, very
difficult,” the hat muttered. “I was so sure about you then. But now? A bit too gold for Slytherin
I would say.” And when Draco finally pulled the hat from his head, he felt his fingers involuntarily
wrap around something within it.

“MALFOY, MOVE!” Potter screamed, breaking Draco’s trance. Draco’s eyes shot to Potter and
then immediately toward Voldemort. And then he saw her: Nagini was upon him, mouth wide
and fangs bared. Draco wrenched his hand from the hat, pulling along with it the same massive
and ornate sword that Potter, Weasel, and Ginny had dragged into Malfoy Manor weeks earlier.

As Nagini descended on him, he instinctively raised the sword, and in a single motion, sliced
through her head, which spun violently through the air before landing at Potter’s feet. Voldemort
let out a hysterical roar, but the snake’s death appeared to weaken him considerably, as Draco
watched his mother’s and Potter’s binding spells break.

“Potter, now!” Draco shouted.

Potter drew his wand and leveled it at Voldemort. “Draco Malfoy is not the master of the Elder
Wand, Tom!” Potter bellowed. “I am.”

There was a pause—a moment of hesitation in which Potter reveled in the look of shock and
despair on Voldemort’s face—before he opened his mouth again.

“Avada kedavra.”

***

“Theo!” Hermione raced to Theo’s side, as he groaned near motionless on the ground. “Theo, oh
gods, Theo, say something please.”

“Is he dead?” Theo coughed.

“Um, yes. Sorry, Theo,” Hermione replied. Hermione had never been one particularly in tune to
proper etiquette, so she wasn’t sure the appropriate way to apologize for killing your best friend’s
father, but she couldn’t bring her voice to hedge on anything close to remorse.

“Good,” he replied simply. “Thank you, Granger.” He made no further attempt at movement.
Hermione surveyed their surroundings—it was still eerily quiet where they were, but that failed to
quell the rising anxiety in her gut. Eventually, someone would find them. And it might not be an
ally.

She looked at her wand in vain. It was still smoking from her crucio—the power of the curse had
completely fried it. It was useless. Theo’s wand laid inches from his right hand, but it was
snapped in half. She crawled back over to Nott Senior’s body and reached for his wand, only to be
met with a bone-chilling shock when she touched it.
“It’s warded,” Theo said softly, lifting his head slightly from the ground.

So they had no wands. They were in a relatively quiet part of the castle, but Hermione knew they
needed to move. While not a veteran by any stretch of the imagination, if Hermione had learned
one thing it was that in war, movement meant life.

“Can you stand, Theo?” she asked, crawling back over to him. She smoothed the hair back from
his bruised and bleeding face.

“I don’t know,” he replied, grimacing as he tried to sit up. Hermione scooted in closer to brace
him, her heart breaking as he gasped and cringed at her touch. “My ribs are broken—I can tell that
much.” They finally got him sitting upright, leaning him against the stone wall behind them.

“I’m going to need you to try, Theo. We can’t stay here. I need to get you to the infirmary.”

He nodded, steeling himself for a moment. But just as it appeared he was about to try to stand, a
series of violent coughs shook his body. Hermione froze in horror when he pulled his hand away
from his mouth and there was blood on it.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered. “That’s not good.”

“Theo,” Hermione whispered, wiping the blood from his hand with the bottom of her shirt—as if
that somehow mitigated the internal injury he was clearly suffering. “I need you to stand, Theo. I
will help you. But we need to get to the infirmary. Now.”

Theo’s formerly calm demeanor shattered as he continued to stare at his hand, streaked with red.

“Please, Granger,” he sobbed, “please get Otto. I need him. Please.”

“Theo, I’m not leaving you,” she replied, kneeling down and tucking under his arm. She pulled his
right arm over her shoulders, gripping his right wrist with her right hand while she snaked her left
arm around his waist. “I’m not leaving you here alone.” She took a deep breath. “Theo, I’m going
to need you to try to stand with me, okay?”

Theo ignored her request. “Please,” he bawled, burrowing his head into her shoulder. “Gods,
Granger, please. Fucking please get Otto. I can’t do this without him.”

“Theo,” she soothed, pressing her lips to the top of his head. “I have no idea where to find Otto
right now. And I absolutely will not leave you here alone injured and without a wand.” She
waited several seconds for his ragged breathing to settle. “Look at me,” she said softly, her breath
catching when he bloodshot and bruised eyes met hers. “We’re almost there, Theo. I just need you
to be strong for me for a little while longer, okay?”

He nodded, tears streaming down his face.

“Please try to stand with me. Take it slow and lean on me as much as you need to, okay? On the
count of three.”

One.

Two.

Three.

Theo cried out in pain as they slowly rose, but they made it to their feet. Hermione thanked every
god she could think of that Theo was of comparatively normal stature—he was no more than 5’11”
on a good day—she didn’t think she would have the strength to support Draco or Otto like this.

Walking, however, was a different story. As soon as they took their first tentative step, Theo
nearly collapsed in agony. It took every ounce of strength in her body to keep them upright.

Fuck.

When Hermione was home for the summer between her Third and Fourth Year, her mother had
been in a relatively serious car accident, resulting in three broken ribs on her right side. Until that
happened, Hermione had never appreciated how almost every movement of your body involves
your ribs in some way—Merlin, if her mother even breathed too deeply that summer she was
reduced to tears.

There was no way Theo had come out of that beating with less than three ribs broken—and that
alone made his ability to even stand upright remarkable. But from the looks of it, his collarbone
was also broken, not to mention whatever internal bruising and bleeding he was clearly suffering.

“Okay,” she said determinatively. “We’ll take this slow. One baby step at a time, okay, Theo?”

She turned her head to look at him just in time for another wave of silent sobs to wrack his body.
“Leave me, Granger,” he gasped in a strangled voice. “This is insane. We’re both dead if we keep
this up. I can’t—,” he choked. “Even if I can make it to the stairs, I can’t make it up the stairs.
You can still make it, Granger. But you’ll get yourself killed this way.”

Her gaze met his, their faces so close that their noses were nearly touching. “If my options are
dying here with you, Theo, or living in a world without you in it, I will take the former every
fucking time,” she breathed. “You are my best friend, Theodore Nott. I meant what I said. I’m
right here. Until the very end.”

Which, ironically, came very shortly thereafter.

Hermione and Theo had made it approximately one hundred feet—the stairs that would lead them
to the infirmary in sight—when a distant but all too familiar voice shattered their success.

“Theodore.” The pair froze. “And…Miss Granger.” The voice came from behind them, but
Hermione didn’t need to turn around to discover who was addressing them. It was very clearly the
voice of Lucius Malfoy.

Theo’s eyes lit up with momentary hope; despite Lucius’s status as a Death Eater, the Malfoys—
Lucius included—had been a second (or really, only) family to Theo growing up, with Lucius and
Narcissa being the first to teach Theo defensive spells to use against his father. But whatever
optimism Theo had stumbled into was quickly quashed when Lucius rounded on them and Theo’s
eyes met his.

Lucius looked positively rabid. It appeared that he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in weeks, his skin
an ashy grey with deep purple circles carved under his eyes. His irises darted about like those of a
feral animal that had been split off from its herd.

Hermione’s blood froze in her veins as she turned desperately to Theo, praying that he could bring
Lucius back to earth.

“Mr. M,” Theo said quietly. “Mr. M, we need your help. Please. I’ll explain everything, I
promise, but we need your help.”
Lucius hesitated, his expression still wild. “Where’s Draco?” he hissed, his tone a mix of haunted
and manic.

Theo shifted uncomfortably. “He went to go confront the Dark Lord,” Theo replied numbly. “He
went with Harry.”

Lucius scoffed. “Draco? Draco would never be that foolish. He believes in self-preservation
above all. Where is he, Theodore?”

“I told you,” Theo responded, frustration cutting into his voice. “He left the castle to go see the
Dark Lord, as demanded.”

Lucius then broke into blood-chilling, hysterical laughter. “I know my son, Theodore. He would
never sacrifice himself for another.”

A hardness came over Theo’s face. “Frankly, Lucius, I don’t think you’ve known your son for a
long time.”

Lucius’s laughter suddenly stopped, a splitting silence showering over them. “Just tell me where
he is, Theodore. If I can bring him to the Dark Lord—try to explain—he may forgive Draco for
his transgressions.”

“You know that I’m not dull, Lucius, and I know that you cannot possibly be that naïve,” Theo
said thinly. “You want to turn him over to save yourself. Your son’s life for yours.” A humorless
bark of laughter escaped Theo’s throat. “You know, the one thing I always admired about you was
your devotion to your family. I guess that was just another misplaced belief that this fucked up
community of ours conned me into.”

Indignation flared in Lucius’s eyes. “Narcissa is my family. And I will do whatever it takes to
save her. It may be too late for Draco, but it doesn’t have to be too late for Narcissa and me.” An
expectant pause. “Just tell me where he is, Theodore.”

“I did,” Theo said defiantly. “Draco has thrown himself before the Dark Lord to save the rest of us
because he is ten times the man that you ever were, Lucius,” Theo seethed, his voice stony.

Rage twisted throughout Lucius’s face, and before Hermione had time to react, Lucius had
unsheathed his wand and hit Theo with a crucio. Hermione watched in horror as Theo fell behind
her, his already broken body twisting and writhing unnaturally on the floor. She wasn’t sure how
long she stared at him in breathless terror—she hoped only seconds but time had all but stood still
—before she wheeled around to face a deranged Lucius, his eyes trained on Theo’s mangled form.

“Theo doesn’t know where Draco is!” she bellowed. “But I do.”

“You?” Lucius scoffed. “The Mudblood who Draco always loathed? Please.” He disregarded
Hermione’s statement as simply as he disregarded her existence in the wizarding world. But ever
the perseverant spirit, Hermione did not relent.

“Yes, me,” she growled. “Although I would prefer if you addressed me by my proper title—the
future Lady Malfoy.” And with that, Lucius’s Cruciatus Curse ceased, his head slowly turning
toward her and his jaw going slack as his eyes fell upon the end of Hermione’s necklace, which she
held triumphantly in front of her face.

“So if you’re looking for Draco, if you need someone to punish—it’s me. Not Theo. It was me
who broke Draco of his blood prejudices. It was me who made him betray the Dark Lord. It was
me who made him defect.” She looked Lucius dead in the eye without an ounce of fear in her.
“And it’ll be me who ends the Black and Malfoy bloodlines.”

Whatever threads of sanity still tethered Lucius Malfoy to earth snapped as he lunged forward, his
fingers wrapping around the chain and tearing it from her neck. His other hand came around her
throat and soon his wand was at her chest, hitting her with a direct crucio.

She fell backwards, remembering the indescribable agony she had experienced the last time she
was briefly crucio’ed. She had expected it this time, but was surprised to find she mostly just felt
numb. She was aware of the poisonous fire and stabbing sensation rushing through her veins, but it
was as if she simply couldn’t process any more pain. She was going to die there on that floor of
the castle that she loved so much, and honestly, she felt okay with that. It wasn’t the ending she
wanted. But she saw it through no matter what. There was nothing left to be done.

She rolled her head to the side, her eyes falling upon Theo. His eyes were closed and a thin line of
blood leaked from the side of his mouth. Her vision was fuzzy; she couldn’t tell if he was
breathing. She prayed he was alive and an Order ally would find him. But a small, selfish part of
her found comfort in the thought that if he was dead, they would soon be together. She crawled her
hand across the floor, finger over finger, until their hands were brushing against each other.

Until the very end.

A spine-shattering wail broke her reverie. Her head twisted away from Theo and was met with
those spectacular sterling eyes she loved so dearly.

Draco.

Thank Merlin, you’re alive.

You did it. You and Harry actually did it.

The crucio ceased for just a moment as Lucius briefly addressed his son and then instantly hit him
with a binding spell. And then it continued.

I’m sorry.

We tried.

I love you.

“Oh gods!” he was screaming.

“Stop, gods, please stop!”

“He’s dead, father! Voldemort is dead! It’s over! Please!”

“Please gods, stop hurting her!”

“I love her—please! Please, I’m so in love with her!”

“Kill me! Fucking kill me instead!”

“It was all my fault, father! I pursued her! Please!”

“Please just kill me! I’m sorry! Kill me instead!”

The crucio had ceased to cause Hermione any physical pain, but this—watching this was torture.
 She turned her head away from him to face Theo again. It was then that she spotted Narcissa
Malfoy to the side, observing the slow-moving disaster. While still keeping his eyes trained on
Hermione, Lucius approached his wife and mumbled something to her, depositing Druella Black’s
—nay, Hermione Granger’s—black diamond ring into Narcissa’s open palm.

The usually stoic and composed witch began trembling, the color completely drained from her
face. Her eyes moved quickly from her sobbing son to Hermione and back again. And then to the
ring, and back to Draco, and then back to Hermione. And then finally to Theo—still motionless,
his hand in Hermione’s on that cold, stone floor.

Lucius approached Hermione, kneeling between her and Theo. His hand wrapped around her neck
and she couldn’t breathe.

She could still hear Draco’s tormented screams in the background, but she lacked the courage to
meet his gaze.

“Mum, please! Do something!”

“I’m sorry! I know—I know you don’t approve but please! I love her!”

“It’s over, mum! Voldemort is dead! And I love her!”

“Mum, do something, please. Gods, Theo! Look at him!”

“I love her so much. Please understand.”

Hermione turned her head again toward Theo, but it was Narcissa who caught her eye. Her wand
was leveled toward Hermione.

Well, at least she has the heart to put me out of my misery, Hermione thought as she watched
Narcissa’s mouth form around an avada.

For a moment, everything faded to black, and Hermione was sure she was dead. But then she
realized it was because Lucius Malfoy had collapsed on top of her—dead.

Chapter End Notes

!!SLIGHT SPOILER!!

BUT FOR THOSE WORRIED ABOUT THEO AND DO NOT WANT TO WAIT
FOR NEXT UPDATE, PLEASE PROCEED:
***
***
***
***
I only believe in happy endings for Theo. He's having a rough go of things at the
moment, but he will be fine. And happy :)
 End

Everything that happened after his mother hit his father with an avada was a blur. At some point,
Snape and McGonagall had jointly discovered the group, Draco sobbing as he cradled an
unconscious Hermione while his mother rocked a seemingly near-dead Theo in her arms like he
was that six-year-old nightmare-prone boy again, her cries splintering Draco’s bones.

The last thing Draco really remembered was Otto, Hugh, Ginny, and Ron stumbling upon the
scene as Snape was taking Theo from Narcissa’s arms. The War and the lead up to it had left
Draco familiar with a great many unpleasant sounds, but the noise that tore from Otto’s gut when
his eyes fell upon Theo was bar-none the most devastating thing he had ever heard. Otto began to
collapse, Hugh catching his slack form as he and Ginny each slung an arm around him and
followed Snape toward the infirmary.

Draco quickly lost it after that, screaming in fevered pitches over both Hermione and Theo, and
perhaps over the fact that he had just witnessed his mother murder his father, although that latter
occurrence truly didn’t bring him as much grief as it did shock. Someone, likely McGonagall or
another professor she summoned, plied him with calming draught and then sleeping draught when
that didn’t work. As he faded into unconsciousness, he could feel the weight of Hermione lifted
from his arms—by perhaps Ernst or Annike, whose were the last faces he could remember seeing
—as McGonagall put an arm around Draco’s weeping mother and led her away.

***

When Draco awoke next, he quickly recognized that he was in Snape’s private quarters in
Hogwarts. He catapulted upright so quickly that he toppled over, light-headed and weak-limbed.
His vision went out of focus for a few moments, but he was distinctly aware of a figure hovering in
front of him—strawberry blonde with a thick brogue. Michael Malone, he realized. The Irish
Healer.

“Draco?” his voice was far away as Draco tried to crawl past him. The wizard quickly and easily
halted his movement, pushing Draco backward and forcing Draco’s face to his. The haziness
fading, Michael’s face and voice finally came into focus.

“She’s fine, Draco,” Michael soothed. “I’ve administered some potions aimed at tempering
whatever pain she might experience—she had several broken bones and a nasty concussion—and
the potions have more or less knocked her out. But she is completely fine.”

A guttural gasp ripped from Draco’s chest as he found himself wrapping this virtual stranger in a
tight embrace.

“And she’s here, too.” Michael nodded over his shoulder and to the left, where Draco’s eyes fell
upon Hermione, who appeared to be soundly sleeping in a plush bed. “Severus transfigured some
of his furniture into beds—one for you, one for Hermione, one for Otto, and one for Theo, so you
could all recover in a more comfortable and private space.”

Theo.

Recover.

“Theo?” he gasped, starting to stand as his eyes drifting to his best friend, laid out in the bed next to
Hermione’s, visibly more beaten and battered. Otto sat bedside, so tear-soaked and swollen that
you could barely tell his eyes were open.

“Theo is more complicated,” Michael said slowly and softly, directing Draco into a chair by his
transfigured bed. “Theo took a beating like I’ve never seen, Draco,” Michael whispered. “I had to
regrow almost all of his ribs—they were just so shattered that there were no bones left to heal. He
suffered internal bleeding, one of his lungs was completely collapsed. For a while I didn’t think he
would make it, but he will. Physically.”

Physically.

Draco turned his head slowly and hauntingly toward Michael, dreading where this was going next.

“But from what I can tell, he suffered what Muggles call a traumatic brain injury. It’s pretty severe,
Draco.”

Draco dropped his head into his hands, suddenly struggling for air.

“When she was awake earlier, Hermione said he was up and walking and lucid until he was hit
with the crucio. That’s a good sign, Draco,” Michael said. “But we just don’t know what effect
the injury in addition to the subsequent crucio will have. It may be nothing—he may wake up
completely fine. But I just want you to be prepared that he may wake up…different.”

“Different?” Draco gasped, his voice hollow.

Michael sighed deeply. “Memory loss. Loss of some motor functions. Cognitive impairment.
Any and all of those are possible.”

“No,” Draco responded. “No. No. No.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “He’s Theo. He
survives everything. He’s the toughest person I know.”

“The fact that he’s alive right now proves that, Draco,” Michael said, shaking his head. “Like I
said, I’ve never seen injuries from a beating like that. And that’s saying something when you
grow up in Irish pubs,” he chuckled, his effort at bringing any comic relief to the situation, utterly
failing.

“My…my father did that to him?” Draco said, his voice barely able to give the words sound. “I
don’t understand. He loved Theo.”

“Only the crucio,” a familiar drawl entered the conversation.

Severus.

He knelt next to Michael, in front of Draco. “The rest was courtesy of his son-of-a-bitch father,”
Snape seethed, his tone and expression strikingly and unusually emotive.

White, hot anger flooded Draco’s veins. “Where is he?” he choked out, fully intending to track
Nott Senior down and murder him slowly—even if it meant a lifetime in Azkaban.

“Dead,” Snape said simply, his eyes slowly travelling to a sleeping Hermione. “Courtesy of Miss
Granger.”

“Hermione…killed someone?” he gasped, his eyes falling upon his beautiful witch whose apparent
homicidal tendencies had just made him fall further in love with her.

Snape chuckled, something resembling pride crossing his expression. “Crucio’ed him to death.”
Draco’s jaw fell open. “We didn’t even know that was possible. Kingsley said it was the most
powerful crucio he had ever seen—burned a hole through his chest right where his heart would’ve
been if the bastard ever had one.”

He couldn’t take his eyes from Hermione. Even battered and unconscious, she was truly the most
devastatingly beautiful thing that had ever graced earth’s surface. But then a horrifying thought
crossed his mind.

“She and my mother…Unforgivable Curses…they won’t?” He couldn’t bear to even finish the
sentence.

Snape smiled poignantly. “No. Turns out there are instances where their use isn’t so
unforgivable.” He sighed. “Miss Granger likely won’t be eligible for an Order of Merlin – First
Class anymore, but the man she saved most certainly will. Professor McGonagall is seeing to it
personally.”

***

Michael left shortly thereafter to tend to others in the infirmary. The sleeping draught had knocked
Draco out for near a day, and in the interim most of the critical cases had shaken out one way or
another.

Those fighting alongside the Order had sustained heavily losses: Charlie Weasley, Lavender
Brown, Ernie Macmillan, Elio Micale, Matteo Micale, Alistair Moody, Vincent Crabbe, Greg
Goyle, Susan Bones, Alexandre Durant, Piotr Rusev—and those were just off the top of Draco’s
head.

But still…it was over. Draco had known that this moment would come—the moment when the
War was over. But if he was honest, he didn’t think it would’ve ended this way: the Dark Lord
and his army crushed in the first battle of the war by a ragtag group of teenagers, professors,
alumnae, and a small force of foreign witches and wizards. He had pictured months or years of
war—not that he thought he would’ve survived to have seen it. No, if he were honest, almost
every outcome that Draco had recycled through his mind inevitably ended with him dying in this
battle at the end of the Dark Lord’s wand.

Draco hesitantly approached Hermione’s bruised form, his chest caving inward at the sight of her.
Despite Michael’s healing efforts, deep bruises still lined her face, shoulders, and arms. From
Michael’s retelling, she had nearly sacrificed herself to save Theo from Draco’s father, not more
than minutes after she had inverted herself to use an Unforgivable Curse to save Theo from his own
father.

“Merlin, I love you,” he whispered, cupping her cheek with his hand as he delicately pressed his
lips to her forehead. “The Brightest and Bravest Witch of Her Age.” He trailed his fingers through
her curls, willing those honey eyes that he loved so fiercely to open and meet his. But Michael had
warned him she might be out for another twelve or so hours, and so Draco merely leaned in and
whispered to her the words that he had chased after for the past year and a half.

“We thought we were licked from the start, love. But we were wrong. And we saw it through.”
He dusted a kiss to her cheek. “We get to have it all now.”

Well, maybe.

His eyes moved slowly over to Theo and Otto. Salazar, he wasn’t sure who was a more pitiful
sight. He planted a delicate kiss to Hermione’s forehead before he approached Theo’s bedside, the
air sucked from his lungs when he saw him up close. He was virtually unrecognizable—every
inch of visible skin a bruise and impossibly swollen. Draco’s knees buckled as he collapsed into a
chair that was conveniently bedside. “Oh gods, Theo,” he gasped.

“I should’ve been there,” Otto whispered, his voice raw. “I can’t believe I wasn’t there for him
when he needed me.” He wasn’t looking at Draco at all, his swollen and glassy eyes glued to
Theo.

“Theo wouldn’t have wanted to risk having you there, Otto,” Draco replied simply. “His father,”
Draco stopped, shaking his head. “It would’ve been worse if you were there. And Theo would’ve
been so distracted trying to protect you—just trust me, Otto, it would’ve been worse if you were
there.”

“Hermione said he was crying for me at the end,” Otto croaked, pressing his forehead into the
mattress as sobs wracked his body. “When Michael was asking her questions about his lucidity,
she said that.”

“You’re here now, Otto,” Draco soothed, reaching his hand across Theo to hold onto Otto’s hand.
“And he’s going to be fine. Theo is the strongest person I know and he won’t let anything stand in
the way of the happily ever after you two deserve.”

“I want you to know that I’m staying,” Otto said softly, running his hand through Theo’s hair, his
gaze not leaving Theo’s face. “No matter what parts of him I get back. Even if it’s none of them.
Even if I’ve lost the best parts of him. Even if he has no idea who I am. I will never leave him.”
Tears flowed rapidly down Otto’s face as he finally looked up at Draco.

“I know,” Draco responded.

Otto took a ragged breath, his eyes once again turning back to Theo. “I’m a man of science and
logic, Draco,” he stated, his voice impossibly quiet. “I mean, I know I have a lot of emotions,” he
chuckled lightly, gesturing to his face. “Obviously. But I believe in math and science and don’t
give much credence to things like love at first sight.” He sighed heavily, picking up Theo’s hand
and bringing it to his lips. “But that moment he walked into Annike’s and Ernst’s kitchen—god. I
don’t know how to describe it. The feeling I had when I saw him for the first time. That smile, oh
Merlin, I was a goner.”

Draco’s heart shattered, healed, and shattered again listening to him.

“Have you ever worked at a math problem for what feels like ages and you just can’t get it to
work? And then you finally reach the answer and it’s just this calming sensation like everything
has fallen into place? Like everything makes sense?” Otto asked, his eyes meeting Draco’s as
Draco nodded. “It was like that. Seeing him for the first time.”

Draco frantically wiped at the tears falling from his eyes. Please be okay, Theo. You deserve this.
Otto deserves this.

“I don’t think that’s love at first sight per se. Because what I felt wasn’t love. What I feel now—
that’s love, and it doesn’t really compare. But it was still something profound. This moment when
my life forever became before and after,” he sighed. “But all of that to say, I would never leave. I
would never give up on him. I know it’s insane—it’s been what? Five or six months that we’ve
been together? But he’s it for me, Draco. I can feel it. There are no parts of me left that don’t
belong to him. No parts left that I could ever give to anyone else.”

Draco was out of his chair, standing before Otto and pulling him into his arms. The two of them
huddled together and cried, each with a perfect understanding of the other.

***

Annike and Ernst visited briefly and tearfully that evening, Annike finally dragging Otto away
from Theo’s bedside to get him showered and into fresh clothes. He was the only one who still
hadn’t freshened up since the battle. Draco had long ago tucked into Hermione’s bed, curling
himself around her as she continued to sleep off the pain potions that Michael had administered.
Ernst sat bedside in Otto’s absence, mournfully whispering to Theo in a tone so hushed that Draco
couldn’t hear any of it.

Merlin, Theo, please wake up and be okay.

Draco dozed off somewhere around midnight, the steady thrum of Hermione’s heart against his
chest lulling him into a deep sleep. When he stirred next it was still dark out, but the comforting
heat and weight of Hermione next to his chest was absent. He jerked up in an irrational panic, his
eyes instantly—and predictably—falling upon Hermione curled against Theo in his bed with Otto
also still at his side, fingers entwined with Theo’s. But it was the third person who was sitting
peacefully at Theo’s bedside with Hermione and Otto that sent Draco into a spin.

“Mum?” he whispered, his voice hollow.

Her head rose slowly to meet his gaze, a remarkably placid expression on her face. “My heart,”
she cooed, rising from her chair and gracefully making her way across the room to his bed.
Hermione twisted her head back to meet Draco’s eyes, a weak smile on her still-bruised face.

I love you, she mouthed.

His mother tucked into the edge of his bed, her tearful eyes meeting his as she pushed his sleep-
mussed hair out of his eyes. “Oh, Draco,” she gasped, pulling him into an unusually tight and
emotive embrace, her body quaking against his.

He felt his arms instinctually wrap around her, and for reasons that were unclear in the moment,
buried his head into the crook of her neck and sobbed.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that—breaking and healing—but eventually his mother
pulled back, drawing his forehead against hers and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I’m so sorry,
my heart. For the countless times that I have failed you. And…,” her voice trailed as her eyes fell
on Theo, “failed Theodore.”

She sat up straight, some of her aristocratic air returning to her. “The two of you have been the
greatest loves of my life and—,” a stuttering pause as she struggled to maintain composure, “even
though I may not understand the choices you two have made,” Draco gritting his teeth as he
watched his mother’s eyes move from Hermione to Otto, “they’re certainly less damaging than the
ones that I let your father make for you. So I’m done standing in your way.”

“They aren’t choices, mum,” Draco replied simply. “If it were a choice, I would’ve picked
someone a whole hell of a lot easier than Hermione.” An involuntary smile crept across his face as
he watched Hermione say something to Otto that made him briefly grin despite the constant flow of
tears still cascading down his face. “I could no more choose to love her than I can to breathe. And
Theo and Otto, mum? Oh my gods.”

“My heart,” his mother whispered, her fingers coming to rest under his chin and bringing his gaze
to hers. “If the past year has showed me anything, it’s that I have more to learn from you than you
do from me.” She sighed. “It may take me longer than you would like, but I’m going to try to get
there.”

“Thank you,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her once more.

“And perhaps as a peace offering,” his mother began as they pulled apart, her hand fishing in her
robes. “I don’t believe this belongs to me anymore,” she said softly, pressing Druella Black’s
diamond ring into Draco’s palm.

She stood slowly, kissing Draco on the forehead. “I’m going back to the Manor. I’ve invited
Annike and Ernst to stay there with me until Theo is well enough to travel—I think they’re hoping
he and Otto will come back with them.” She smiled weakly. “Owl me when Theo wakes?”

Draco nodded. His mother walked steadily away, bidding a farewell to “Mr. Neuhaus” and “Miss
Granger” as she departed.

***

Ever since Draco began to fall for Hermione, he had been reticent to allow himself to picture a
world in which they had defeated the Dark Lord so handedly. Even when Hermione and Theo
started to rally the admittedly impressive troops of foreign witches and wizards, at best Draco’s
outlook pivoted from we’re fucked to maybe not as dire as I once thought.

But in those rare moments where Draco had permitted himself to imagine a post-War world in
which the Order had triumphed, his mind had always fixated on the seconds and minutes after they
realized the Dark Lord had been defeated: that moment when his gaze met those heartbreaking
honey brown eyes for the first time in this brave new world that they had sacrificed so much for.
And they would run to each other, throw themselves into each other’s arms, their lips only breaking
apart to whisper I love yous until their throats grew sore, their beautiful love no longer quarantined
to stolen moments in secret rooms. They belonged to each other—mind, body, and spirit—and
now the whole world would know.

And although his current reality reflected none of the dramatics and heart-stopping passion that his
imagination had concocted, Draco couldn’t help but feel that this moment—as his eyes caught
Hermione’s for the first time in earnest as he pulled up a chair to Theo’s bedside—was more
beautiful than he ever could have imagined.

“Hi,” he said softly, cupping Hermione’s face and kissing her softly.

“Hi,” she responded just as delicately when their lips broke apart, running her fingers through his
hair.

“How’s he doing?” Draco whispered, placing his hand over Hermione’s, which was wrapped
around Theo’s. Otto, who hadn’t moved from the arm chair next to Theo’s bed—save for when
Annike dragged him away to get him into clean clothes—was finally sleeping, his head on the
mattress, wedged next to Theo’s chest.

“He’s going to be fine,” Hermione said without an ounce of hesitation or doubt in her voice. “No
matter what happens next, he’s alive. And it’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not enough, Hermione, but thank you,” Draco gasped, burying his head in the crook of her
neck. “For saving him.”

She chuckled softly. “You act like it was a choice, Draco,” she replied leaning her cheek across
the top of his head, her breath ruffling his hair. “I couldn’t live without him. Just like I couldn’t
live without you.” Her voice cracked as Draco untucked his head from her shoulder and brought
his lips to hers.

“You, Theo, Otto,” she cried quietly. “My whole world.”

“Breathe, Hermione,” he whispered against her lips. “We saw it through. You and me, Otto and
Theo. And now, Hermione, we get the whole world.”

***

“Otto?” a soft, pained whisper woke Draco from his slumber, Hermione curled against his chest
and drowning him in honey, lemon, and parchment.

Theo.

Draco’s first instinct was to tear the covers from him and Hermione and rush to Theo’s side, but he
found his whole body leaden as he watched Otto—who for days now had slept in a chair next to
Theo’s bed, the bed that Snape had transfigured for Otto apparently too far away for his comfort—
groggily wake, his still-swollen face once again bursting into tears when his eyes met Theo’s for
the first time in days. He curled his head into Theo’s chest, his crying turning into full-on sobbing
loud enough to rouse Hermione, who had been sleeping like the dead while Michael still continued
to administer her pain potions.

“Wha—?” she began as Draco drew his finger to her lips. Theo’s awake, he mouthed and felt
himself break into tears as he watched the pure euphoria spread over Hermione’s face. She quietly
shifted in bed such that her back was against Draco’s chest, both of them surreptitiously watching
the reunion of Theo and Otto.

Or so Draco hoped. Aside from establishing that Theo recognized Otto and knew his name, they
hadn’t yet determined whether the Theo they knew and loved was still in there. And so Draco held
his breath as Otto brought his head back up from Theo’s chest, the two wizards’ eyes falling upon
each other once more.

Theo reached slowly out, his hand brushing Otto’s cheek. “Merlin, Otto, you look like shite,”
Theo commented. “I mean, what the fuck? You’re supposed to be the pretty one.”

Ladies and gentlemen, Theo Nott is in the building.

Draco felt Hermione hold back a laughing sob as Otto chuckled and leaned forward, gently kissing
Theo as he ran his hand through Theo’s hair. When their kiss ended, Otto lingered there, his hand
still weaved through Theo’s locks, foreheads pressed together. “Don’t ever scare me like that
again, Theo,” he whispered, softly brushing his lips against Theo’s again. He paused, holding
Theo’s stare for a long time. “Love of my life.”

“What?” Theo gasped.

“Yes, Theodore,” he sighed, his hand tracing Theo’s jawline. Otto paused, quickly kissing Theo
again before continuing. “Do you remember that first night—when Ernst asked you to help me
make cocktails?”

“Of course,” Theo responded softly.

Otto snickered to himself for a moment. “When I passed you the cocktail shaker, your hand came
over mine for a moment. And then I left the kitchen for a bit—do you remember that?”
Theo nodded.

“I went into the bathroom and threw up I was so nervous,” Otto confessed, as he and Theo both
broke into laughter. “Merlin, Theo, I know it sounds insane. But from the moment I saw you—
you tore my heart from my chest and it was never mine again. Only yours.”

Draco buried his head into Hermione’s back to stifle his sobs, her body quaking against his with
equal ferocity.

“It’s mad, Theo, I know. But I want you to know—from the moment I saw you, I felt like I was
home. And the past five or six months have done nothing but confirm that. And maybe you don’t
—.”

“Me too,” Theo whispered, taking Otto’s hand and brushing his lips against his fingers. “You’re
all I could ever want.” Several moments passed as the two just continued to stare at each other.

“God, I should go get Michael and let him know you’re awake,” Otto said, his logical side
breaking through the moment. “Theo, are you in pain?”

“Not anymore,” Theo responded, his lips capturing Otto’s with such intensity you would have a
hard time believing the wizard had been on death’s door not several days earlier. Theo slowly
scooted to the side of the bed, making room for Otto to join him, which he did. Their kiss
deepened and Draco felt himself begin to blush, playfully bringing a hand over Hermione’s eyes.

“If you’re hoping for a peep show, perverts, I regret to inform you I don’t think I’m yet limber
enough for such activities,” Theo said, briefly breaking away from Otto to look squarely at Draco
and Hermione who regarded him wide-eyed.

Busted.

“Salazar, Granger, do you know how bad your mouth breathing has to be if I can hear you all the
way over here and while my head feels like it’s been trampled by a herd of centaurs?”

Draco threw his head back in laughter as Hermione scoffed indignantly. “I am not a mouth
breather!” she volleyed back.

“Yes you are,” Draco whispered, dusting a kiss behind her ear. Her head twisted back toward him,
her eyes narrow. “That big brain of yours needs all the oxygen it can get. And it’s adorable,” he
chuckled, quickly kissing her. “I love it.”

Hermione turned back over, her eyes meeting Theo’s as the devilish glint in his eyes faded to
something more serene. “Thank you, Granger,” he said, his voice steady but solemn. “For saving
me. Every time.” He reached his arm out, crossing the distance between his bed and the one
Draco and Hermione shared, Hermione’s hand meeting his halfway, both of them falling asleep
with their hands still entwined.

***

Draco woke with a start, sensing eyes on him. And there were.

“Ginny, what the fuck?!” he exclaimed, careful not to wake a sleeping Hermione who was still
splayed across his chest. “What are you doing here? It’s not even seven in the morning.”

“Waiting for Sleeping Beauty here to wake up,” she jested.

“Well, I’m awake now. What did you need?” Draco replied, smirking.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Heading back to the Burrow today,” she said, the amusement leaving her
expression. “We need to prepare for…” her voice trailed off and Draco’s chest seized.

Charlie’s funeral.

“Anyway,” she sighed, “I just wanted to check in with Hermione before I left. Harry wanted to
drop by too but he got caught up with…everything.”

“Ah, yes,” Draco said. “I bet the Chosen One has his hands full these days.”

She rolled her eyes again. “Speaking of, Draco, a little birdie told me that you pulled the Sword of
Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat?”

Draco groaned, throwing his head back. “Ugh, don’t. It’s all Hermione can talk about.” His eyes
met hers again, which were sparking with delight. “I was not re-sorted into Gryffindor,” he hissed.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Draco,” she mused. “But the Sword of Gryffindor doesn’t
exactly appear out of thin air for Slytherins.”

“It does for this one,” he returned, grinning.

A comfortable silence stretched between them for several minutes before something in Ginny’s
face changed.

“Draco, when’s your birthday?” she asked, an unreadable expression on her face as she appeared to
be turning something over in her mind.

“Uh, June 5. Why?”

She cocked her head at him slightly as if disappointed, and then waived it off. “It’s nothing, just a
silly thought.”

“Thinking of buying me a gift, Gin?” he mused. “I’m afraid most of the material things I desire
might be a bit out of your price range.”

“Prat,” she shot back.

He smirked, continuing. “It’s funny though, you know. Theo and I were actually supposed to be
born on the same day. A year apart, mind you, but still. What are the odds?”

Ginny paused for a moment, her expression once again becoming unreadable. She remained like
that for at least thirty to forty seconds—like she was doing a complex math problem in her head.

“What’s going on in that sizeable Weasley noggin of yours?” Draco asked, a small smile tugging at
his lips as Hermione readjusted, tucking in tighter to him.

Several more moments passed before Ginny answered, albeit with another question.

“Draco, back at Gringotts when they asked for your mother’s PIN and you gave me 073179—
Theo’s birthday?”

“Yeah,” Draco replied, brushing his lips to Hermione’s cheek. “So?”

“So you were supposed to be born on July 31, 1980?”

“Mhmm,” he nodded, adjusting his arm under Hermione. “But I was premature—June 5 instead.
Spent like a month at St. Mungo’s apparently.”

Ginny’s face again turned into something unreadable—a mixture of revelation, confusion, doubt.
“So you should’ve had the same birthday as Harry and Neville.”

“Tch, gross, Ginny,” Draco responded. But her expression still struck him. “I don’t get it. What’s
wrong? Why are you asking me so many sodding questions about my birthday?”

“The Prophecy,” Ginny returned simply.

“Merlin, Ginny, you’ve been spending too much time with Lovegood.”

“No, Draco,” Ginny said insistently. “The Prophecy years ago that led Voldemort to try to kill
Harry. It said that the person who held the power to vanquish Voldemort would be born to those
who had thrice defied him as the seventh month died. July 31. Your due date. And that he would
mark him as his equal.” She tapped her forearm at that last bit, clearly referring to Draco’s Dark
Mark.

“Okay,” Draco said slowly. “But I wasn’t actually born on July 31. And how the fuck does the
rest of that fit me? My parents never defied the Dark Lord. I mean, arguably perhaps my mum did
toward the end but that hardly counts.”

“Okay—not your parents. But you were born into a family that betrayed Voldemort three times,”
Ginny explained.

“I’m still not following,” Draco said, shaking his head.

“Sirius Black, Regulus Black…” Ginny began.

“Andromeda Black,” Draco concluded.

***

Six days after what had been deemed the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco, Hermione, Theo, and Otto left
the school, Theo having nearly completely healed under the dedicated and watchful eye of Michael
Malone. He had a slight hitch in his step now, a break in his knee being so severe that despite
Michael’s best efforts, he couldn’t get it to heal cleanly. But Theo didn’t seem to mind, Otto
having assured him that it made him seem particularly “rugged and sexy.”

But for as anxious as Draco had been to walk out of Hogwarts and begin his new life in earnest, he
quickly learned that Snape’s private quarters had acted as a bit of a cocoon for the foursome,
temporarily shielding them from what awaited them in the real world. Because for all the beauty
that now lived and breathed in this brave, new world, they first had to wade through thickets and
swamps of devastation as the next few weeks were filled with nothing but funerals and memorial
services for their former classmates, professors, Order members, and foreign witches and wizards
who fought alongside them.

Draco had thought they would get easier—like he would numb to them as each successive service
passed. But even the services for those whom Draco did not know well or hadn’t even particularly
cared for in school gutted him, with Charlie’s funeral leaving him so raw that he felt there was
nothing left to him but nerve endings and bone.

They spent those weeks at the Weber estate, a merciful and healing refuge. His mother visited
occasionally, getting along surprisingly well with Annike, although Draco could tell that his
mother’s lingering blood prejudices often stretched Annike’s patience to the limit. But ever the
welcoming and tactful witch, she seemed to hold his mother’s hand as she tried to navigate this
new world. And his mother appeared to soften somewhat to Hermione and Otto, making polite
conversation with them over meals and no longer cringing at the sight of her mother’s ring
dangling around Hermione’s neck.

But as the funerals finally came to an end there came another daunting task: Hermione’s parents.
By faking her own death before the outset of the War, she negated the need to obliviate them,
which would have been difficult if not impossible to reverse. But her parents had believed her dead
for nearly a year, and that level of soul-crushing deception comes with its own brand of near-
irreversible damage. She spent several weeks with them alone, during which time Draco feared he
was starting to lose his mind, wracked every night by night terrors so vivid it generally took some
combination of Theo, Otto, Annike and Ernst hours to calm him down. Most of his nightmares
took the form of his father crucio’ing Hermione, but she always died—either at his father’s hands
or his mother’s. There were also scattered ones of Ginny’s torture, only in Draco’s night terrors,
his cowardice won out and he let Bellatrix kill her. And then there was Charlie. He wasn’t sure if
he could even call those night terrors as much as they were simply memories, but they were
terrifying nonetheless.

And then arrived another horrifying undertaking: meeting Hermione’s parents. They were less
than thrilled by the pairing to say the least, having predictably heard plenty about Draco over the
years, exactly none of it good. While it was clear that Hermione had primed her parents and
explained Draco’s shift in beliefs and character, their reception was icy at best. Draco sat down
with her parents the first night—sans Hermione—to apologize for giving their eighteen-year-old
daughter a ring without seeking their consideration first, for which they appeared grateful but also
told him in no uncertain terms that if he was seeking their permission now, their answer was a
resounding no. Draco wasn’t seeking their approval per se—he would marry Hermione with or
without it—but on their last day with her parents he did broach the subject again and received a
detached we’ll think about it.

Progress is progress.

They were, however, kind enough to let Hermione and Draco spend two weeks at their summer
cottage on the Isle of Man. After nearly two years of having to keep their relationship hidden,
Draco thought he would want nothing more than to spend every waking moment in public with
Hermione, showing the world that she was his and he was hers. But after the emotional torture of
the past month, his fractured soul craved nothing more than time alone with her in a remote cottage
on a tiny island at the edge of summer.

***

Theo had warned Draco about the literal ills of ferry travel, but Draco still found himself
unprepared for it—emptying his entire stomach contents into the Irish Sea during the two-and-a-
half hour voyage, Hermione chuckling while she rubbed his back. His queasiness only escalated
when Hermione began driving them to their destination.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he gasped, drawing his hand over his eyes. “You’re as shite at driving as you
are on a broom.”

“Oh, shush,” she chided, narrowly avoiding a line of garbage bins tucked close to the shoulder of
the road.

Draco’s nerves calmed as they made their way out of town and into the countryside, the road
opening up and winding through the rolling hills. He reached over and took her free hand in his.
“I love you so much,” he whispered, dusting a kiss to her knuckles. She turned to him and smiled,
the evening sun turning her hair a rich copper as the breeze through the open car window whipped
her curls around her face. Gods, it was without a doubt the most beautiful vision he had ever seen.

That is until they arrived at their destination—Hermione’s summer cottage.

“There it is,” she said brightly, his head turning to follow her line of sight. And in that moment,
the earth, the heavens, and the cosmos all stopped and cracked as time itself stood still.

“Stop the car,” he breathed, barely a sound. “Hermione,” he said louder, although still a whisper.
“Stop the car.” He could feel the concern draw upon her face as the car rolled to a reluctant stop.
He slowly opened the passenger side door, his knees buckling as his eyes landed upon a small,
thatched-roof cottage, settled at the crest of a heathered hill, the long grasses twisting as a salty
breeze rolled over the hill, the sound of waves and seabirds echoing in the distance.

He dropped to his knees, tears beginning to stream down his face.

Hermione appeared at his side, lacing one hand through his and bringing the other to his face
where her honey eyes met his.

All this time, she had always been home.

 Epilogue

Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, now-Headmaster McGonagall allowed all students who
were or would’ve been Seventh Years in the year leading up to the Battle to sit for their
N.E.W.T.S. without any need for further academic instruction. Nearly all such students who
survived the Battle took their exams, with Hermione, Draco, Theo, Harry, Ron, Pansy, Blaise, and
Daphne all passing without issue.

Harry and Ginny were the first to wed, just one year after Ginny graduated. Despite their young
age and respective Quidditch schedules—both were drafted to professional teams, Harry to the
Falmouth Falcons and Ginny to the Holyhead Harpies—they quickly gave birth to their first child:
a son they named James Rubeus. He was Molly’s and Arthur’s second grandson, the first born just
eight months after the Battle of Hogwarts: a wild child with curly, red hair and a love for dragons.
Charles Prewett Weasley Jr.

In typical Weasley fashion, Harry and Ginny didn’t stop at one, having another son and a
daughter: Sirius Charles and Lily Minerva.

Despite Draco’s prediction to the contrary, he and Harry did become mates. Never mates like
Draco and Theo, but the two shared a close bond after the Battle and the ensuing media coverage,
Ginny having “accidentally” leaked to the Daily Prophet that the Prophecy of the Chosen One also
arguably applied to Draco Malfoy, and the media had an absolute field day (truthfully, more like a
field year) with the poetic juxtaposition of the Hero and the Villain who “saved” the Wizarding
World.

Ron stayed with Astoria. After their time together healing Theo, Snape and Michael Malone struck
up a close, professional relationship and soon developed a healing potion that, while unable to
bring Astoria completely back to her former self—for example, she was prone to forget that she left
the oven on or exactly what day of the week it was—but the best parts of her were still there. They
had a single child: a daughter they named Michaela, for whom Snape was a godfather.

While once critical of Slughorn’s suggestion that Narcissa Malfoy would’ve made an excellent
potioneer, Pansy’s love for Astoria led her to assist Snape and Michael Malone in developing the
healing potion. And it was during this period of potion creation that Pansy and Michael Malone
fell in love. Although eight years her senior, the tenderness of Michael seemed to sooth the fire
that had always ravaged the best parts of Pansy. They wed five years after she graduated from
Hogwarts, with Pansy going on to become a Healer of equal status as her husband.

The War and the pressures around it over, Blaise and Daphne never wed. They remained close
friends, grateful for the salvation that they had once provided for each other, but found true love in
other witches and wizards that they respectively met after their graduation from Hogwarts.

***

Hermione indeed began her career in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical
Creatures. She didn’t stay there long though. With Tonks’s assistance, Hermione successfully
lobbied Kinglsey to create a new Ministry department: The Department of Non-Discrimination
and Equal Opportunity, aimed at creating laws and regulations to combat blood purism,
homophobia, anti-Semitism, and other prejudices in the Wizarding world. Given Hermione’s
young age—she was only twenty-one when the Department was created—Kingsley made her and
Tonks, who had left her position as an Auror, co-heads of the Department.
Despite being the youngest Department heads the Ministry had ever seen, Hermione and Tonks
were also, unsurprisingly, the most successful, drafting legislation after legislation protecting
historically oppressed Wizarding groups, most of which Kingsley readily signed into law.

And violations of those new, anti-discrimination laws were vigorously litigated, most often by a
non-profit organization of barristers headed by one Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Shortly after Theo passed his N.E.W.T.S, he and Otto moved to Rothenburg ob der Tauber where
Theo soon became the second-youngest professor ever offered a permanent position at
Waldeinsamkeit. He taught Magical Chemistry, a class reserved only for those students who
excelled at Magical Physics. Per Otto, he was the most popular professor the school had ever seen,
attracting dozens more students to Otto’s class for hope that they might be selected to work under
Theo’s tutelage.

With the ease of Floo travel, the two couples still found ample opportunity to visit each other,
Draco and Hermione becoming regulars at the Regulation’s Friday night dinners at the Weber
estate. Which was fortunate, because Ernst had recently left his prior position at the German
Ministry to form and head the sister department to the British Ministry’s Department of Non-
Discrimination and Equal Opportunity, and he and Hermione often stayed up late on Friday
evenings working on legislation together.

On June 1, 2003, the German Ministry repealed its law allowing marriage between only a witch
and a wizard. The following evening as Draco and Hermione ate dinner, their Floo activated and
Otto strode through, his expression unreadable.

“Is everything okay?” Draco and Hermione gasped, both rapidly standing at the same time.

Fine, fine, Otto mouthed, apparently unable to summon sound to his words as tears began to escape
his eyes. He quickly reached into his suit pocket, producing a small box that contained a simple
but elegant silver band.

“It felt wrong not to ask for your blessing,” Otto whispered. “Although, I must warn you, I’m
asking him regardless.”

Draco and Hermione both chuckled. “Oh my gods, of course, Otto!” she gushed, flinging her arms
around him as the two wept. Otto’s eyes then moved to Draco, a seed of doubt in them. True,
Draco and Otto shared a deep respect for each other and a true bond, but there was still a hardness
and pragmatism to Draco that brought the two wizards head-to-head sometimes. Even so, Draco
believed, Otto was truly the only wizard on the planet that came close to deserving Theo.

“You don’t need my blessing, Otto,” Draco said slowly. “But you have it and more.”

Otto left shortly thereafter, and Draco’s head rolled toward Hermione, a devilish smirk on his face.
“Looks like you’re gonna have to finally marry me, Granger,” he growled, pulling her into a fierce
embrace and kissing her passionately.

Because while she had eventually started to wear the ring he gave her on her left hand as opposed
to around her neck, Hermione had refused to actually wed Draco until Theo and Otto could do so
legally as well.

***

Months later, Draco stood in a boutique in Berlin as he and Theo got their tuxedos fitted ahead of
Theo’s wedding.
“I was thinking about doing a dual sort of situation,” Theo shrugged.

“Theo, that is the dumbest sodding thing I have heard,” Draco replied. “You can’t have us both.
It’s designated ‘best’ for a reason. There can only be one.”

“But I can’t chose!” Theo exclaimed.

“You can chose,” Draco returned, a smile breaking across his face. “You just don’t want to.
Because you will choose her, and you don’t want to hurt my feelings. But you won’t. Because it’s
still an honor. Perhaps an even greater one than if you chose me.”

Theo nodded, tears in his eyes, as he hugged Draco.

And so it was Hermione Granger who stood next to Theodore Nott when he married Otto Neuhaus
on a sunny day in May on the Weber estate in a traditional Jewish ceremony. And it surprised
absolutely no one that when they adopted a son several years later, they named him Granger.

Draco and Hermione wed several months after Theo and Otto in a small ceremony at her parents’
cottage on the Isle of Man, forsaking the traditional vows with one simple line: “We began, and
we saw it through no matter what.”

***

Two years after they wed, Hermione became pregnant with their first child, although she
predictably did not let it slow her down.

“Granger,” Draco said, addressing her with the name he used when she still managed to find ways
to boggle his mind even after twelve years together. “Ginny told me that she thought you were in
labor. Is that right?”

She winced and exhaled deeply before she answered, frantically scribbling something onto the
parchment in front of her. “Yes,” she said plainly. “But I very much need to finish this proposed
legislation. Draco, if I don’t get this written out before I go on maternity leave—.”

And the rest of her statement was lost in the haze that was his absolute, crippling love for her.
“Granger,” he soothed, bringing his hand over hers. “How about this: Potter and Ginny are
outside in their car. We get into the car now, you dictate, and I’ll write. And I’ll see to it that it’s
on Kingsley’s desk when he arrives tomorrow morning.”

She winced again, this time squeezing his hand. “Alright,” she huffed. “If you promise it will be
waiting for him when he arrives in the morning.”

“I promise,” Draco whispered, pulling her upright and kissing her before they shuffled into Harry’s
and Ginny’s car.

Their first son came not more than minutes after they arrived. A boy they named Theodore
Charles—Teddy for short.

In very un-Malfoy-like fashion, two girls followed in quick succession: Annike Radley and
Ginevra Scout. All had Draco’s silver-blonde hair, but with Hermione’s stunning curls and
devastating honey eyes.

Hermione and Draco often debated what house their kids would have been sorted, never able to
agree on whether it would have been Gryffindor or Slytherin. They would never know, however,
because Minerva McGonagall destroyed the Sorting Hat after the Battle of Hogwarts.
“Let them decide who they are or who they want to be. That’s the magic of youth.”

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