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Chapter Text

Someone was in the house. 

Hermione could hear them moving around downstairs: the tinkling of breaking glass, a muffled thump of something dropped on thick carpet, shuffling steps that were nothing like the heavy footfalls that actually belonged here. The clock said Ron shouldn't be home for another two hours. Sometimes he was late but not early. Never early. 

She thought for a moment to call out at the noise, maybe it was Neville or Ginny, come over for an early dinner. Sometimes they came to visit, but it had been a long time, and besides, she'd almost forgotten the wards. They couldn't get through the wards without Ron. Well, maybe Ginny could. She and Ron shared blood after all. . . but if blood wards couldn't keep out anyone related to you that seemed like terribly shoddy construction. . . and surely Molly would have shown up at some point to tidy up after Ron, or cook him dinner. Hermione was sure she would remember that at least.

For a moment she wondered if they’d come to steal the rare texts waiting for her in the library. The folios of ministry documents were old, and the information was priceless. . .No. No one but her cared about the correlation between dates of legislation and department meetings.

She needed to focus. Now was not the time to be debating blood wards with herself or trying to save crumbling secretarial diaries. She needed to get out of the open. 

It was hard to move, to do anything. Her limbs were loose and sluggish, the gin made them that way. It was an unfortunate side effect of the way it made her stop feeling things so much. Most of the time that was fine. She didn't go much of anywhere or do much of anything. This had evidently been the wrong day to go on a bender.

She was always afraid, but it had been a long time since she felt the urgency of fear that came with reality. Panic was different. Her mind and her body betrayed her, running away with a stray thought or noise and boxing her in until she was nothing but an empty rush of adrenaline with no fight or flight instinct to speak of, crying and shaking apart as she waited for it to pass. This fear was tangible. It stilled the shriek that wanted to rise from her throat and sharpened her addled brain. Was this how she'd done all those things during the war? How she'd ridden a dragon and stabbed a horcrux and survived? This feeling? 

It almost felt good. 

Almost, until her brain told her to find Harry, put her back to him so they made each other less vulnerable. It was just a moment and then she remembered. Harry didn't have her back anymore. He was dead. Harry had been dead a long time. Antonin Dolohov had cursed him with that terrible purple fire, unsilenced and full power, just after he'd somehow survived a second killing curse. He'd been taken unawares while he watched Voldemort's body collapse and her protego had been too late, just a shimmering film sliding into place as he clutched his chest, his face a mask of pained confusion. 

She didn't need to find Harry.

She needed to move without whoever was downstairs hearing her. There were wards. Ron would have felt them go down; they were keyed to his blood, so breakable or not, he'd feel it. 

Ron was coming. 

For just a moment her attention drifted to the balcony window. The wards ended outside that door. Ginny had even put a broom out there, just in case Hermione ever needed a quick escape. She'd insisted when Hermione splinched herself the last time she’d tried to apparate wandless and panicked because she thought Ron coming home early had been an intruder. All Hermione would have to do is make it to the ground safely, the broom would help her fall slower. She didn't really need to fly it.

No, the closet was just as close, she could hide in there. Better to stay inside, stay still. If she did that it wouldn't matter if she panicked and couldn't move anymore. There would be cover. That was the logical thing to do, the thing any smart witch would do.

At least that's what Hermione told herself. 

She slid her clumsy, socked feet across the bare hardwood floors, grateful that Ron had removed the rug one of the times she'd fallen over it in a stupor. The closet was just a few feet away, she just had to make it without falling, crawl into the pile of dirty clothes and be still. It had been a month since she’d done the laundry, they might not even see her in the mess if they opened the door.

A sudden creak on the stairs made her jerk with fear as she reached the closet. She had to hurry. 

The clothes smelled stale and musty and she was suddenly very worried that a spider or two might have made their home in the pile, but it would do. It would have to. Her wand was in the closet somewhere too. In a box up above the hangers so she didn't have to look at it every day. She could reach it if she tried, it was close to the edge. She wouldn't even need a step stool, or maybe she could if she wasn't drunk. No, she could fake it if someone found her. If she was lucky maybe her hair would even throw sparks. The wand wasn't worth risking a fall. 

She couldn't use it anyway. 

She settled down into the pile of clothes, grateful that she could pull a balled up nightdress over her head so that she couldn't see the interior of the closet. If she couldn't see the place she chose to hide, then maybe she wouldn’t have to feel the disgust that settled in her stomach, telling her she should have the courage to run for it. 

Ron was in a tiny, disgusting flat in Liverpool, dueling a tiny, disgusting wizard, when he felt someone breach the wards on the house. 

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, a chill running down his spine as the grimy little man almost landed a jinx on him. 

He took cover behind an overturned sofa and ran through his options. He didn't really think this bloke was dangerous; he'd come on a search warrant not expecting anything but a bit of grumbling when he went to look for the boomslang skin they'd gotten a tip-off about. The guy was supposed to be a fence, not muscle or an expert duelist. Ron didn't even normally run controlled substances cases, he'd joined the Aurors to protect people against dark wizards, and so far there'd been more than enough of those around to keep him busy. He'd only taken this investigation because boomslang was used in polyjuice, and he knew firsthand what kind of nasty business you could get up to with it. 

He, Harry, and Hermione had meant well when they'd used it, but it was dangerous. 

One of the other Aurors had once gotten a call from a witch who'd come home to find her ex in bed where her husband should have been napping. It turned out he'd forgotten his polyjuice, had the husband locked away in the cellar like Crouch had done to Moody in his trunk all of fourth year. 

If he left now he'd be letting an ingredient for a potion that could ruin lives slip out onto the streets. But Hermione was all alone in the house and she couldn't cast a lumos much less duel her way out, and she wouldn't run. He couldn't even get her to step out on her bloody balcony for a cup of tea. He couldn't even get her to open a window.

He dug into his pocket and tossed out a handful of Peruvian instant darkness powder, bolted out the front door, cast a basic containment ward, and tried to dredge up a happy thought, settling on fifth year, Hermione's face glowing as they learned this charm for the first time and a happy silver otter spun around her. His misty terrier sped off towards DMLE headquarters and he spun on his heel, apparating into his living room at what he was sure was record speed, wand at the ready as his feet touched down, not giving himself the luxury of feeling the queasiness.

The room was absolutely trashed. Whoever had been here hadn't been worried about it being a secret. The vase his mother had given them to use for floo powder was broken on the hearth, a single shoe print perfectly imprinted in the dust. The side table by Hermione's favorite reading chair was knocked over onto the rug, which was wrinkled, one corner flipped up haphazardly.

Ron silently cast a homenem revelio and breathed a sigh of relief when a single soft glow floated to the stairs. One person in the house, upstairs. He followed the marker up to her room, and through, into her closet. 

“Mione, Mione, it's me,” he whispered softly, squatting in the doorway and digging through the massive pile of clothes at the bottom of the closet, “It's just me. Whoever it was is gone.” 

She was shaking from holding back her sobs by the time he finally pulled off the last piece of laundry covering her face. Her voice raspy and choked as she said, “I've got my wand pointed straight at your bollocks.” Her hand was dug down into the remainder of the pile, stretched out towards him. It was a pretty convincing charade all told, her hair was sparking and despite the crying her face was all hard and determined in a way that made him want to check around him for little yellow birds.  “If you're Ron Weasley then tell me what we fought about third year.” 

Ron resisted the petty urge to answer that even if she had her wand pointed at his bollocks it wouldn't matter, lie or not it was good to see a spark of fight in her at all. 

“We fought because that ugly orange beast of yours was trying to kill my rat. I've got over it now though, seeing as Scabbers turned out to be a bit of a twat.” 

She clambered out of the pile of clothes faster than he would have imagined possible and wrapped her arms around his neck, the overwhelming smell of gin and anxious sweat making him want to cry now that the adrenaline of running home was wearing off. She must have had a hell of a day. 

He whispered gruffly into the snarled cloud of her hair, “Did you see them, Hermione? I swear I'll get a pensieve here if you need it. If you got even a glimpse we'll get this bastard.” 

“Didn't. . .see. . . anything,” She choked out between sobs, never moving her face from the crook of his neck. “I'm s-sso s-ss-sorry!” 

“It's okay,” He assured her, arms wrapped tight around her, kicking himself for every decision he'd made in his entire life. 

He shouldn't have taken an all day mission. He should have made Bill reset the wards at the beginning of the year — blood barriers needed to be replenished, he knew better than to let them fade. He should have let someone cast a fidelius charm. He shouldn't be hugging her so tight. He never should have left her and Harry back during the war. 

He held her long after the sobs had subsided to the shakes that told him to summon her gin from the bedside table, cradling his best friend in his lap and helping her drink so she wouldn't chip her teeth on the glass when her hands trembled. 

“It's going to be ok.” He kept his voice soft, mind running a mile a minute as he tried to think of how to make good on what he was saying. “I'm going to take care of it, Mione. I'm going to take care of everything. I won't leave you alone again. I promise.”

“Malfoy,” a grizzled looking witch called from behind the main desk. “You're up.” 

Another interview with the Aurors, another job completed, another scramble until he could find a new client. 

Draco wondered as he walked through the rows of desks who was interviewing him today. Maybe Dawlish or Kent, they'd carted off the bloke he'd caught, once the Aurors finally managed to show up at Shillings and Skint, twenty-some-odd minutes after their alarm had gone off. They'd been robbed ten times in the last year. The last time someone had cast some kind of nasty slicing hex at the owner when he tried to run them off. They should've been enough of a priority to warrant a swift response to their alarm. 

Perhaps he shouldn't complain. After all, their incompetence was his profit. No one hired mercenary protection when the Aurors could be counted on to show up when they were needed. Still though, the level of mismanagement grated on him. They were understaffed and pulled a dozen different ways by minor crimes that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Honestly, who cared if someone was getting together with a dozen other chaps to do hallucinogenic mushrooms when there were still Death Eaters on the loose. And not just him. 

“Oi! Malfoy,” a dreadfully familiar voice called from the back corner. “I've got you today.” 

Lovely . Draco thought. Just Lovely .

Weasley's desk was a mess, which it had been every time Draco had had the misfortune to see it and the big man looked like he hadn't slept in days. 

“I didn't realize you were on the Shillings case.” 

Weasley fell back into his chair. “I'm not. I gave Dawlish my seat to the next Harpies match for it.” 

“You miss me that much, Weasel?” Draco asked as he took the only other seat in the cramped cubicle, hoping the old nickname pissed the other man off enough that he wouldn't want to be in close quarters again.

“Not particularly, Ferret, but I know this case is open and shut and we just need your statement because you brought the guy down. Priori incantatum confirmed he cast the glass cutting charms on the front cases,” Weasley rambled, thumbing through the file quickly before signing a few pages and shutting it up again. “I'll need you to sign that before you leave, but first I need to talk to you about a job.” 

“You're an Auror. What kind of job could you have for someone in my line of work?” Draco asked, leaning back in his own chair and trying not to let his interest show. 

Because he was interested. Ron Weasley, sworn enemy of all things Malfoy, had a job that needed doing and he came to Draco? It was like cats and dogs lying down together, not something you see every day. Besides, it would be more entertaining to turn Weasley down once he knew some details. 

“I'm not going to be an Auror much longer,” Weasley replied quietly, half looking over his shoulder to make sure the next cubicle over was clear. “Half the work is bringing people in for things I don't even think should be illegal, and I'm always at work. It's going to take some time to wrap up loose ends here though, and to settle myself into another job that pays the bills. Until then I need someone on a protection detail at my home.” 

“Suddenly in possession of something valuable? What a unique experience for you,” Draco scoffed, already sure he wouldn't be interested. There was no way this asshole had enough galleons to make housesitting worth his time. 

“Malfoy, we both know that you aren't so flush yourself after all the reparations your family paid out.” 

“What do you have that is worth hiring muscle to protect, Weasley?” 

Weasley’s jaw tightened in a way that made Draco think that the other man might tell him to fuck off before whispering, “Hermione.” 

Dammit , Draco cursed his bad luck. With Granger involved there might actually be something interesting. He kept his tone casually scathing, a habit perfected over a lifetime. “Granger lives with you? I thought she'd gone off to the States to work with some human rights organization?” 

“Neville, Ginny, and I started that rumor about six months after the war,” Weasley explained, nothing moving except his mouth, his hands clasped tight, on the desk. “When strangers started noticing that Hermione was never around to get ambushed by the papers like the rest of us. She hasn't left our house since she first stepped foot in it two years ago. Before that we lived in a tiny flat that she didn't leave for about a year. When we first moved in there she still went out to go to the pub down the road, but then she stopped being able to cast a decent glamour and started doing her drinking at home.” 

That surprised Draco. He would have assumed that she wouldn't accept anything stronger than butterbeer, she was too concerned with preserving that big brain of hers. “She's a drunk?” 

“It's more than that. She's terrified of being outside, or anywhere new. As far as I can tell, the drinking is a symptom of the problem, not the cause. Her brain's busy, just like always—” A small smile broke the hard look Weasley had been holding since he started spilling his guts. “But now it's all bad things in there. She has these bloody awful nightmares almost every night. Sometimes she's awake but I can tell she's not really there.” 

“Why haven't you gotten her some help?” Draco asked, honestly curious. Weasley might be an idiot but he wasn't cruel. 

“She's got a mind healer who visits, but she's a natural occlumens, whatever that means. Last time he tried to get in and fix anything her nose started bleeding and she couldn't talk for three days. Tried a Muggle therapist too, if you know what that is. They try to talk through problems with people, get their heads on straight. She threw a bottle of gin at the lady's head when she suggested Hermione 'might not be thinking rationally.'” 

Draco laughed hard at that image: Granger all puffed up, hair standing out on end and tossing her booze at a poor Muggle just trying to help her. He couldn't remember the last thing he'd thought was so funny. 

“Sounds like Granger,” Draco said once he caught his breath. “I'll admit it's sort of horrifying to hear that the brains of your operation are no longer in working order, but I'm no better at wiping up vomit than your mother. What do you need me for?” 

“No one knows she's still in the country except Ginny and Neville.” Weasley's eyes locked with Draco's in a way that made it impossible for him to miss that the sentence silently ended with and now you. “Bill doesn't even know, and he set the wards on my house. She doesn't want anyone to know she's like this. You never liked her anyway, so she won't be worried that you'll think less of her and. . .” Weasley paused for a long time before continuing, like it took something from him to admit what he had to say next. “Someone  broke into our house while I was out on the job. I'm having the wards reset today, but I can't leave her alone. She can't work a wand right now.” His eyes weren't meeting Draco's anymore and Draco found he was glad for it, because he couldn't have hid the shock on his face if he'd tried. Granger really was badly off if she couldn't cast at all. “She can't defend herself. I like your reputation. I can't remember the last time someone got past you when you took on work. When I asked the secretary to pull the closed cases with your name in the allies list, the stack was nearly as tall as I am.” 

“I don't come cheap.” 

“I'm not poor anymore, Malfoy,” Weasley spat, that temper Draco remembered finally rearing its ugly head. Seemed like that was still a sore spot, if Draco poked it hard enough. “Harry left me everything that was in the Potter vault. I got an Order of Merlin first class. I make a decent living.” 

Draco wanted to tell Weasley no. 

Day after day for who knew how long, trapped with not just Granger, but drunken, batty Granger, didn't sound like a good time to him. But a quick mental tally told him he didn't have much choice. He'd sent his mother most of the upfront money from Shillings and Skint. He could go stay with her until more work came up, but if he was honest with himself spending days being fawned over by his mother and the two house elves who refused to leave her side didn't sound particularly appealing either. Especially since she'd decided they'd mourned his father long enough for her to start searching for a proper marriage prospect for him. She hadn’t yet seemed to catch on to the fact that he didn't have proper prospects anymore. No one wanted to marry someone with no social or monetary capital. 

He'd been on the job for the jewelry store so long he'd let his flat go and started living out of a bag. So his only other option would be to use up the second part of this job's money letting a room until something came along, and hoping it didn't eat up his entire profit. 

At least babysitting Granger he might get the chance to hex someone.

“Okay then,” Draco finally said, not quite sure how long he'd been sitting there debating the merits, “when do I start?” 

“Tomorrow. Be out in the atrium first thing in the morning. As soon as they open the doors.” Ron dragged a hand across his face as he mumbled to himself.  “I just have to find a way to tell Hermione first.” 

Draco didn't envy him that.

Chapter Text

Hermione was not just awake but downstairs waiting when Ron got home the next day, which evidently shocked him so much that he knocked over a lamp when she said hello. 

“Bloody Hell, Hermione!” he hissed as he righted the lamp and set down the carry-out he'd brought home.

Her mouth moved slowly as she tried to respond and she suddenly regretted the glass of gin she'd poured for herself once she was settled downstairs “Sorry, thought you'd seen me.” 

“S'okay. I just wasn't expecting to see you down before I got home.” 

“The clock said you should be home.” The look on his face made her remember that clocks had more than one meaning to him, not that she had any way to look at the Weasley kitchen clock. “The time.”

She knew she sounded worse than normal. She was barely coherent, slurring her words and swaying in her seat. The look on his face told her she'd made another mistake. He knew that she should know exactly when he should be home. It was one of the little rituals that marked her day: wake up, brush teeth, check for notes on her calendar to see when Ron would be home. She'd forgotten. The calendar was in the library and she'd gotten out of bed too late to work on anything. 

Ron looked worried. 

That meant he probably had left her a note on her calendar to remind her he was on afternoon shift and wouldn't be home til dinner. She knew the next beats of this fight like the back of her hand. If she wasn't looking at the calendar, how could he even be sure she'd taken her medications? As if she would forget the potion to protect her liver and her birth control pills. She didn't fancy having cirrhosis, or her period for that matter. She was in enough pain without cramps that laid her up for days. 

She must have been lucky today because instead of yelling at her Ron just sighed. “You need a sober-up.” 

“I like being drunk,” she quipped. 

“Yeah, well, I need you to be able to talk to me—” He held up a hand before she could take another dig. “—I know you're talking now, but you need to remember this conversation tomorrow.” 

He dug around in the kitchen cabinet until he found one of the sickly yellow sobering potions. He used to keep a lot of them around, so she could clear her mind even if she couldn't flush her system, but she hardly ever took them. He only kept a few in the house now, and Hermione thought that even he could admit that they were wishful thinking on his part. 

If she wanted to be sober she wouldn't drink.

She swallowed down the concoction without arguing any further, which was a novel experience. Normally she fought him tooth and nail until he nearly had to force it down her throat, but he was clearly trying, and she figured she should too. After all, she could get drunk again if necessary.

“This is as sober as I get,” she muttered, fighting through the quickened wave of nausea that would have been tomorrow morning’s hangover. “What now, Ronald?” 

“Now we eat dinner and have a conversation.” 

Her stomach lurched at the idea of opening up the pungent boxes of curry. “I'm not hungry.” 

“Well, I'm eating dinner even if you won't.” He opened up the container of tikka masala and even through her nausea it looked mouthwatering enough to tempt her into picking up the box of palak paneer. “I've got some news, and you aren't going to like it.” 

“You're supposed to bring good news along with the bad aren't you?” 

“Well, some of it is good. At least I think so.” Ron paused, not quite looking at her. “I'm quitting my job.”

“I'm proud of you. Policing is mostly about enforcing unjust laws on the less privileged.” 

They ate in silence for a long while but Hermione could see that the tips of his ears were beet red, even in the dim light of the sitting room. He was embarrassed. She wondered if it was because he felt like a quitter or because she'd complimented him.

“You know, that's exactly what you said when I joined up,” Ron said, finally breaking the silence and offering her the tikka masala in exchange for her box of spinach. “I should have listened. I just really thought it would be like during the war, stopping really bad people from hurting everyone else.” 

She couldn't help but smile. It had been a long time since he'd admitted she was right about anything, but she had known that he wouldn't like being law enforcement when he took up the Ministry's offer to go straight to work with the Aurors. He hadn't even liked being a prefect. Ron liked rules to be straightforward and obviously necessary, and very little of wizarding law could be called that. Most of it wasn't even beneficial to anyone.

Given the choice, Hermione thought that maybe she would be doing something to change that. Her research would certainly come handy in repealing some of the worst laws. She'd been looking into the history of the Statute of Secrecy as it related to Muggle-borns recently and she could definitely see how it had influenced the mania for blood purity. 

Her mind drifted as she considered that the law might also be at the root of some anti-werewolf legislation when she realized that Ron was still explaining himself. “—I'll  be around more, and I'll be able to get home faster too. It's mostly that I hate the job though.” 

“So that's the good news.” She plastered a big smile on her face and hoped he didn't realize that she'd missed some of his explanation while lost in her own thoughts. “Let's get the bad out of the way then.” 

“I'm getting the wards redone. It's going to take a while though since Bill and Fleur are both out of the country. . .” Ron hesitated, tearing a piece of naan into tiny bits as he fidgeted. “Until it's handled I can't leave you here alone. So I hired a bodyguard.” 

Her body went cold. 

A bodyguard. Someone else. In her house. Everyday. 

No.

“Ron—” 

“Hermione, let me finish giving the bad news before you tear my head off, alright? I don't need the lecture twice.” Ron interrupted, grabbing the container of chicken out of her hands and setting it down on the table “It's Draco Malfoy.” 

Hermione had felt chilled just hearing she was going to have to act like a functioning human being for a few days. As soon as Ron said Malfoy's name, she went from feeling chilled to feeling like ice water had been pumped into her veins. The silence that followed was palpable and heavy like the moment before a thunderclap. 

“Why him?” she asked through gritted teeth, her fingers digging into the plush arms of the chair as she fought the urge to rock in place.

“Because he's good at it.” Ron rushed to explain, kneeling down in front of her so that even with her face pointed to the ground she could see the sincerity in his eyes. “He hires out as security and he does good work. No one gets burgled or assaulted on his watch. When he's involved, our solve rate is higher and things get taken care of faster.” 

“What about Neville? Or Ginny? They wouldn't let anything happen to me.” 

More importantly, Neville and Ginny knew what had already happened to her. No one new would have to know that Hermione Granger couldn't even leave her own home. That she hadn't amounted to anything. 

“Nev's a big bloke, I'll give you that, but he isn't a fighter. He's got his own troubles. I'm not going to ask him to leave his students and his greenhouses for this. I know Ginny is a hell of a brawler, but she's trying to make the national team, not to mention she can't take weeks off mid-season and expect to have her spot on the Harpies next year.” 

He was right and Hermione hated him for it, just a little. 

Once upon a time, Ron wouldn't have thought through it this well. When it had just been her and him and Harry, he would have told whoever made things the easiest for him, or at least gone along with what she wanted if she made enough of a fuss. 

She whispered, “I cannot believe you are doing this to me.” 

“Hermione, I don't see any other choice.” He placed his large warm palm over the back of her hand and squeezed. “Do you?” 

It broke her heart a little that he sounded so hopeful as he asked, as if he’d half expected her to have already come up with a plan of her own. She hated that she hadn’t. “I'll be fine here alone.” 

“Oh, so you dug your wand out of your closet and used it today?” Hermione could tell that he was on the verge of screaming at her. His face was turning red as he tried to quietly say the things that most days they pretended weren't true. “Someone broke into our house past blood wards yesterday and you hid in the bottom of the closet.” He squeezed her hand again. “It was smart, so smart, but what if they'd thought to cast a Hominem Revelio ?” 

“I have the broom on my balcony.”

His voice softened. “You can't even open a window, Hermione.” 

She felt a crackle of static fizzle through her hair. Luckily Ron had enough sense not to push further. He waited while she seethed, feet tucked up under her on the plush armchair, yanking back her shaking hand so she could fidget with the rough edge of the upholstery. 

She knew she was acting like a toddler, petulant and unrealistic. He had every right to be angry with her, and the fact that he was sitting at her feet, looking at her so kindly, made it somehow worse. 

“I'm not mad that you can't, Hermione. I don't want you to feel bad about it either, but you aren't the only one who's scared.” He finally said, choosing his words so carefully that it was painful for her to listen to, as if he was trying to diffuse a bomb in his sitting room instead of comfort his best friend. “I just don't want you to get hurt because I didn't take things seriously.” 

She didn't want to get hurt either, and she certainly didn't want Ron to think it was his fault. They'd done enough of that for a lifetime. 

“You trust Malfoy.”

“I do. I know that sounds barmy, but he's not the same guy. And I figured if someone has to see you like this it might be someone who's already seen worse.” 

He had a point there. 

She took a deep breath through her nose, let it out slowly, and said, “Okay.” 

“Brilliant. I'm bringing him in tomorrow.”

Hermione leaned down to pick up her bottle of gin from where she'd left it on the side table and they finished their dinner in silence. Ron didn't even move, turning to sit with his back to her chair, close enough that she could almost see patterns in the freckles on the back of his neck and they could trade the carry-out containers back and forth without stretching at all. It was cozy in the way it could only be when you'd known each other long enough to stop caring about little things like personal space. 

Hermione wondered how long it might be until it was just the two of them again. 

Draco found his newest employer waiting for him at the Ministry bright and early. The wizards at the floo entrances let Draco in just in time to spot the red-headed wizard walking out from a grate farther down the line.

“Morning,” he mumbled as Draco approached, adjusting the rumpled arm of his official robes so that they no longer pulled the garment tight across his broad chest. 

“Good morning,” Draco replied politely, though he couldn't see what was so good about it beyond the prospect of another paying job. 

“Follow me,” Weasley grumbled, making his way through to the exits that would release them directly onto the streets of London. “We'll have to walk for a minute since we've got to apparate. You can't floo in without me.” His face pinched as he paused for a moment. “Or at least you shouldn't be able to.”

“Lead on, then.” 

They walked down the street for quite a way before turning off into an alley that was mostly blocked by bins. The containers of garbage provided a decent barrier to prevent being caught apparating by any Muggles passing by, but the smell turned Draco's already queasy stomach. Side-along apparition was always twice as awful as doing it on your own, and it was as if his guts could sense the coming ordeal. 

To his surprise, Weasley didn't just grab his wrist and pop off. He wrapped one heavy arm around Draco's shoulders before spinning them both around. It was odd. No one Draco had ever known well would do that, not even his mother. There was no need. The only necessary thing to achieve side-along apparition was to hold on tight to your companion.

The casual familiarity left him feeling stiff and uncomfortable, but Weasley clearly didn't think anything of it. He simply dropped his arm when they arrived in a cramped but nicely appointed sitting room, heading straight for a set of stairs tucked off in one corner. 

“Welcome to the Stack,” Weasley huffed as he lumbered up the stairs with Draco following close behind. “It only goes up. Ground floor is nothing but the kitchen, a teeny loo tucked behind the stairs, and this sitting room. The second floor is two bedrooms: one is Hermione's, the other is mine. Next floor up is the library and the big bath. Then we’ve got two empty floors that are sealed up and empty, for if we ever need to expand. The attic up top is the biggest of the bedrooms, we put our guest furniture there because the owls have shelter on the balcony so it needed to be open anyway. You can sleep there. There’s a little Jack and Jill bath between our rooms but we haven't gotten around to putting a loo up top so you'll have to use the third floor.” 

It was bigger than Draco had expected for two people, but still humble by wizarding standards. It was stacked tall but the rooms were modestly sized. They hadn’t gone wild with the enlargement charms. He was glad for that at least. The bigger houses were a nightmare to try and patrol. 

“Do you honestly have three bathrooms in a house this size?” He asked, amused that they'd use up so much space for the facilities. 

“Look, I grew up in a house full of kids with only one bathroom,” Ron said with a laugh as they reached the second floor landing. “I like that I never have to wait, and really it's only two baths. The loo downstairs is just the toilet and sink.” 

Surprisingly, Draco understood that feeling perfectly. The cheap rooms he often let at the Leaky Cauldron when he was between jobs had a single shared bathroom in the hall. “Fair.” 

The landing was small, with a door on either side. The one to the left was open and inside Draco could just make out the silhouette of someone sitting huddled in the middle of the bed. 

“Granger,” he said, hoping his voice remained neutral. 

“Malfoy.” Her reply wasn't slurred or anything else so noticeable, but the wafting smell of gin was a dead giveaway that she wasn't completely sober even this early in the morning. “I can't say it's nice to see you, but hello regardless.”

He didn't know what he'd expected, but it hadn't been this level of venom. The Granger he remembered had a temper but it took a lot to rile her up. Now, the day had barely started and all Draco had done was say her name and she was ready to bite his head off. 

He let his face go carefully blank and rolled his eyes. “The feeling is mutual, but I'm more than happy to collect some galleons and make sure no one takes advantage of your pitiful state.”

“I hope he's paying you well, considering you are having to swallow all that bigoted pride and protect a Mudblood from violence you think she probably deserves.” 

“Granger,” He tried his best to focus on her face despite the distance and the dark. “I don't care at all about your blood status. The war cured me well and good of that prejudice—” He'd meant to stop there but she didn't look like she believed him, or like she cared at all. She wasn't responding to his efforts at being polite, so he might as well give her the truth. “—I just don't like spending my time in the company of drunks.” 

Her voice went up a full octave as she screamed, “Don't you judge me, Draco Malfoy, I'm—”

“I'm not judging you. I think it's sad you ended up like this.”

Little sparks of blue tinged static had started to crackle in her hair, casting her room in a dim, menacing glow. 

Weasley put a hand on his arm and whispered, “That's the only accidental magic she seems to do, and only when she's absolutely raging. Best leave her alone for now, she'll probably be pissed by noon as it is. Go up and get settled in, we'll talk later.” 

The stairs stayed narrow and steep all the way up to the attic. Weasley hadn't been lying when he’d said it was the biggest of the rooms. The slanted roof made the far edges of the room low, but it was more than adequate for the little stationery desk and low chest of drawers. There was a large, comfortable looking bed with a metal frame off to one side of a circular glass-paned door and the rest of the room was a wide open space, occupied only by a truly massive rug. The huge swath of unused floor might make the room look half-finished, but it would suit him just fine. The bed was far bigger than most rooms he ended up letting, and certainly bigger than the transfigured sofas he occupied on most jobs. Having an open space would mean he could do his sparring and dueling exercises in privacy.

It was more than adequate, and since Weasley was sure to be pacifying Granger for a while, he might as well take advantage of the free time and get some sleep. 

Hermione Granger was a bloody nightmare.

That was all Ron could think as he sat in one of the comfortable armchairs in the library and stared at his chess board. 

He'd figured he would have to deal with her nagging him about how a bodyguard wasn't necessary; the nagging would have almost been tolerable. It had been a calculated risk. He could handle a little scolding if it meant she'd be safe. But the lecture never came. She seemed to understand that he'd made the best out of a bad situation. She was just still mad about it and determined that he know it.

She hadn't said a word after Malfoy went upstairs to settle in. She hadn't even left her room, but her opinion of things was still obvious. It was hard not to feel guilty when she turned around and took a deep swig straight from the bottle. 

He would have to double-check her liver regeneration potion supply in the next few days. She wasn't likely to do serious damage all at once, but he'd feel better if he knew she hadn't been skipping it. 

She hadn't come down for dinner and when he'd brought her a plate she'd refused to open the door for him. He’d knocked for nearly five minutes and she still didn’t finally slur, “M'fine, go way,” until he'd threatened to blast it open if she didn't confirm that she was alive and not blacked out. 

He really hoped he wasn't making things worse. 

It was a distinct possibility. 

The mind healer had told him that certain things were touchy. The war, Harry, and her parents were the big ones, and Ron respected that as much as he could. When those subjects came up, almost always at Neville's insistence, or Ginny's, he gave Hermione space and watched for the signs that she wasn't handling it well. The house was safe for her. There were no people fawning over her or asking questions she couldn't answer. The rooms were practical and cozy. There was always plenty of food and she wasn't responsible for keeping anyone or anything alive here except herself. She was free to come and go as she pleased, even if she didn't take advantage of that freedom. The only person who made demands on her was her mind healer. 

It was hard to manage but it was working. Hermione was doing research again, and she loved it. She'd started having accidental magic again, even if it was just little sparks that didn't do much of anything. Two years ago he'd thought she would have to be committed to St. Mungo's because she wouldn't eat, but she had regained all the weight she'd lost during the war and then some. 

Now he'd brought Malfoy in and upset the uneasy balance they'd created in the house. 

It was a risky move. 

A creak on the landing outside the library brought Ron's wandering mind back to the present. Malfoy was standing on the landing just outside the doorway. 

“Am I welcome to the food in the kitchen, or do I need to go out and supply my room?” the other man asked, barely poking his head through the doorway.

“Come on in. I haven't had dinner either. We can eat while we talk.” 

Malfoy looked confused as he looked around the library. “Isn't the kitchen downstairs?” 

Ron grinned and opened the tall cabinet next to him, revealing a temperature controlled treasure trove of treats, including a tray of pasties and a basket of chocolate dipped oat biscuits that his mother had sent him home with earlier in the week. 

“Really? A secret snack cabinet in the library,” Malfoy mused, sitting down across the board from Ron. “I can't imagine Granger approves. What fillings do we have on the pasties?” 

Ron popped the platter of pasties into the next cabinet over and pulled out chilled bottles of dark, briny beer from the shelf the cooling charm kept coldest. 

“She doesn't. But as long as I keep the food away from her tables she doesn't complain. Honestly, she raids it often enough, you'd think she would be more appreciative that I spelled this cabinet with stasis charms so she doesn't have to go downstairs and use the oven to heat up anything.” He looked at the marking his mom had made on top of the pasties to determine the filling. “Looks like there's half beef and turnip, and half potato, cheese, and onion.” 

“I'll have two of each, please.”

Ron grinned when the other man nodded appreciatively at his first bite of pasty. Some part of him had thought for a moment that Malfoy was going to insult his mother's cooking. 

“Do you fancy chess?” Ron asked, waving a wand over the board to reset from the classic gambit he'd set out to study before getting lost in his own thoughts that night. 

“All right.”

The chessboard was a classic black and cream marble, but the wooden pieces were the same red and tan set that Ron had had most of his life. They were weathered and beaten, but he'd played both colors so often he no longer felt like either was lucky. He couldn't even think of them as black or white. He was happy to let Malfoy have the reds, it meant he got to go first. 

He hadn't played anyone other than Percy and his father in so long that it was almost a shock to see an opponent not immediately mirror a pawn up against his e4, leaving him open to move into the quiet game, his favored opening. Malfoy ignored the en passant advantage, simply moving a pawn forward to e6, and leaving a gaping space between their pieces; a few more moves and it was clear that Ron was working against the French defense. 

It was a dynamic game, but Malfoy relied on him not leaning into the double edge. Every play came with an exchange, with loss, but it didn't take long to stake out a winning strategy. Ron could almost see when it became obvious to his opponent that the bishops they'd traded had left him with an open opportunity to stake a protected outpost for his knight, forcing red into a retreat.  

Malfoy had looked interested as they played, eyes keenly focused on the pieces and eating distractedly as he waited for his own turn. Once he pulled back in retreat his eyes glazed and his face relaxed into a bored sneer as he said, “I can't remember the last time I finished a game of chess.” 

“Of course you don't.” Ron rolled his eyes, moving his bishop into position for the final set of moves that would force checkmate. “You and Hermione are so much alike. She can't stand to follow a rule unless it suits her, and you don't get the point of playing on once you're losing. The fun isn't in winning, it’s in playing the game.” 

Malfoy pulled his king one space to the left.

“But the point of the game is winning.” 

“No. The point of the game is enjoying yourself.” Ron moved his knight forward once and watched as Malfoy made the only move he could. “Winning's just one outcome of a game well played. The best games have two great players, one on each side of the table. Only one can win.” 

“Easier to see it that way when you always seem to be on the winning side.” 

“Trust me, Malfoy. I've lost plenty.” One lateral movement with the knight and the game was finished. “Checkmate.”

The awkward silence that followed made the whole room feel colder. Ron hadn't felt tense around Malfoy since the war, not really. He still didn't particularly like him, but there was no denying the whole family had paid for their sins. Ron figured if he ever wanted to forgive himself for abandoning Harry and Hermione during the war, a good place to start was forgiving Malfoy for being a coward and a prat. It was easy enough to do at work, since the other wizard kept to himself and worked hard—but it was different now. Even a joke about chess was fraught with meaning that he hadn't intended, and missteps that led toward topics he didn't want to bring up. 

Luckily it seemed that Malfoy was more than aware of how dangerous the conversation had gotten. The relaxed slouch he'd fallen into as they played was suddenly replaced by his ramrod straight professional posture as he changed the subject. “What's my objective for tomorrow?” 

“The same as it will be every day. Stay alert. Be aware of where Hermione is and keep an eye on the house.” Ron explained, pulling out a spare charm from his pocket.  “If we're lucky this is going to be a very boring job for you. I made a ward stone for you. Someone was able to get through my wards, somehow, but I  still felt the breach on my end. The stone is keyed to my blood so you should hear an alarm if there is an intruder, or if Hermione does something like fall asleep in the bath and starts drowning or trips down the stairs.” 

The look on Malfoy's face pinched as if he'd caught a whiff of something that stank. “Is that something I should be worried about?”

“She fell down the stairs once. I had Bill add welfare wards the next day.”

 They were the same ones that Bill and Fleur used for their home now that they had a toddler. Hermione hated that he'd done it. They'd fought for two days about it.

“So just keep Granger alive and be ready for a fight if anyone breaks in.” 

“That's the gist of it. Her mind healer visits Wednesdays and Saturdays so it should be quiet tomorrow.” Malfoy got up while Ron was talking, heading towards the stairs. “My shift starts at seven, so you need to be up and around by then.” 

“I'll be in the sitting room by the time you floo,” he replied simply, not bothering to wish Ron a good evening and disappearing up the stairs. 

Ron should have gone to bed once Malfoy left. It was late and he had to be up early. Instead he pulled out his wand and set the pieces to repeat the game they'd just played, studying the movements until he couldn't keep his eyes open and he had to stumble off to bed. 

Chapter Text

The first night sleeping in a new place always felt strange. 

Draco could still remember the first night he'd ever spent in Hogwarts. He'd asked his father and mother both about what it would be like at school, so he'd already known that Slytherin house quarters were under the castle with a view into the lake. He couldn't quite remember what he'd imagined, but it hadn't been the eerie green glow that filled the rooms, or the heartstopping awe that came from turning around to find yourself eye to eye with the giant squid through the window.

The attic of the Stack wasn't as otherworldly as the dungeons had been, but sleep still hadn't come easily. It seemed like every breeze made the house creak this high up. He wondered what it looked like on the outside. The rooms were so narrow that he couldn't help but imagine a basic two up, two down London terrace house, except it was like someone had stacked two more houses on top of it. Maybe they'd put notice-me-not spells on the upper floors that extended above the rest of the terrace.

That would explain why it felt like the house was swaying here at the top when the lower floors felt respectably sturdy. 

He gave up trying to sleep at five and decided to get in a brief workout before Weasley was gone for the day. The exercise went quickly, as it always did. He didn't spend much time on building muscles or even stamina. It was agility and skill training. Still. After an hour of working he needed a shower. 

The bathroom across from the library was a nice surprise. It was almost as nice as his personal bath in the manor had been. The tub set into the corner under a window was deep, and easily big enough to accommodate several people, if they liked each other well enough. Usually if the tub were that nice Draco didn't expect to see a shower, but there was one and it was perfectly serviceable. 

He made it a long one. He was of the opinion that professionalism was always important, but it was the most important on the first day working somewhere. There was a part of him that wanted to believe that he shouldn't have to carefully spell his jaw free of stubble and make sure that he smelled fresh and clean when half of his qualification for the work was that the average witch or wizard found him intimidating. Surely showing up in a dirty vest with the dark mark on display and his hair tangled like he hadn't washed it in a year would work just as well? 

But he was too vain for that. 

Muggle suits were his perfect uniform: severe, synonymous with power, completely estranged from all connection to the Death Eaters. And a suit required a certain level of care.

So even though the only people he would see today were a witch who was such a lush he could smell the alcohol in her sweat and a wizard who he'd never seen looking like he had any idea what style was, Draco went through his routine. Hair removal for his face and trimming for the undercut sides. Thorough washing with the bergamot scented soap his mother had gifted him for his birthday. Sleakeazy's extra-hold pomade to the top to keep it swept back out of his eyes. Creasing charm to the front of his trousers, evershined shoes on his feet, and his father's cufflinks at his wrists. 

He looked like one of the hip, young bureaucrats he always saw when he had to go into the ministry.

Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. 

Not that anyone was likely to notice on this particular job, not if he did his part well at least. It had become apparent to him as he'd been doing mercenary work that there were always two jobs, the one that someone hired you to do and the one they needed done. Working for Shillings and Skint, he'd been hired to keep watch on the merchandise since the aurors didn't seem interested in catching the thief. The real objective had been clear to him: get rid of the thief. 

Ron Weasley might have hired him to protect a currently defenseless Hermione Granger, but Draco had decided on the real objective the moment that he'd seen the state of her. 

He was going to dry her out. 

He nodded briefly at Weasley as he made his way into the kitchen for a cup of tea and the other man stepped into the floo. Hermione was clearly awake in her bedroom; Draco could hear her distinctly as she moved around on the second floor. He figured he had at least a few minutes to make a start on his plans. 

“Circumspicio alcohol, locus terminus,” he said under his breath as he walked into the kitchen.

Small balls of light left his wand to settle in several places throughout the kitchen. He'd suspected the chill cabinet and even the bottle hidden away in the proving drawer of the oven, though he had a hard time imagining what the heat would do to the taste of the alcohol. The bottle tucked in behind the teacups in the cabinet surprised him though, as did the tiny bottle rattling around in with the utensils. 

He left each bottle exactly where they were, after siphoning out half of the contents and replacing it with a directed aguamenti. It was the same tactic he'd used with his mother twice since the war, once when he'd first been released from Azkaban, and the next when his father's request for parole had been denied by the Wizengamot. Both times it had worked as well as could be expected when the woman wouldn't go to the mind healer. 

Luckily, Granger also preferred clear liquor. No need to transfigure the color when he was done.

He went through the same process in the living room, finding her stash hidden in the umbrella stand and one stuffed down into the cushions of the sofa. The library lit up like a Christmas tree. There were two hollowed out volumes, myriad half-empty bottles tucked behind decorative items in the shelf, and the contents of the actual liquor cabinet, which seemed to belong to Weasley if all the firewhisky was any indicator, but he diluted all the same. 

The second floor would have to wait for when she was ensconced in the library, or for her mind healer appointment tomorrow. Luckily, Weasley hadn't been lying about the two empty floors: they were well warded off and he could avoid checking them. His own room had been clean as a whistle. In two days he would dilute them by half again. 

The next week was going to prove interesting. 

She needed a drink. 

That was Hermione's first thought upon waking. She knew that was a bad sign. She didn't regularly drink early in the morning. Drinking was for later in the day, after she'd had breakfast at least. Of course she was under more stress than normal, but if Hermione was honest this morning's need had nothing to do with Draco moving in. It was physical. 

She didn't actually want to be drunk with him in the house. She hadn't actually wanted to be drunk since the break in. Well, that wasn't completely true. She had. She'd wanted to get drunk the next day, when the house had been creaking terribly and she couldn't even breathe past the panic, but right now she wouldn't take more than a shot. She wished that she'd asked Ron for another sober up potion so that she'd have her wits about her even after a small indulgence. 

She just needed her hands to stop trembling.

A couple of swallows would do it. 

The house was creaking more than normal. It must have been very windy outside but she couldn't be sure since she hadn't dared venture up to the library yesterday to check her weather charts. She tried to keep track of that since the creakier the house was, the worse her day was likely to be. There was no point trying to make a revision deadline with her editor for a day that a thunderstorm was predicted. 

But surely all the noise couldn't be Draco. 

She took another couple of swallows, thinking liquid courage.

If nothing else, the gin made her stomach feel warm. 

It had gone past noon by the time she finally managed to convince herself that she couldn't just stay in her room all day. It wouldn't have been a terribly unusual thing to do, but she didn't want him knowing that. Her heart fluttered against her ribcage with every creak her feet made as she climbed the stairs to the library. 

Ron had eaten all the pasties that his mother had sent him home with on his last visit, but the snack cabinet still had a tray of Molly's homemade chocolate hobnobs and if she ate enough of them they would more than do for breakfast. Even with her nerves on edge, it was hard not to enjoy the loveliness of eating biscuits for breakfast while she reviewed the arithmantic maps she'd made for the weather.

She hadn't made much progress on her research since the break-in but she was determined to put some words to paper today, or at least organize more of her notes. Luckily it seemed the last few days the winds had been a little high, but they weren't due for a batch of truly bad weather for at least two weeks. So if she could just put in a good afternoon eight of the next ten days, she could have the next section of her manuscript to her editor ahead of deadline without having to worry about the three-day thunderstorm she'd been dreading all autumn. 

She'd barely gotten through organizing her timeline when a drawling voice sounded from the stairwell. “I'm surprised that you are still able to carry on with being such a bookworm in your state.”

The sudden reminder of his presence in the house startled her so badly that Hermione was certain he could see the sweat break out on her forehead. 

“Do you really have to be nasty?” she quipped, not giving him more than a cursory glance as he leaned against the doorframe. “Is Ron not paying you enough to show some courtesy?” 

“I didn't intend to offend you.” 

She rolled her eyes so hard they ached. “I really can't see what other tone 'I'm surprised you can still read' could carry.” 

“Surprise is a tone, Granger.” His voice was somehow just how she remembered it being in sixth year, crisp, but still full of emotion that could have been anger or amusement, depending on your perspective. “I just mean you're clearly in bad shape. I'm surprised you can focus like that. I was standing on the landing for five minutes before I said anything and you were so busy with your reading you didn't notice me at all.” 

She wanted to snap at him that she was doing more than just pleasure reading. She was writing a book and it was predicted to be the most important wizarding history text written in the last century, but she couldn't bring herself to brag. He did seem to be trying to be polite. 

“It's a recent development. I started a research project with a grant from Bathilda Bagshot's foundation about six months ago. I hadn't been able to do any serious work before that for a couple of years.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear you're doing better” —Hermione was still doing her best not to look at him, but she could hear the sneer in his voice— “even if you're still a drunken mess.” 

It had felt like a slap to the face when he'd called her a drunk yesterday, and it felt the same now, like she'd jumped into the Black Lake when it was still half frozen over.

“I'm really not,” she managed to croak, her mouth suddenly parched, “a drunk. At least not how you mean it.” She knew exactly how he meant it; she'd heard it before, when they were children and he'd hurled slurs at her at every given opportunity. “I have a physical dependence, but I could wean myself off and never take a drink again. It would be difficult but I could do it.” 

“Then why don't you?” 

“Because the klonopin didn't work.” She didn't have to see him to know he didn't know what she meant. “It's a Muggle drug, often used to treat different anxiety disorders. A lot of Muggle psychiatric drugs don't work the same on magical people. As far as I can tell it's because our brain chemistry isn't exactly the same. I suspect magic interacts strongly with our neurotransmitters. It's probably the same reason powerful magic is so intoxicating. Wish I could do the work to prove it.” But that would require her to be able to go to a lab, and see people. “Point is, alcohol still seems to have similar effects on the magical brain as it does to the Muggle brain. At a certain point it dulls things and makes memory less sharp. That's the level I'm aiming for, though being drunk also affects my impulse control, so I do overindulge sometimes.” 

“You are drinking to treat your mental problems?”

“The alcohol is just a plaster. The treatment is the mind healer. He's trying to help me with Muggle therapy techniques.” 

He half laughed at that and Hermione really couldn't figure out why until he said, “Weasley said you threw your gin at the last therapist.” 

Her face could have been on fire and she wouldn't have been able to tell the difference in that moment, her skin felt so hot. Why would Ronald tell him that? She hadn't been in her right mind at the time, and frankly, the man had deserved it! 

“I did.” 

“That doesn't sound like someone who wants to get better.” Draco's voice was softer now, but she couldn't fight the wave of anger that crashed over her at the comment. 

She didn't speak for a long time, shuffling the notecards on her desk around then putting them carefully back in place and hoping he didn't notice that she hadn't really done anything of substance. Really she was just hoping he would take the hint and leave. Still, he lingered in the doorway, staring at her.

“You have no idea what you are talking about,” she finally said, her whole body aching to get away from him.

“You know, I did have to go through the mind healer business after Azkaban.” 

The arrogance.

“Mind healing isn't nearly as effective as people seem to think it is. That's why nearly every adult witch and wizard I've ever met seems to have an unbearable amount of baggage,” she seethed, “but more importantly, I can't just have a mind healer go in and fix my brain.” 

“If I can do it, you can do it.” 

She looked at him then. Really looked at him. The way he'd been staring at her since he came into the library and interrupted her work. He was dressed carefully in a black on black suit that would have easily passed as fashionable in the Muggle world. His hair was swept back from his face. He looked fresh and neat in a way that almost felt like he was mocking her happiness at regularly bathing and changing clothes. The picture of poise except for the wrinkle at his nose that made him look as if he smelled something rotten. As if she were a mess that he'd stumbled into and fully intended to clean up, even though janitorial work was below his pay grade. 

“No. I. Can't.” The words felt like stones dropping into her gut as she got to her feet and braced herself against the edge of the table, not taking her eyes off of him. “I'm sorry you find me so offensive. Maybe next time you have some sage advice for me about how to handle myself, or just the next time you're feeling queasy at the sight of me, you can remember that I managed to lie through my teeth while I was being tortured by a woman who was literally famous for torturing people into insanity and that maybe being able to do that came with a price.”

“Granger.” His face was gaunt and Hermione had no problem reading the remorse in his voice as he spoke. “I-I'm sorry.” 

It should have felt like winning. Like she'd gotten one over on him. Instead she was trembling and wishing desperately that she could still apparate away from him instead of shakily barging past him towards the stairs and whispering, “I need a drink.”

Ron had never considered what it would be like to offer up his notice. 

The Aurory had always felt like the easiest option. After the war he probably could have gotten a job just about anywhere, but the Aurors had come to him, and he had already been building his dueling skills for so long, he couldn't think of anywhere else to use them.

Now he'd been doing it even longer. 

The actual letter didn't take that long to draft. He didn't bother putting in any of the specifics about why he was leaving now. No one at the office knew that Hermione was in the country, much less that he lived in the same house with her, and he didn't plan for that to change. Besides, no one could argue with his reasoning. 

To whom it may concern, 

I am officially giving notice of my intention to leave the aurory.

I don't need pay negotiations or any other kind of enticement to stay. I'm leaving because I no longer believe that the department is serving the purpose that it was created for, and I don't want to be involved in this business. 

I'll be available for up to one month to help minimize any scheduling difficulties. 

Sincerely,

Ronald Bilius Weasley

He hated that it read like something Percy would come up with. If it had been up to him he would have put in a lot more detail about the sort of things he'd heard his fellow aurors say about werewolves or maybe put on record the story of the day he'd had to put an incarcerous on a tiny old wizard who'd done nothing worse than forget to update his notice-me-not spells on the extension for his house, as if that was somehow a job for a trained duelist instead of a small mistake his father could have fixed with paperwork. . . but Ron knew it was important to follow protocol to the tee when you were doing something that was likely to piss the higher-ups off.

The letter was exactly what he wanted it to be, but he hadn't had the courage to turn it in. 

The plan was just to put it on top of his final paperwork for the boomslang skin case, but then Robards had called him in to ream him out about the fact that the suspect had gotten away. Ron hadn't even known, which did make him feel a bit guilty. He didn't even have a particularly good reason for leaving the scene, or at least not one he was willing to tell them. 

When Robards had screamed at him, “What makes you think you can leave in the middle of apprehending a suspect, Weasley?” his best answer had been, “Sometimes a bloke just has to go.” 

Obviously his boss thought he'd left so that he didn't shit his pants and had made it clear in no uncertain terms that next time he 'just had to go' he should shove a cork in it and carry on. 

After trying to explain himself, it had taken him the rest of the day to feel like his paperwork put him in the best light possible. Including making sure he didn't mention the Peruvian instant darkness powder he'd blown into the room before leaving. It would have been gone before anyone could arrive. 

There wasn't any reason to be telling on himself for not following protocol now. He was already quitting. 

Even so, if he put his resignation on top of this particular report, it would be turning it in on top of evidence of a failure. Nothing about that seemed like a good idea.

At times like this, Ron wished he could be more like Harry had been. 

Except Harry wouldn't even still be here. He would have quit a long time ago. He would have quit when he found out that they didn't hire anyone who wasn't considered fully human in the DMLE, not even as support staff.

But maybe he would have stayed and tried to change things, and if he had, Harry wouldn't have been sitting and wondering how bad it would make him look to turn in his resignation on top of a mission they considered a failure. He would have called up Luna and done an interview for the Quibbler talking about why and then he just would never show up again. Or if he was in a real mood, maybe he would have screamed his head off at Robards. 

Ron wished he could be like that. He had enough of a temper, but he couldn't stop thinking that if he did that, he'd be making a mistake. He wasn't always the best at understanding why people did things, but it was clear to him that even if he didn't understand why, people loved the Aurory. Even people who had found themselves on the wrong end of a wand. It would be hard to help support any sort of reform if he became the person who'd said, 'THE AURORS ARE THE BAD GUYS!' or if everyone thought he was just a disgruntled employee. 

It wasn't a good move. 

So instead he packaged up his report and dropped it off with the front desk on his way out, and decided the best option would be to go home and send an owl off when he got there.

At least no one who'd want to yell at him had access to the floo there. 

Chapter Text

Ron was wrong.

He might have be safe from the floo once he got back to the Stack, but he wasn't safe from being yelled at. 

“Ronald, he is an assolute nightmare!” Hermione's slurred voice hit him at a volume that reminded him chillingly of his mother the minute he stepped through the hearth. 

“It's good to see you too, Hermione,” he mumbled, shrugging off his robe and hanging it on a peg. “Good to see you—” He sat down across the coffee table from her, pulled off his boots and wiggled his toes in relief. “—Oh, my day? It was a little weird but mostly fine. How did your research go?” 

If she picked up on his annoyance, it didn't change her approach. 

“This isn't going to work, Ron!” Her hair was already sparking distractingly, the blue light arcing randomly as she spoke. She hadn't been this fired up in a very long time. “I was barely able to work today before he was in the library, calling me names.” 

Bloody hell. He hadn't thought that would be a problem. Malfoy worked on plenty of cases that involved Muggle-borns and it was never a problem. 

“What did he say to you? Hermione, I swear, he seemed genuinely reformed, I wouldn't have brought him here if I thought it would put you in danger or insult you.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at her knees. “Called me a drunk. Again.” 

He could see how much Malfoy's words had hurt her, but Ron didn't know how to make this better. He knew from experience that once she'd realized that someone was judging her she wouldn't be able to let it go, even if they never said anything. It was why she didn't want anyone to know about her problems to begin with. 

“I can ask him to just leave you alone.” He wanted to reach out and put his hand on her knee, but he didn't fancy being slapped and it seemed like a distinct possibility. “But I can't make him like the fact that you have a drinking problem.” 

“I don't have a problem.” 

Sometimes he felt like the locket had never come off his neck. 

In the dark of the night, it had loved to whisper the same, obvious lies to him on repeat. Constantly confirming his worst fears. Now it was Hermione doing the talking, and every time she said that she didn’t have a problem, he worried that she had completely lost her grip on reality. 

“You've told me dozens of times that you can stop drinking whenever you want to. I want to believe you, but I don't agree with putting off the next stage of your therapy.” 

“I need to finish the first draft of my book first.” 

Ron tried to breathe through his nose. In, hold, out. 

“The Bagshot foundation would be more than happy to pause your grant for a month or two,” he said once he thought he had his temper under control again, trying his best to moderate the frustration in his voice. “This is just like exams back at Hogwarts. You decide on an arbitrary deadline for when you should have something done, but it's got no relationship to reality.” 

She bit her lip, the sparks finally dying out in her hair as her nerves got the better of her. “Get rid of Draco and I'll owl the foundation tomorrow and ask for medical leave.” 

“And then I can just leave you at home while you go through withdrawal again?” Shit. He was shouting, he didn't mean to be shouting. He dragged his hand over his face and started again, his voice more level. “Malfoy's here at least until I'm out of the DMLE, but even after that George is going to have to train me to get me up to speed with the shops if he wants to stop managing the front so he can focus on creating new products.” He hadn't even gotten to tell her that he'd decided to finally take his brother up on his offer to go in on the joke shop. Every conversation had been about Malfoy. “I'm going to be out of the house a lot, and even after the wards are renewed, I don't know how they were broken in the first place. If you want to dry yourself out and start the therapy Healer Plum recommended now, I fully support that. But until I can be home more regularly— or you can make use of your wand again—I am not leaving you here unprotected.” 

Hermione wasn't a screamer. He always had to fight the urge to bellow at her but    unless she was spectacularly drunk or stressed she never raised her voice. When she did, it was almost always because she had been holding something in and it finally burst out. It was never overbearing so much as startling. When she was angry, she spat her words, low and vicious. 

She was angry now.

“I'm not a child.” 

“No, you're not.” Ron felt himself deflate. He'd messed up. Again. “You're sick — ” He reached out across the table and grabbed her hand. “ — and you're vulnerable. “You'd never leave me alone and defenseless with enemies at the door. You can be mad at me all you want. I can take it.” He smiled, ducking his head down so she couldn't avoid looking at him. “Just let me take care of you. I promise I'm doing the best I can.” 

“I know you are. Thank you.” Her lips were wobbling when she answered, a sure sign she was on the verge of crying. “I've got my visit in the mornin'. I'll talk to the healer.” 

It had been almost a year since she last tried to sober up and take the next steps in her therapy. He was just glad she was willing to bring it up at this point. 

“Why don't you take a sober up and we can eat in the library after I have a shower,” he suggested, getting to his feet and stretching out the crick in his neck from sitting at his desk all day. “You can work at your desk, and if Malfoy wanders down I'll get him to play chess with me so you don't have to worry about him.” 

The smile she gave him trembled at the edges. 

“I can't do sober right now. I'll stop drinking for the night, at least. Go ask him if he wants to play though, it'll be fun to watch you wipe the board with him.” 

Ron couldn't say he disagreed with that. 

There was no feeling Draco hated more than guilt. It was a useless emotion that never seemed to be able to prod him into doing the right thing, and certainly hadn't ever been pleasant. 

It was unfortunate it seemed to be his constant companion.

He hadn't intended to bother Granger at all. It was his first day on the job, he had plenty to keep himself busy, and he didn't much fancy being around her in the first place. Still, when he'd heard someone puttering around in the library he couldn't leave it without checking, and she'd surprised him. He never would have expected to see the shadow of a woman that he'd observed through her bedroom doorway the day before looking like that. It was almost as if she'd been transported back to her favorite library table at Hogwarts and midterm exams were coming up. The only real difference between today's Granger and the one Draco had known back at school was that perfect, prefect, know-it-all Hermione Granger wouldn't have been caught dead wearing her pajamas outside of her dormitory. 

As always, he couldn't quite resist saying something to her, and as always he'd ended up with his foot planted firmly in his mouth.

He hadn't left his room except to make occasional sweeps of the house for the rest of the day. The little attic owlery provided him with some entertainment as one tiny, frenzied owl seemed determined to prove it wasn't nocturnal and annoy the stately barn owl trying to hide herself away in the darkest corner. Granger's bedroom door had been shut on every check he'd done, but he'd caught a glimpse of her in a chair facing the sitting room floo on his last trek down the flights of stairs. Probably waiting for Weasley, which meant Draco wouldn't get much company the rest of the night.

Not that that would be any different than any other job, he thought, staring out into the now empty balcony. . .but he'd enjoyed himself while playing chess with Weasley the night before. He'd like to get a win in, if only to soothe the sting of last night's loss, and it would have been nice to have something to do once the owls went out hunting for the night.

“You up for another game, Malfoy?” Weasley's voice startled him out of his reverie. It was as if his thoughts had pulled the other man to him from the ether to fulfill his whims. 

Though when he turned around to face him, Draco couldn't help but think that perhaps his mind had been contemplating something besides chess for entertainment.

Weasley must not have been home long because he looked like he'd just stepped out of the shower. The bathrobe he was wearing was a violent orange that clashed terribly with his ginger hair; still, there was something admirable about how little he seemed to care. A large V of his freckled chest was exposed, almost revealing his navel, but there was nothing self conscious about the other man's posture. If Draco had been in such a state of undress he knew that he would have felt defensive. He felt nude even just having taken off his jacket and tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. 

Not that Weasley had anything in particular to be shy about. 

He might have been awkwardly gangly years ago in school, but he'd grown into his frame. He wasn't particularly muscular, but he looked strong. 

That's enough of that , Draco thought as Weasley shifted and he saw a bead of water trail down the center of his chest from his still soaking hair. It's not as if you haven't seen a bare chest before. 

In fact, he'd picked up a Muggle the night before he'd come on the job, a slight, dark-skinned man with impeccable manners that reminded him of late evenings in the dormitories with Blaise. He'd hoped to make himself feel a little less tightly wound before being shut up with Granger for weeks. Even when he'd still thought of her as beneath him, he'd had a hard time not wanting to grab a handful of her wild hair and yank . Something about her had always made him lose his composure in the worst possible way. He just hadn't adequately prepared himself for feeling anything but annoyance towards Weasley. 

“Malfoy?” Weasley said again, waving his arm a little awkwardly. 

“Yes, sorry.” Draco shook his head, trying to physically dislodge the urge to stare. “I don't see why not.” 

Weasley gestured to the stairs and let Draco go down ahead of him, which Draco was thankful for. At least he had a moment where he couldn't see the other man or imagine where the droplets of water dripping from his hair were ending up. 

He came to a dead stop when he turned on the third floor landing to see Granger in a chair pulled up to the side of the chessboard. 

“Hermione's going to watch tonight,” Weasley said, his voice so light and off-hand that Draco might have missed how contrived it was if the other man hadn't looked him straight in the face, revealing his brows knitting together ever so slightly with worry. “Didn't figure you'd mind.” 

Draco grit his teeth and smiled tightly, giving the only possible answer that wouldn't make him look like a school-yard bully. “Of course not.” 

Draco didn't look happy to be there.

Hermione tried her damndest not to take any pleasure in that but it was hard not to when his face got all pinched and pointy.

Ron had made sure to send up plenty of options from the fridge. There were dozens of half-eaten boxes of old carry-out to choose from and she was happy to grab the last box of samosas and watch Draco have to choose something that  had already had someone's fork in it. She knew that wanting to watch him squirm was petty, but petty was exactly what Hermione was at the moment. 

“Sorry about the carry-out leftovers,” Ron said, grabbing a container of tikka masala and flopping onto his favorite overstuffed chair. “Tomorrow I'll have lunch with mum and she'll load me down with supplies. Neither of us are cooks.” 

“Carry-out is fine,” Draco replied. “I have to admit I don't know much about cooking myself. I make due with carry-out, sandwiches, and pub food for the most part.” Hermione was genuinely surprised at that admission until he ruined it by saying, “Of course if I get too desperate or can't go out, one of Mother's house-elves will bring me something.” 

The words were out of her mouth before she could even consider them and she was glad she’d sobered up enough to stop slurring at least “They won't be doing that here.” 

“Don't worry, Granger. Gossip of your campaign to free the elves made it to the dungeons, too.” 

Ron snorted and between that and the familiar sneer Draco shot her before turning to grab his supper, Hermione felt a spark creep down one of the curls on the back of her neck. The little shows of magic were happening more often, and she wasn't sure if she was elated or terrified. The anger that always preceded the momentary crackle of power muddled everything.

“I made mistakes. I understand now the cultural force I'm up against, but I'm serious when I say I don't want slave labor in my home in any capacity.”

He selected a mostly eaten chicken biriyani and sat down across the board from Ron. “I actually agree with you. I freed all the Malfoy elves that were left after I got out of Azkaban—the two who are left with Mother just refused to leave her side. But you have to admit, your little crusade was funny. The elves at Hogwarts are all already free. They can't be bound to a house with that many bloodlines coming through all the time.” Despite his dry tone it was impossible to ignore the laughter tingeing his voice. “They all probably thought you were deliberately insulting their work by leaving out clothes.” 

Hermione had placed her chair so that she was closer to Ron, but even so, when Malfoy stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, the shiny tops of his shoes seemed to be directly under her, almost grazing her bare feet. It was distracting. She had to resist the urge to reach out and feel the smooth leather under her toes. 

She wondered if a house elf had shined them. 

“I didn't realize at the time how they came to be bound to family lines,” she explained, pulling her eyes away from the floor to look at the game instead. Ron had set up the Evans Gambit. “I assumed they were ordered there by the founders.” 

“I can see how that would be an easy mistake to make.” Draco smirked as he said it, as if he were humoring her, but his tone was undermined by the fact that he took Ron's bait, his bishop sliding across the board seemingly of its own accord to capture the offered pawn. 

It was going to be a very quick game if he retreated to a5. Hermione wasn't particularly good at chess, she knew that, but it wasn't because she didn't understand the game in theory. It was because she got bored too easily, and too flustered when she fumbled a move or things didn't go according to plan. She had fallen into the same trap Draco had many times when playing against Ron, but somehow it was much easier to see the mistakes when she wasn't the one playing. 

He retreated to a5. 

Their moves came in a flurry then, pawns and knights exchanging with quick, brutal attacks that left crumbled wreckage in the velvet-lined boxes to either side of the board. 

“Yeah, I assumed the same thing about the house elves. I think only the well off families who have them know how they work, honestly,” Ron said after a few minutes as he directed his queen to slide across the board. “Check, Malfoy.”

Draco's face twisted into an exaggerated look of surprise as his eyes scanned the board. “Already?” 

Hermione couldn't help but laugh. It came out in big ugly guffaws that made her sides ache pleasantly. She hadn't laughed so hard in a very long time.

“I always feel the same way,” she wheezed once her laughs had dissipated. “I spent one whole summer studying up and playing against my dad trying to beat him. But I ended up flipping the board the second time we played and he countered this brilliant attack I'd been setting up by sacrificing his queen.” It had been the summer before fifth year, when they'd been living at Grimmauld and Harry hadn't yet arrived. Sirius had laughed so hard when she flipped the board that it had almost been worth the embarrassment. “He didn't see that move coming. Ron would have been a brilliant general in the war if he didn't get thrown for a loop by people acting any way other than how he would.”

Ron's ears went brilliantly red and Hermione winced. Why did it seem like every time she complimented him she ended up making a joke out of it? She felt like slapping herself.

Instead she got up and hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and tucking his head under her chin, whispering, “Ignore me. I'm drunk. And I'm glad that you don't always understand why people do the things they do. It's because you want to believe that people are mostly honest.” 

She decided to stand behind him for a while, leaning her hip on the arm of his chair and watching his endgame unfold on the board. Draco was much better matched in skill to Ron than she had ever been. He evaded managing to evade death for much longer than she would have. It made sense; they both liked Quidditch too. 

They played with quiet intensity, every once in a while throwing a barb at each other about their moves, but otherwise it was companionable silence, until the next check. 

“How did I not see that coming,” Draco muttered to himself, running a hand over his head and artfully mussing his carefully combed back hairdo. “Honestly.” 

Ron pointed at the opposite point of the board from the current predicament his king had fallen into. “You were too busy thinking about the knight near your rook. You have to watch the pawns or they'll get promoted.” 

The game was coming to a close. Hermione couldn't see the moves that would lead them to the checkmate but she knew that look on Ron's face. She'd seen it a million times. His crooked smile went all the way up and crinkled his eyes whenever he stopped concentrating for a moment. It was the same face he made when he knew he was about to close a case; it was the same face he made when he was talking about the Cannons having managed a respectable number of goals and the same face he made constantly when she was having several good days in a row. That was his “I'm winning” face. 

It was exactly how he'd looked when she'd kissed him, during the final battle, before the end when everything went so terribly wrong. 

He was so handsome. She forgot that sometimes. Maybe it was because he always looked so worried. She wished he could look this way all the time, but it almost hurt to look at when she knew it wouldn't last. 

It was better not to think about that. 

“I'm going to go ahead and head to bed,” she said softly, giving Ron one last squeeze around the neck. “I'm going to take a book up and get in a little reading in before bed. . .I have an early morning.” 

He didn't take his eyes off the board, but he leaned his head in so that the warm side of his face nestled into the crook of her neck, just for a moment. “Alright, 'Mione.” 

“Good night, Granger.” Draco's crisp voice surprised Hermione. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge her leaving at all. 

“Yes, good night,” she replied, hoping she sounded amicable. 

Maybe their day could go better tomorrow. She'd barely see him anyway. 

It only took her a moment to find the text she was looking for on her desk and make her way to the door, but the last thing she heard before turning to head down the stairs was Ron triumphantly saying “Checkmate.” 

Chapter Text

It was Wednesday, and Draco had a plan. 

Well, not so much a plan as a mission, and it only had two objectives: 

1) Talk to the mind healer.

2) Don't make Hermione Granger cry again.

As far as he could tell there were only a handful of people with access through the wards on the Stack, and two of them lived here. The therapist was the only other one he could be sure of outside of whichever one of the older Weasley brothers had put up the wards. 

He could assume that there were at least a few other people. He didn't particularly like how Weasley was handling things, but it was obvious he cared for Granger, he wouldn't let her fully isolate herself. But he couldn't be sure who they would be, probably another sibling, perhaps the sister, and maybe Longbottom. What he did know for sure was that the mind healer came on Wednesdays, and he fully intended to try and evaluate how suspicious they might be. 

Not provoking Granger to tears was going to take a bit more work. He'd managed to stay mostly civil the night before, but only mostly. She hadn't done a particularly good job herself. It stung that she clearly had thought that not only did he still have house elves, but he was incapable of being a good house guest. As if I'd bring my house elves near her if I still had any in my employ. That's how you end up with no house elves! But he wasn't proud of himself for poking at her obvious lack of understanding concerning the status of the Hogwarts elves. Even Weasley hadn't really known. It was hardly her fault that she hadn't been raised with elves around and just picked up on things. 

He needed to do better. . . but first, the healer.

He nodded to Weasley as the other man left for work, just as he had done the morning before, and made himself up a mug of tea in the kitchen. The day before his mug had been bottle-green glass with gold foil evergreen trees embossed on the sides. It had been far more Christmassy than necessary considering it wasn't the holiday season, but still elegant. Today the sink was full of unwashed mugs, and the only mug left in the cabinet was white ceramic with a black and white kitten chasing a ball of yarn across the sides. When he sipped he had to avoid a deep chip on one side so as not to cut his lip. 

Charming.

The therapy was supposed to be done in the library, but the healer would have to come in through the floo. So he settled in the sitting room and waited. He sipped his tea and looked at the room in detail for the first time since he’d arrived. It was like every other room in the house, a hodge-podge of comfortable furniture, useful items, and a few decorative items. The seating was in good shape, but no one had bothered to buff out the scuffs in any wood or supply lighting beyond the ever-burning candles in the wall sconces. The front window only let in narrow shafts of light around the heavy curtains, and the front door was covered by the small settee, not even the illusion that they ever came in the Muggle way preserved.

He lazily waved his wand over the narrow table to the side of his chair, a polishing spell correcting the minor scuffs on the piece as he listened for the sounds of Hermione starting to move about upstairs. 

She still seemed to be sleeping when the fire flashed green and the healer stepped through. 

“Well, hello,” she said, shoving a folder under her arm and reaching out a hand for him to shake. “I wasn't expecting a visitor this morning, is there something wrong with Hermione?” 

“There are clearly several things wrong with Granger.” Draco immediately regretted the quip. There was really no reason to be nasty about her to her healer. “I've been hired because there was a break-in here a few days ago. Weasley didn't think it was a good idea to leave her defenseless with the wards flawed.” 

She sighed and pinched her nose. “I can't say he's wrong. There are many people who would wish to do her harm.” 

He couldn't imagine this witch harming Granger. She was very tall for a woman, and not frail and willowy like his mother. No, this witch was solid, sturdy, yet despite her size she exuded gentleness. Her thin hair was sticking out in a soft halo at the crown where it had escaped from her bun and her dark eyes crinkled at the corners. He couldn't detect a single drop of animosity from her. 

Draco found that rather suspicious actually. . .especially since she didn't even bother to ask his name. It made him wonder, What exactly has Granger told her about me?

He had to make a decision, and in the end his gut told him she was either nothing to worry about, or a particularly good actress. Either way he would have to rely on her healer's oaths as assurance. It wasn't as if he could use legilimency on her, she was a mind healer, she'd notice

“I just wanted to meet you, since I will likely be here a few weeks.” 

“That's considerate of you.” She said, that tired smile still crinkling her eyes.  “I'll just head up to the library and get out of your way.”

Draco waited for ten minutes before he followed her up the stairs, keeping his feet light, toe to heel, so that the steps wouldn't creak.  Halfway up the stairs to the fourth floor he paused, hearing feet padding across the landing below him, and sure enough, a moment later, he could hear soft voices rising from the library. If he listened intently he could just make out what they said. 

“You're a few minutes early, Hermione!”

“I actually thought I might beat you here this morning.” 

He sat down on the stairs and leaned forward, bracing himself on his bent knees. It hadn't been a conscious plan to try to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help but be interested.

It beat sitting in the attic listening to the house creak as it shifted with the wind.

Hermione was five minutes early to her therapy session and, as always, Healer Plum had already transfigured one of overstuffed library chairs into a longer loveseat and placed another directly across from it. She had dimmed and silenced the room so that the only things that Hermione could really hear were their voices and small movements of their bodies. 

“Do you want to talk about the fact that I just met Draco Malfoy in your sitting room?” Healer Plum asked after they'd gone through their greetings, activating her Quick-Quotes Quill with a snap of her fingers. “Or perhaps you'd like to chat about the fact that someone broke into your home and you didn't feel the need to inform me? Not that you have to send an owl for every issue, but I'm surprised you didn't need an emergency appointment the day after.” 

Hermione didn't answer her, simply sitting down on the couch and curling up against one side. She didn't understand why Healer Plum insisted on extending the chair every time. She never laid down on it. 

The questions sat there for a long time before the healer spoke again. 

“Alright.” She folded her hands on her lap and Hermione felt like the motion echoed through her words, edging her tone with frustration. “What do you want to talk about then?” 

The answer drifted forward in Hermione's mind, unbidden and embarrassing. “I dreamed of Ron last night.” 

“That's interesting. It's been a long time since we've talked about any dreams. I thought that the liquor kept them at bay.” 

“It does normally.” She already wished she hadn't said anything about the dream, but it was hard not to say things during these sessions. You were supposed to talk if you wanted to get better, after all, so she couldn't just remain silent. “I don't know why this dream got through. At least it wasn't a nightmare.” 

Healer Plum smiled and it was easy for Hermione to feel like she'd said exactly the right thing when the other witch said, “It makes me very happy to hear that you aren't suffering from nightmares at the moment. You said the dream was about Ron?”

“Yes. It was.” Hermione could feel the heat flaring across her neck and down her chest as she recalled the dream. “It was rather romantic. . .” That was one word for it—another would be salacious. “Which makes sense really. Earlier in the night something he did reminded me of the first time we ever kissed.” 

“What did he do to remind you of that moment?” 

“He smiled.” It had been more than a smile. His whole face had lit up like it was Christmas morning. “When you know someone a long time you get to know their face, and this is a special smile. He always looks like that when he thinks he's done something right.” 

“It's wonderful that you know each other so well, and that sounds like a lovely moment” — Hermione could sense the but coming as the healer paused — “but you don't seem happy about it.” 

“I just remembered that moment and as soon as I remembered it I felt sad. It was one of the last moments I can remember where I felt in control of myself. Like I was making a decision and it was what I really wanted. Then Harry died and I was numb most of the time after I went back to Hogwarts, and after that, well. . .” 

The words came out in a rush that left her feeling breathless, but Healer Plum didn't interrupt when she paused. She never did, no matter what Hermione decided to talk about. 

Just behind the Healer's head there was a bookshelf. She couldn't be sure if the chair placement was intentional, but whenever she had a moment like this, when her words seemed to force their way out of her mouth and her heart started to race she would let her eyes drift over to the books and read the spines. Today, just past her right ear, Hermione could see Hogwarts: A History , Matilda , The Secret Garden. It was a shelf of her childhood favorites. 

“This dream, we were dancing,” she continued, trying to find the thread that connected her thoughts, feelings, and subconscious imaginings together, “and Ron mumbled something about his mother having the baby for the night.” That had hurt, even in her dream. If you asked her if she wanted children she would have laughed at you, but her subconscious didn't care about feasibility. “We kissed again and it was wonderful and I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be. . .” Hermione didn't exactly feel like telling Healer Plum how much farther than a kiss her dream went; she could still feel the damp tops of her thighs sticking to each other when she shifted in her seat. “But when I woke up I just couldn't imagine how we would ever get to that, and I felt guilty because it's my fault that we don't have that life.” 

Healer Plum looked genuinely confused. “Why is it your fault?”

“Because I'm like—” She gestured vaguely at herself. “—And that happy, romantic, domestic bliss? I can't have that. But he could, if he wasn't tied down with me.” 

“Now, I know for a fact that you have told Ron repeatedly that you are not his responsibility.”
Healer Plum had put her lecturing voice on. It reminded Hermione distinctly of both Professor McGonagall and her mother. “If Ron wanted romance or a family more than he wanted to be with you, then he has had every opportunity to make that choice.” 

“And just abandon me?” Hermione scoffed. “He's a better man than that.” 

“He's abandoned you before.” 

The healer's words sat in the air between them, heavy and full of meaning. They made Hermione's chest ache.

“That was different.” 

“No it wasn't. It was a difficult time, and he made choices he deeply regretted.” Healer Plum's voice was soft now, as if she wanted to remind Hermione that she liked Ron quite well and had no intention of attacking him. “Now he's making a different choice in a different difficult time. You don't get to decide whether or not that choice is good for him.”

“But what if I never get better?” Hermione's jaw trembled as she searched her healer's face anxiously for some sort of affirmation of her worst fears.

Normally Healer Plum sat back with her ankles crossed, poised and professional, but she leaned forward onto her knees so that her face was level with Hermione's before answering “Firstly, you've already improved by leaps and bounds from where we started.” Intellectually, Hermione knew that was true, but it was hard to accept when the markers of progress seemed so shaky. “Secondly, if you never 'get better' then Ron will get more opportunities to make the choice to go or stay. Those are the kind of choices that we have to actively make, every day. You don't get to make those decisions for him .”

Hermione thought about that for a moment. She knew it was true. She’d barely ever been able to make Ron listen when she’d been at her best. She definitely couldn’t do it now. But maybe she could control herself.

“I think I'm ready to try to stop drinking again.” 

“That's wonderful news.” Healer Plum was wearing her biggest, warmest smile now. “But I want you to consider how stressful a time this is for you, with the recent break in, and Mr. Malfoy being in your home.” 

Hermione struggled to find her words, having to shift her position on the couch until she was sitting forward, feet planted firmly on the floor. “I know, but that's part of why I know I need to try. What if Ron hadn't been able to get here fast enough? What would have happened if they found me here? I need to be able to defend myself. . .” It all felt very heavy suddenly, and she felt the need to lighten it. “If only to get rid of Draco.” 

“Now that's what I want to hear! Let's discuss how to moderate your taper-down, and schedule you for extra sessions next week, because the enemy of healing is what?” 

“Silence.”

It was safe to say that Robards was not happy about Ron putting in his notice. 

“Are you fucking kidding me with this, Weasley?” 

That was the only thing the head Auror had said since he called Ron into his office, but he'd said it a disturbing amount of times. 

The room was, as always, intimidatingly tidy. The Burrow had always been tidy, if stuffed full of people, and now that he lived with Hermione he was used to a mix of deep organization and chaos. Robards office was another animal all together. He had at least ten quills, laid out on his desk, all perfectly perpendicular and spaced evenly. There was no waste paper basket, which made Ron wonder if he just vanished all his trash. Even the guest chair was so squarely placed that the inch it moved when he sat in it made Ron grit his teeth. Everything felt like a trap designed to make him fail.

Ron took a deep breath and said, “No, sir. I'm not kidding.”

“Well pardon me for being confused as to why one of my top paid Aurors, who got a major leg up into the department in the first place—” Robards teeth clicked sharply as he clenched his jaw, signing his name with a violent flourish. “—Would be leaving the department.” 

“I thought I was pretty clear in my notice letter.” 

Ron swore he could hear his boss's teeth creak as a muscle twitched in his jaw. “We'll have to agree to disagree about that, because it reads like a bunch of evasive bullshit to me.” 

He didn't know what to say to that. How much clearer could he possibly be without screaming in the man's face that if he had to spend another day away from home, pushing paper, just to ruin some poor sod's life over a minor infraction, he was going to scream? 

So he didn't say anything. He started at the way the ink blotter on the desk somehow looked like it had never backed any of the hundreds of documents that came through the office. It said something about you to have an office that looked like it had never been worked in, and Ron wasn't sure exactly what, but he knew it couldn't be good. 

“Fine. Whatever. Your loss,” Robards finally spat, pulling a piece of paper out of a drawer and sliding it across the desk.  “I need you to work the night shift over the weekend.” 

Ron didn't reach for the paper. “You know I don't work night shift.” 

“No, I know that you requested not to work nights and I have respected that request. I don't need to keep you happy anymore, so you'll take the shift no one wants to fill this weekend or I'll fire you and you can enjoy never working in the Ministry again.” Robard's voice had risen to such an extreme volume that the green glass shade on his desk lamp rang with every word. “Especially since the whole reason that Biscus can't work the shift in the first place is that you threw that instant darkness powder into a crime scene that you abandoned to go take a shit last week. The barmy bastard ran into a wall and concussed himself. Again. You know after three in a season it requires a stay at St. Mungo's for testing.” 

For the life of him Ron couldn't figure out why it didn't require testing every time. A concussion was serious business. It was just another in the long list of reasons why he wouldn’t miss this place when he was gone. He had no intention of rocking the boat on his way out.

“I'll be here, sir.” 

He took the paper from the desk, which turned out to be the official acceptance of his resignation, and left the room as fast as possible. It really wasn't all that far a walk to his desk but sitting down and looking around him made it feel he'd apparated halfway across the planet. Out in the center office it was hectic. Aurors and the administrative staff rushed back and forth through the narrow aisles as memos fluttered by over their heads. Paperwork overflowed desk tops into piles on the shiny marble floor and sentimental photos were stuck to every wall and framed on every desk. Robard's office was sterile and strangely quiet in contrast. He was the boss, shouldn't it look like he was doing more work than the rest of them? Not less? Had it always been like that? 

Ron couldn't remember. He remembered Robards better from the year before he'd taken on the Head Auror position, just after the war when he'd seemed just as worried as the rest of the department about tracking down the remaining uncaptured Death Eaters, and less worried about 'day to day regulations'. Ron still hadn't felt great about working for the department then, he still saw them bringing in people like Mundungus for petty theft, but at least he'd been doing what he'd set out to do: finishing what they'd started during the war.

He'd thought Robard's had felt the same, but now he wondered if he'd just imagined the enthusiasm. His memories from the time felt unreliable, hazy. Tinted by the constant fear that had made him feel like he was still living in a tent, still on the run. 

His memory now was fine, though. That he was sure of. He would never be good at keeping a logbook or notes, but he had a knack for random details. They stuck in his head and he would find himself chewing over them on his own time, and right now a thought was itching at him terribly. 

Ron could have sworn he hadn’t mentioned the instant darkness powder in his report. 

Chapter Text

Healer Plum said that Hermione shouldn't start her taper down until tomorrow. She should do it on a day with no therapy, and give herself plenty of work in the afternoon to occupy her mind. She knew that this was the smart, cautious way to go about it, but she had never been able to wait until the deadline to complete an assignment. 

Now that she'd made a decision to try to stop drinking, to move on with her therapy, she was restless. Time was moving so quickly around her. Ron had finally figured out that he didn't want to be an Auror after all. Her last letter from Ginny had said that she was a shoo-in for the national team. Neville had just been published in Herbologist's Quarterly with a paper detailing his work creating an aquatic greenhouse for Hogwarts. She desperately wished that she could visit him and view the new installation. It was no wonder he hadn't had time for a visit lately. Even Draco Malfoy had changed so much that seeing him made Hermione feel unmoored from the trajectory of her whole life. 

She wondered when they had all grown up. . . had she ? 

No. There was no point in waiting. The taper down could start today. By the time her session with Healer Plum had ended, it was already afternoon and she hadn't had anything except her morning glass. She needed to eat something, so she might as well go downstairs and make herself a properly vinegary chip butty with leftover carry-out. She would have a drink with lunch and then set her one hour timer. 

No other drinks in between, and she would sip. 

If there was one thing that Hermione knew about herself, it was that she was disciplined. . . or stubborn. Really, there wasn't much difference in her experience.

Hopefully this wouldn’t be one of the times her hard work turned around to bite her on the arse. 

Ron had never considered what it might feel like to have Draco Malfoy living in his home. It had only been a few days, but he'd already been taken aback by a few things. 

Malfoy had managed to be downstairs to greet Ron before he left for work every morning since he'd moved in. Even if it was just a silent wave, it was a nice gesture. . . and definitely not something he would have expected of the prat he'd gone to school with. He had also proven to be a willing chess partner, and Ron had every intention of taking advantage of that for the foreseeable future. If Malfoy learned, he might even manage a few wins. 

None of that compared to the weirdness of stumbling through the floo into his sitting room and seeing the other wizard sprawled out on his sofa, reading. 

“I almost could have mistaken you for Hermione if it wasn't for the hair.” 

“There's only so many times I can run dueling drills before I start to get bored,” Malfoy drawled, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch and sitting up. “Reading to fill the time is an occupational hazard.” 

Ron chuckled, thinking of the many games of cards that he'd run through on the job. “I know that feeling. It's why I hate being alone on stakeouts. Then you can't even read, or play solitaire or something, because you have to keep a lookout.”

“You get better at doing both if you have to do it often enough.”

Just how often did Malfoy have to do stakeouts? Thinking about it, Ron realized that in Malfoy’s position, most of the work had to be sitting around and waiting. Guarding was mostly passive work. Vigilance. 

It sounded so boring Ron could almost cry, but instead he said, “I'm glad to hear it was a quiet day.” 

“Very.” Malfoy put down his book and stood, following Ron into the kitchen as he went to put up the takeout and pour himself something to drink. “I thought of some questions that I really should have asked before.”

Ron poured himself a glass of cold pumpkin juice. “Shoot.” 

“Was anything taken during the break-in?” 

Ron had been thinking about that question himself. He hadn't really had time to search the house deeply, but he knew it well. Nothing was missing off the main floors and the wards on the storage areas didn't seem to have been broken. Though he knew as well as anyone that wards were imperfect. 

“Not as far as I can tell. This floor was trashed, but the rest of the house seemed fine. If anything was stolen, it wasn't something we'd miss.” He wondered briefly if he'd even notice something going missing from Hermione's room or the library unless it happened to be something he made use of regularly. Between the two of them, they had enough things that it would be hard to keep track of her stuff as well as his. “Disturbing really.” 

“Yes. . .” Malfoy replied. He was thinking for a long moment, silently chewing on his cheek while Ron sipped his juice. “I want you to unward the fourth and fifth floors for me. There might be something missing there, and if they weren't trying to take something, they might have left something. Where better than your storage?” 

“Good thinking. Do you know any tricks for ferreting out—” Ron realized suddenly that his word choice could've been better as Malfoy raised one pale brow. “Er, for uncovering, surveillance spells?” 

The other man slipped into a collected, professional voice. “I don't know any specifically for watching and listening enchantments, but I have a decently sensitive foe glass. It detects magical presence as well as physical presence. It's keyed to me, but I can call an associate of mine and see if he knows a way to expand its definition of enemy to those working at cross purposes on a professional level. It might take a few days to get it sorted.”

“Understandable.” Ron pushed down the desire to ask Malfoy exactly who he meant by 'associate'. It wasn't any of his business, even if it did set the hair on the back of his neck on end. “Don't put off searching the house on that count, though. Now that you've made me think of the possibility that something might have been left here, it's giving me the collywobbles.” 

Malfoy nodded. “I'll do the living areas tonight, and your private rooms tomorrow.” 

He disappeared upstairs without another word. 

It didn't take Ron long to finish off his drink. The dishes had been done, which was a welcome surprise, but it didn't leave him with much to do. 

He trekked up to his room. He rinsed off in the shower and changed into a pair of soft, comfortable pajama pants. His nightly wand care didn't take long. A quick check for any weakness or damage to the wood and a polish. He had heard soft sounds of movement from Hermione's room, but on therapy days she usually spent the evening recovering alone. So, he went back down stairs and grabbed the containers of sweet and sour pork and egg fried rice, noticing that Malfoy had taken the whole container of crispy duck for himself. He divided up what remained between two plates and poured two glasses of pumpkin juice and piled it all on a tray, levitating it just in front of him as he climbed back up the stairs. He took one serving for himself and left the rest on the tray at Hermione's door, knocking and then quickly retreating to his room, knowing that she hated when he lingered. She didn't like to be fussed over. 

Once the door was shut, he really didn't have much else to do. He turned on the wizarding wireless and dialed in on a Quidditch match already in progress. Puddlemere was already up 50 points over the Arrows and the snitch seemed to be elusive. An embarrassment for Appleby. 

He sat back on his bed and started to eat. The rice was delicious with a packet of soy sauce dripped on top. . . but it would have tasted better over a game of chess.

I fucked up.

That's all Draco could think the rest of the day. It plagued him when Healer Plum came back down to floo home, flashing him a tight smile. It skirted around the edges of his thoughts as he tried to occupy himself with a ridiculous Muggle mystery about a murder on a train. Now that he'd eaten and was stuck in the dreary dark of the attic bedroom, it was eating away at him, leaving the crispy duck and pancakes he'd eaten for dinner hard as a rock in his stomach.

Not only was Granger willing to go through withdrawal to get rid of him, she was clearly doing much better than he'd assumed. He should have never let himself think he knew what was best for her just because neither of his parents could leave a bottle of wine alone. This wasn't his mother shut away like a hermit and unwilling to see a healer or do anything else out of shame. Granger was doing her absolute best to get better. 

Well, not her absolute best, he thought, fighting back a smile as he looked up at the whitewashed boards of the attic ceiling, trying to will himself to get a good night’s sleep, since the next would be an all-nighter. If Granger was at her best, I certainly wouldn't be here. 

Why had he thought that diluting her alcohol was a good idea? She was about to start tapering and she didn't know that she had already dwindled her consumption by a significant amount. At least Healer Plum had suggested that she wait until tomorrow to start. She had told the healer that she normally sipped a drink in the morning, and then began to drink more steadily in the afternoon, up to two drinks an hour by the evening. So tomorrow she would be limiting herself to her normal morning sips to steady her hands, and then only one drink an hour once she really settled into drinking. That wasn't a terribly strict cut back. Hopefully her body would have gotten used to the dilution he'd imposed by then and she wouldn't have to go through any withdrawal. There was no point confessing unless it all started to go wrong.

Draco was a firm believer that he had no business borrowing problems from his future self. 

He had just soothed his conscience enough to drift off when the screaming started. 

“PLEASE! I DON'T KNOW! PLEASE! STOP!” 

For a moment, he almost believed that he had fallen asleep, that it was a nightmare. . . but a nightmare would have stopped when he woke up. Something was happening to Granger.

He didn't bother to dress beyond the grey joggers he'd worn to bed, pulling his wand out from under his pillow and taking the stairs two at a time down to the second floor. Both the bedroom doors were standing open and a dim light was filtering onto the dark landing from Granger's room, along with her screams. He skidded to a halt in the entryway. 

Granger was cowering by her headboard, knees curled up to her chest and shaking with the force of her voice leaving her body. Weasley had crawled into bed with her and was in the process of disengaging her gripping hands from where they were dug in against the flesh of her face to cover her eyes.

Their voices overlapped in a horrifying cacophony:

“PLEASE! It's a f-fake! I SWEAR!” 

“Bellatrix is dead. She's dead, Hermione!” 

“DON'T LET HIM TOUCH ME!”

“Fenrir Greyback is dead. He didn't hurt you. I swear.” 

Weasley finally managed to pry her hands off of her face, pulling her back against him and pinning her arms against her chest so that she couldn't claw at herself.

“Look, look, you're at home in your room. It's just you and me.” 

Granger seemed like she might have started to calm down for a moment, and then her eyes began to focus and landed directly on Draco.

“NOOooo,” she moaned, her face a trembling wreck of fear as she began to whisper hoarsely, over and over again. “I've lost it I've lost it I've lost it I've lost it I've lost my mind.” 

“It's just a nightmare, 'Mione,” Weasley said soothingly, his voice thick and tinged with apprehension. “Happens to the best of us.”

Granger was clearly talking to herself now; her eyes were glazed over and Draco wondered if she even knew she was speaking out loud. “Ron, Ron, Ron. . . at least if I'm losing it I can feel him here with me. I missed him so much. Why'd he have to run off. At least he's here now. I'm not alone. I don't want to die alone, nothing but Malfoys to watch. I wonder if they're torturing him too. What pieces of me does Greyback think he's going to get. Maybe since I pissed myself he won't want me. I hope she kills me first. Draco looks awful. If I beg maybe he'd put me out of my misery.” 

Everything came pouring out of her in one long string of words, as if there was no space between her brain and her mouth. She was back in the drawing room at the manor and he was getting insight into that moment that he never wanted or needed. Draco already knew it was terrible, or he’d thought he’d known. Watching Granger fall apart he suddenly thought, This is worse than the first time.

“Merlin's saggy ballsack,” Weasley muttered as he saw what Granger was looking at, pulling her back tighter against him, his hands clasping in front of her trapped arms and face buried in the cloud of her hair. “Malfoy is staying with us. You are not in the Manor. You aren't going crazy. You didn't imagine the last five years of your life. No one is going to torture you. Never again.”

Her face twisted in confusion. “Draco would never live with us. It's a nice thought, though, that we all get out of this mess one day.” 

“Malfoy,” Weasley barked, his voice much less soothing when it wasn't directed at the trembling witch, “get your arse in here.”

Draco almost refused. This wasn't the kind of moment that he should see. . . hell, he'd seen the real thing and he wished he hadn't, but Weasley's tone brooked no hesitation. At least Granger had stopped screaming. 

Her room was small and the smell of her sweat permeated it, along with the musty smell of old laundry. It wasn't exactly dirty, just cluttered. Nothing like the meticulous organization he expected after seeing her workspace in the library. He sidled up to the edge of the bed and stood stiffly. 

“She's having a flashback. Woke up part way through a nightmare, probably having a cruciatus aftershock. Have you ever had one?” 

He'd had many of them before seeing the mind healer they'd sent him to after Azkaban. The Dementors hadn't been in the building, but they'd been on the island so long that their presence permeated the stone. It was as if the cold and damp could leech out every one of his good memories and replace it with Professor Burbage disappearing into that damn snake’s mouth, or Hermione's face contorted into the rictus that could only be produced by the cruciatus. 

Draco nodded. “Yes.” 

“Good, then you know what it's like.” Weasley's voice sounded strained, and Draco couldn't help but wonder if the tremors that were rocking through Granger were harder to contain than they appeared. “We need to ground her so she doesn't think she's hallucinating. I've got pressure on her, it helps. Talk to her. Say something so she will know she isn't still there.” 

Her eyes were locked on his face with an intensity that would have been disturbing at the best of times, with the might of that ridiculous brain of hers churning and making connections that he couldn't fathom. With her thoughts locked on that terrible moment, even as it became clear the panic was receding, it was like being pinned under the gaze of a seer who could only see into the past. He didn't want to stand there being examined for another moment.

With a quick flick of his wand, a chair dragged itself from the wall to the side of the bed closest to Granger. 

“Granger. Think about it,” he said as he sat down, bringing himself closer to her eye level. “If we were still at the Manor, would the Dark Lord have let me wear Muggle joggers and no shirt? My mother wouldn't even let me wear this.” 

“You have a lot of scars,” she remarked, eyes drifting down to his exposed chest.  

A lot was a bit of an understatement. Most everyone he knew had at least a few war wounds. His chest was a mass of intersecting scars. 

“I do,” he answered, pointing at the massive rope of twisted tissue that ran from his shoulder down across to the opposite hip. “Potter gave me the worst one, sixth year when he used that spell of Snape's on me.” 

The Dark Lord had inflicted most of the other smaller patches of rippled skin. He'd been fond of tossing a burning hex at Draco when he was particularly vexed. The rest were just the minutiae of wartime and imprisonment. 

Granger shook her head, looking ashamed. “I told him he shouldn't have trusted that book.” 

“I deserved it,” Draco assured her, offering a small smile. 

He didn't hold any particular resentment for Potter now. He had been plotting something just as nasty as Potter had clearly suspected. Besides, there was no point in holding on to a grudge with the dead. Surely Potter had paid for any grief between them in full. 

Granger didn't seem to agree. 

“I'm not sure that's true.”

“I watched you get tortured, Granger. You weren't the only one.” Draco sighed. This was exactly the kind of conversation he had no desire to have. “I deserved everything I got.” 

Somehow this admission didn't deter Granger in the slightest. If anything the reminder of his presence during her worst moments seemed to sharpen her interest. 

“You watched,” she remarked, still breathless. “Tell me what it was like.” 

He looked past her head at Weasley, hoping his concern was clear on his face. “Are you sure that's a good idea?” 

Weasley nodded, his arms staying wrapped around her in a steady grip that somehow looked more like a hug than restraint. 

“It would be nice to know what is true,” Granger answered.

It took Draco a moment to focus and sink into the memories that he kept tightly locked away in his mind, occluded just enough to render them numb. His senses were overtaken within moments. The whole room felt colder; the smell of his mother's perfume was vivid, neroli and jasmine, contrasted with the tang of unwashed bodies; his mouth acrid with the bile collecting in the back of his throat. 

“Bellatrix tortured you with the cruciatus and her cursed knife,” he began, trying his best to keep his voice even, emotionless. “She would put the curse on you first, and then start digging into your arm and eventually your neck with the knife. I believe she wrote something on your arm, but I did everything I could not to look at what she was doing with the knife. I looked at your face. She talked to you the whole time, Greyback did too. They threatened a lot of things.” He meant to elaborate but he couldn't. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he tried to describe the terrible things that his aunt and that vagrant had promised her. “You screamed. A lot. It went on for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. You aren't the only one who has nightmares about it.”

“Fifteen minutes?” 

Her tears made her voice sound higher, younger. Just like the echos in his head. 

“Yes. The cruciatus messes with your sense of time. A few seconds can feel like an hour.” 

He shoved the memory back in his mind, its presence feeling almost physical as he carefully distanced himself from it, until he was so far removed that it was no more than a ghost. Insubstantial. His eyes focused as brought himself back to the current moment. 

Granger's gaze had sharpened, too, the dim light of the room washing out all the color so that they looked black and endlessly deep. “Greyback never touched me.” 

“Greyback never touched you,” he confirmed. 

It was a long time before Granger moved again. She stayed quiet, pressed up against Weasley's bare chest, her hair not quite hiding his expression from Draco. The other man's face was grim, jaw clenched tight and eyes haunted. It was an expression that Draco had seen before. He'd seen it on his father's face as he cradled his mother's limp hand when she'd taken the cruciatus from the Dark Lord rather than let Draco suffer. He'd seen it on his mother's face when his father came home from Azkaban, silent and hollow. 

Looking at them it was easy to see; they weren't just friends. Weasley wasn't acting purely out of guilt. He was in love with Granger. . . and from what Granger had been mumbling when she was lost in her flashback, it wasn't unrequited. The knowledge felt uncomfortable. Like an itch buried under his skin.

I need to get the fuck out of this room.

The thought struck him with intensity, forcing him out of the summoned chair to silently take his leave.

Granger startled at his movement, her head jerking up to maintain her gaze on his face. 

“Stay,” she said, sounding more like herself than she had since Draco was jerked awake by her screams. 

“I don't think that's the best idea.” 

That was true, even if he didn't really care whether it was a bad idea at this point. He just wanted to get out of the room and away from the ridiculousness of two people who were clearly in love and for some reason not acknowledging it. 

“Please,” Granger pleaded, her voice soft. “Having you both here. . .I think it's helping me remember when I am.”

Draco hesitated for just a moment. The bed was a decent size, and with a wave of his wand he could expand it for the night. It would probably take him hours to get to sleep back in the attic with the creaking of the house amplifying the memories of her screams. If he stayed, at least he would know that memories was all they were. 

His eyes drifted to Weasley's, taking in the tight, worried look on his face before locking onto Granger, her eyes wide and pleading in a way he'd never thought to see again. 

It was too much.

“No.” 

He heard her again on the way up the staircase, but this time it was sobbing. 

Weasley can handle this . 

The thought repeated in his mind as he paused on the third floor landing, trying to breath past the catch in his throat. . . but no matter how many times he repeated it, it felt hollow.

Chapter Text

Loud steps on the stairs woke Draco just as he was finally drifting back off to sleep again. It had taken him hours to calm down after Granger’s little episode and he mentally debated rolling over and cursing whoever was coming up without even knowing who it was.

“You said you practice dueling,” Weasley said as he topped the stairs, clad in a maroon jumper and who knew what else under the ugly orange bathrobe that seemed to be his preferred pajamas. “Let's practice.” 

Draco groaned, covering his eyes with one arm against the bright glare from the window. “I'm not in the mood to spar, Weasley. Shouldn't you be at work anyway?” 

“Robard's put me on night shift for the next few days, but I still couldn't sleep. Too used to getting up early. I'll nap later, after I help you sweep the storage rooms,” Weasley said with a shrug, as if it wasn't any big deal to offer to help with work he was already paying for. “Also, it's gone ten so I didn't wake you up that early.”

Maybe if I pretend I fell back asleep he'll just go away, Draco thought, breathing deeply and willing his body to stay still. 

Weasley didn't seem to notice the snub in the slightest, simply swinging open the large round window and feeding the owls on the balcony a few treats while he waited. The tiny owl seemed especially excited to see him, hooting shrilly and zipping around feverishly, knocking into the wood and glass as it went. He wouldn't be getting back to sleep with that racket going on right next to the bed. 

“Fine,” Draco muttered, half considering just hexing the other man outright. “If you'd like to have your arse handed to you this early in the day, so be it.” 

Draco rolled out of bed, far more aware of being in nothing but his joggers in the morning light. Weasley crossed the room and waited while Draco put up silencing wards on the floor and the mouth of the staircase. 

It was clear that Weasley was used to dueling. His stance was firm, wand held at a comfortable angle and feet falling easily into a casual, standard stance, weight resting on his back leg. 

He looks surprisingly relaxed, Draco thought.

His own stance was far more traditional, learned through years of practice with his father. One arm stretched outward to maintain balance and the wand arm drawn up and back to hide the early movements of any spell cast. It was probably over-polished. His aunt had certainly thought so, but she also thought that the Dark Lord was the epitome of beauty, so who knew if she was right. She had molded Draco into a better duelist, as much as he hated to admit it, but the opening stance had stuck.

It was late enough in the day that the large window to balcony owlery let in enough sunshine to diminish the dark corners that lingered where the sloped roof met the floor. It made for good visibility for Draco and he could only hope the glare from the window would impede it on the other side of the room. The huge open space of the attic provided plenty of space between them, far more than they were likely to get if they needed to put their casting skills to the test. He made the most of it. 

“ Tarantellegra,” he murmured, keeping his voice low and even as he twitched the tip of his wand in the direction of Weasley's legs.

The spell wasn't flashy. Purple light winked briefly along a line towards Weasley's legs before fizzling out along the edges of the protego the other man had raised with a quick sweep of his wand. There were no major flaws visible in the shimmering shield and it had a strong, even edge that fanned out in front of Weasley about a foot to either side. Draco wasn't getting through that without expending a good deal of his energy. He'd have to wait for his opponent to cast. 

He didn't have to wait long. 

It would have been easy to miss Weasley's opening spell. From across the room the word was muffled and the wandwork was minimal. The magic didn't create any light or other physical manifestation. The only clue was the almost imperceptible oily sheen of his shield disappearing. Draco considered putting up a shield himself, but took the chance to fire off an offensive spell instead. 

“ Locomotor mortis. ”

Red light whipped towards Weasley as Draco twisted, hoping to avoid the worst of whatever spell had been sent his way. The spell grazed him, like a sharp blast of wind where it caught the edge of his joggers. 

It left a hole. 

“Hey!” he yelled after putting up a quick shield. “This is for practice, Weasley! We've got no one standing by to do healing. Keep it reasonable.”

Weasley pushed up the sleeves of his robe. “Calm down. It was a horn-tongue hex and I know the counterspell.” 

While Weasley was talking Draco cast a quiet confundus , feeling the sweat bead up on his forehead as he concentrated. It wasn't a typical dueling spell; it took too much effort and focus to cast well on the fly. But he needed an edge. He was likely a better duelist than Weasley, but not in the limiting circumstances of this mock skirmish. He couldn't very well toss off an entrail-expelling curse at Weasley. He didn't even want to. 

Auntie Bella would be so disappointed. 

The spell hit. 

Weasley swayed on the spot for a moment and shook his head. His movements were sluggish now, his arm raising far too slowly to cast his next spell. 

Draco took every advantage of it. He cast spells rapid fire as he walked forward, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“Incarcerous.” 

The flying shot of ropes missed as Weasley stumbled to the side, still shaking his head sharply. 

“Tarantallegra.” Draco tried again, the spell hitting his opponent in a purple flash. 

Weasley's legs jerked around underneath him, somehow keeping him upright despite the way his torso almost flopped, rendered incapable of matching the motion by the clouding of his mind. It was such an odd sight that he almost wanted to call the match then just so he could sit down and appreciate the absurdity. . . but not quite enough to throw away the win. 

He cast a stunner, but the red light missed as the uncoordinated movement of Weasley's body jerked him to the side. Another stunner, another miss. 

Goddamnit. 

Draco reluctantly muttered the countercurse for the dancing legs curse, bringing his opponent to a sudden, if wobbly, stop. A moment passed. He had brought himself much closer to Weasley and it was more than apparent that, even through the confounding charm, the other man was absolutely raging. Suddenly it seemed like a very good idea to bring the duel to a swift and efficient close. 

“ Locomotor mortis, ” he whispered, sure that with Weasley's legs captured and his mind muddled they could call the match closed. 

His spell hit this time and Weasley toppled, legs stiff and straight as a board and arms catching his weight as he fell, leaving his wand to clatter across the wooden floor. 

Hermione's everything ached and she hadn't even gotten out of bed yet.

She had a moment of intense fear as her sleep addled brain remembered that she had decided to stop drinking. Last time had been such a nightmare. Withdrawal made it feel like someone had hollowed her out with fire. Like someone had shoved pins into every nerve ending and then made her vomit. It felt almost like Bellatrix was cursing her again. 

This wasn't that though. This was more familiar pain. She'd had a panic attack.

The memory came rushing back all at once. The familiar nightmare with Bellatrix's cackle echoing all around her and the blistering pain of the cruciatus curse blending with the jagged slicing of her knife. Greyback lurked in the corner, she could sense him even though the only thing visible in the dim light was the slick shine of his teeth. Then Ron, appearing at her side, the comforting pressure of his arms banded tight around her and the warmth of his body behind her. Malfoy in the doorway of her bedroom, looking terrified and drawn, as if he'd never left the drawing room at the Manor. 

She wished he had stayed. The rest of the night had gone as expected. She'd shivered and cried against Ron, wishing that she had the strength to turn him away or, even better, to just roll over and press her lips to his and get lost for a little while. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to do, yet she always held back, terrified of. . . something. For a moment she had felt like maybe she could have tried with Malfoy right there, odd as that might seem. 

It was easier to remember where she was with him there. Two separate sides of the war, but better fed and without the threat of death hanging over their heads. Aged. Different.

A wave of nausea washed over her and stopped her mind in its tracks. 

She needed a drink. Truly, genuinely needed it. The itch was starting to creep up her arms from her shaking palms. 

“Ron,” she croaked, reaching out for his familiar bulk in the bed and finding it gone. The covers were still warm, so he'd been there recently.

He'd left her alone.

The thought moved through her like it had a physical presence. It made her shiver, the beginnings of panic flaring up again under her breastbone. 

No. There was no point in letting it take over. If she had two bad attacks in one day then she'd have to take a calming draught and if she did that she couldn't have any alcohol at all, and she would have to go inpatient at St. Mungos. She shoved down the fear that bubbled up with every odd creak and thump in the house. She just needed to find the bottle of gin that slotted in between her mattress and the side table. 

It shouldn't be this hard. 

It would have been easier if her hands weren't shaking so badly that her knuckles rapped viciously against the wood. Frustration came quickly and she welcomed it, welcoming the crackling rush of magic in her veins. It was coming easier already, she could almost feel it. It was tempting to try to reach out and use it. She wasn't unskilled in wandless magic. Wingardum leviosa was one of the first charms she'd ever mastered, but she couldn't bring herself to actually try it and fail. It felt like one too many kicks when she was down. Instead she focused on that feeling of frustration heating up her cheeks and making her hair frizz, and wished the bottle would come to her. 

It didn't work. She wasn't a child and she knew the world didn't bend to her whims. Logic got in the way. Her magic wouldn't work for her unless she made it. 

When she finally managed to dig the bottle out of its spot and raise it to her lips, she could only think that it tasted better for all the waiting.

Ron couldn't believe that Malfoy had confunded him; at least, that had better be what the marshmallowy feeling in his head was, like he was walking through thick, puffy clouds but in his mind. Not only had Malfoy confunded him, he'd been complaining about a hex when he'd done it. 

Luckily, every junior Auror learned the basics of shaking off that particular charm early on in training. No one wanted to have a bunch of Aurors who could easily be reduced to bumbling arses whenever someone was clever enough to throw a slightly more difficult charm their way. It made it too dangerous for them to fight back if they stayed under the influence. Wands were deadly weapons after all. 

So Ron had followed the procedure: try to keep your balance, shake your head vigorously until it clears, don't fire any spells. 

Only Malfoy was too good to let him get a moment to clear up. He'd fired charm after hex and left Ron's mind scrambling to figure out whether or not he was even facing the right way. His senses were too clouded and the walls and floor too similar. The only point of reference was the glow of white light from the window.

He'd just given his head another massive shake when his legs locked. Hitting the floor hurt just enough to jar him out of the charm-induced fog. He used the moment to roll, hoping to avoid whatever followup his opponent might cast and to get a visual on his circumstances.

Malfoy had moved in much closer than Ron would have expected. It had relieved the sun that created a halo around him and put him far away from the possible cover of the bed and small desk. All things considered, Ron had to say his situation might actually have been improved by the momentary confounding. 

Or it would have been if he had his bloody wand. 

“Accio wand!” He bellowed, holding the proper hand out as he stood and hoping for a quick return. 

The cool, familiar wood had barely touched his palm before he heard Malfoy say, “Expelliarmus.”

The wand immediately spun off, depositing itself in the other wizard's hand.

“Do you want to call it or should I?” Malfoy asked, his voice every inch the smarmy drawl that Ron hated. 

Ron had come up to the attic hoping to release some tension and talk to Malfoy about the night before. He knew it had been stressful. Even though he'd done it dozens of times himself, had spent about half the nights every week waking up to Hermione screaming and having to go in and hold her until she could go back to sleep, he still found it stressful. He should have let Malfoy know to stay out of the line of sight if he came down to check. So the awkwardness was as much his fault as anyone's. Actually, he'd thought that Malfoy handled himself more than adequately, all things said. He'd even seemed to actually help Hermione. She'd wanted him there, but then at the end he'd just pulled away. . . just left. 

It was fair enough. He hadn’t signed on to be part of Hermione’s recovery, but the look on his face had been so blank, so emotionless. 

He was wearing it again now. 

Ron could hear his heartbeat in his ears and the edges of his vision tinged red. 

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” he said, pulling back a fist and slamming it right into the other man's perfect, pointy nose. 

The crunch under his knuckles was deeply satisfying. Malfoy yelping was even better. 

Malfoy stumbled back from Ron, his hand cupped under his nose as he spluttered through a trickle of blood. “What the fuck, Weasley!” 

Ron didn't really know how to answer. He knew he couldn't just throw punches in the middle of a duel. That was fine if he was actually in the heat of battle, but this was practice. He couldn't really explain, even to himself, why he'd lost his temper. He needed some time to think. His head felt jumbled, and not because he was still confounded. 

He felt vulnerable. 

“You were being a smug bastard and it pissed me off.” That was honest enough, it would have to do. 

Malfoy somehow managed to look every bit the insulted aristocrat as he grabbed some sort of clothing  from his bag and used it to clean his face, wincing. “So you hit me?” 

Ron reached for his wand, rolling his eyes when Malfoy pulled it back. “I'm just trying to heal your nose, Malfoy. The duel is obviously over.” 

He reluctantly handed Ron his wand with a nasty grin that was slightly undercut by a bit of blood still smeared on his upper lip.

“So you admit I won then.” 

Ron pointed his wand at the other man's nose and mended it with a quick episkey. Luckily it healed straight so he didn't have to deal with the embarrassment of dragging Malfoy to St. Mungo's and paying for the resetting. 

“I admit that you won this practice duel because I broke the rules. If it had been a real fight, I think I stood a chance of winning.”

He reached out unthinkingly, his thumb wiping away a streak of blood that remained just over Malfoy's lip. 

The skin there was rough. There was morning growth there even if Ron couldn't see the shadow of it. It was hard to imagine Malfoy with facial hair of any kind. The only time he'd seen the other wizard not clean shaven was on the front of the Prophet the day that they'd released him from Azkaban and he'd had a year of unchecked, ungroomed beard on his face. He hadn't looked like himself at all. The next time he'd seen Malfoy had been when he was reporting something for one of his clients and he'd been exactly as Ron had seen him ever since: pale, blond, face well-groomed, and in a Muggle business suit. 

The moment of contact seemed to stretch on forever, with Malfoy's breath coming out in a hot wash over the palm of his hand. Ron's heart raced in his chest. He tried his best to pull away, ignoring the feeling of blood rushing out to his extremities, knowing his ears must be turning bright pink. 

Malfoy grabbed his wrist before his hand could move more than an inch, and the strong press of his fingers against Ron's skin was enough to make him half hard against the seam of his shorts. He was grateful for the light bathrobe that kept it from becoming painfully obvious. . . or maybe it didn't, because the look on Malfoy's face was, for just a moment, so completely open that even Ron could read it. His silvery eyes were half lidded, his lips parted.

Malfoy felt it too. 

It was all Ron needed to know in that moment. 

Malfoy took a step closer and he met him halfway, their mouths crashing together. He had already shaved, so Malfoy's morning shadow was pleasantly rough where their skin brushed. His lips were a soft contrast. They parted under Ron's, a small flicker of his wet tongue pulling a groan out of Ron's chest.

He was kissing Draco Malfoy. And Draco was kissing him back. With enthusiasm. 

He'd never followed through on the impulse to kiss another man, and in the moment, it felt surreal. Malfoy pushed forward into him, his sharp chin knocking into Ron's as his fingers settled against the nape of Ron's neck. It was nothing like he would have ever imagined. Not like he'd ever imagined with anyone, not Krum, not Harry, certainly not Hermione .

It could only have lasted a few moments before Ron pushed against Malfoy's shoulder, the rush of excitement that had pushed him into the kiss suddenly dropping into his stomach like a rock. He couldn't even look Malfoy in the face as he scrambled for words. 

“I'm sorry about the punch,” Ron mumbled, trying to find some bearing of normalcy as his stomach churned with guilt.  “See you down in the library for lunch? Play a match before we check through the storage?” 

Malfoy didn't answer, his mouth still slightly wet and open as he nodded.

Chapter Text

It took longer to stop trembling than Hermione would have liked. She limited herself to a single drink and waited to see if it would be enough. The clock seemed to tick more slowly as the gin soaked into her body, fifteen minutes feeling like hours. With nothing on her stomach it did more than steady her, it made her brain pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, exactly what she was trying to avoid.

She needed to eat. 

Hermione wandered out of her room intending to go down to the kitchen for toast and jam, but instead followed the sound of familiar voices floating down the stairs. 

She caught the end of a question from Draco. “. . . did that mean?” 

“. . . not talking about this right now. . .” came part of Ron's response, his voice heated and suddenly trailing to a whisper. 

As she got to the landing she had a vague impulse to stay out of sight and listen. Their words would be clearer here and she was convinced they were talking about her. It made her queasy to think that they might be. Last night had been embarrassing. Draco had already made it very clear that he didn't think she was worth much, she couldn't imagine what he was thinking after her meltdown. 

The only thing that kept her from doing it was a wave of hunger coupled with the troubling haziness of her mind. 

“I need a sobering potion,” she said as she shuffled into the room, finding them crowded around the chessboard. “Actually, I need to eat, but I'd appreciate a potion first.” 

“Got it,” Ron said, immediately jumping to his feet to run out to procure it for her. 

The silence that fell once he had left was truly awkward. Draco didn't look at her, yet she felt unable to break her eyes away from him. He didn't look like he'd slept well. The dark circles under his eyes were reddish and vicious looking, like the remnants of a brawl; his normally shiny hair wasn't slicked back as per usual. It hung limp and messy to one side, leaving only half of his meticulously up-kept and shaped undercut visible, making his whole appearance skewed and off-kilter. 

After a few moments he shifted in his seat, rearranging the broken pieces he'd taken so far in the match off to one side of the board. 

Hermione took that as an opening, shifting on her feet as she tried to make some conversation to relieve the silence. “Er, I hope you are well this morning.” 

“Fine,” Draco said, still not meeting her eyes, but plastering on a polite smile. 

Hermione was well aware of when she was being brushed off and didn't bother to try and continue the conversation. 

She didn't often have a reason to glance at the bookshelf above Malfoy's chair, but it kept her attention well enough while she waited for Ron to return. It was the Quidditch section. All the books she'd ever bought for Ron or Harry on the subject were there, along with deep stacks of Quidditch Quarterly and a few pieces of memorabilia: Harry's snitch, a signed pair of Chudley Cannons keeper’s gloves, and a photo of their entire group in the top box at the World Cup from the summer before fourth year. Who had even taken that? She didn't remember them posing, but the moment seemed candid, everyone up and jumping as a player swooped near enough to be caught as a blur in the photo. When the little image of Harry leaned forward with his omnioculars there was a flash of white blond behind him and a pale face with a wide grin. 

“Here's the potion,” Ron said cheerily, bounding back into the room and bringing her back to the moment before she could mention the coincidence of the photo to Draco. “I had beans and toast for breakfast, there's extra in the cupboard.” 

As always, the potion was vile. Thick and sour. But it was effective. Her mind snapped back into clarity moments after she swallowed. “Thank you.” 

The beans were still warm, steaming up as she poured them over thick slices of Molly's homemade bread. The men didn't return to their conversation as she ate, instead playing in complete silence, picking off pieces in rapid succession until she interjected. “Did you get a day off, Ron?”

“Robards is putting me on the night shift because he's pissed off I'm quitting.” 

“Bastard,” Draco muttered, and Hermione couldn't be completely sure whether he was talking about Robards or Ron, as one of his rooks had just rammed straight into Malfoy's remaining bishop. 

Ron continued explaining as he waited for Draco to counter, chin propped on the heel of his hand. “I'm going to help Malfoy search storage to make sure nothing was left behind in the house that could be dangerous and then take a nap.” 

They played out the remainder of their match in a quick series of moves. Draco played the way she'd noticed before, his moves reactive and aggressive, but this time Ron was taking the bait. He seemed off his game and for a moment Hermione thought he might lose as Draco put him in check for a second time. Draco clearly thought the same thing judging by the grin on his face. Clearly they had both missed something, because within moments Ron had swung the game back into his favor, queening two pawns that had been left unguarded in a matter of moves. It ended quickly after that, the two queens picking off the remaining defenders and pinning Draco's king into a back corner. 

“Good match,” Ron said as Draco knocked over his king, signaling defeat. “You almost had me. Would have if I hadn't dropped the pawns back behind your defenses after you wrapped up the gambit. Let's get the search out of the way, I need a nap already.” 

Draco nodded, face pinched and looking sour. He was such a sore loser it made Hermione roll her eyes. He'd done well. If it had been her, she would have taken the compliment and run with it. 

Ron yawned spectacularly, his arms stretching out above his head and pulling the neck of his robe wide so that her eyes were drawn to where the vee revealed the ginger hair dusted across his chest. It was distracting, the memory of many nights he'd held her, back pressed against that softness. She couldn't remember if she'd ever reached out to feel it under her fingertips. 

Hermione fought back the urge, turning her attention to Draco and strangely finding his eyes locked onto her. She didn't last even a moment under the intensity before she needed to duck her head. 

It was impossible to ignore exactly what the feelings were when she was sober. Normally she could chalk up the empty feeling in her chest to Ron simply being handsome, to him being her best friend, to their shared history, only admitting it was more when Healer Plum pushed her to be honest. . . but this aching desire to reach out and touch him was more than that and she knew it. It was getting harder to find a reason to fight it.

She was simply unwilling to interact with the drop in her stomach that accompanied finding Draco's grey eyes watching her.

“I'll come. I can't help dismantle any spells, but since I organized the storage, I'll be able to tell you if anything has been disturbed,” Hermione offered. She tried not to think about the bottles of gin she'd hidden on the fourth floor back before she knew Ron intended to lock up the storage areas. It would be good to keep herself busy, to feel useful. She certainly wasn't in any shape to work on her research today.

“That's not a good idea, Granger,” Draco said as he stood, neatening his crisp black shirt where it had wrinkled. “We're searching for dangerous artifacts.” 

Ron waved off Draco's concern. “It's fine. Hermione can keep her hands to herself.”

She hoped he was right.

Draco could not have predicted the state of the storage. 

He already felt as though the rest of the house, with the exception of the attic, was stuffed to the gills. The cabinets overflowed with cups. The library was so heftily stocked some of the shelves were stacked two deep. The storage floors were another matter altogether. It was like being back in the room of lost things at Hogwarts, if someone had been hired to organize the place. 

The fourth floor was two rooms, both filled with narrow rows of neatly labeled boxes that stretched almost as high as the ceiling.

There was so much packed into the rooms that Draco wished that they’d waited to hear back from his mother about adjusting his foe glass before bothering to search. He might be able to pull out almost any arcane, dark, or dangerous items, but who knew how many of them might be housed in those boxes? Who knew what kind of enchantments might have them being observed?

No use worrying about that now, he thought. If they are watching they already know too much.

“If it could fit in a box we put it in here,” Weasley explained. “This is where we kept most of our school stuff and Harry's things. This side is the small things my family gave me to set up house. Cookpots and dining sets, stuff like that. I think my mum unloaded half her attic on me once she realized Ginny didn't have any plans to live outside of team housing. ”

Draco immediately began to cast his detection spell over each room, trying his best to keep his focus on the work at hand and not the nakedly hungry way that Granger's eyes kept flickering towards Weasley's half-bared chest. 

Honestly, did the man not believe in real clothes?

It was the same spell he'd used to find out Granger's alcohol over his first two days in the house, but more precise, no fudging about throwing in English with the Latin. “Circumspicio locus terminus: magus tenebris, magus anceps, magus arcanus.”

The room full of Weasley items didn't yield anything, but when he turned his wand to the room with Potter's things three or four small balls of light left the tip of his wand and drifted towards the same back corner. Granger followed them and shook her head when she saw where they landed. 

“These are all things boxed up from Grimmauld Place before we sold it. There were several arcane items and one protective bracelet that isn't classified as dark by the Ministry but is certainly dangerous, we can't even touch it because neither of us have near Black family ancestors. . .” She kept close to the windows on the back wall, fussing with the dusty curtains as she spoke, her face suddenly going pale as she remembered Draco's ancestry. “We've been saving it for your cousin Teddy when he comes of age.” 

As if I care about some Black wife's cursed beads, Draco thought, a glint of sunlight on glass catching his eye near her feet, making his jaw tighten with suppressed resentment. “You should still step away from there, Granger. Just because there were already dangerous items present doesn't mean no one planted anything.” 

“Seems unlikely.” Granger huffed. Her eyes darted back at the curtain with obvious longing as she stepped back from the boxes. “Why wouldn't they pick an easier area to access than the back corner? They weren't here long before Ron got home.” 

Weasley directed down the top few boxes from the back corner with a whispered wingardium leviosa. He went through the contents quickly but thoroughly, his wand flicking items to the side and pulling them out to examine. 

“I think it's just the items we already know about, just let me finish checking over all this just to be sure nothing is amiss. You two go up and check the next floor.” 

Draco was more than happy for a reason to get Granger away from her hidden stash and to put some distance between himself and Weasley. He considered himself a master at compartmentalization, but it was difficult to focus with the memory of the other man's lips pressing in at the edges of his mind, and Granger's obvious desire constantly on her face, no longer masked by the rapid rise and fall of drunken emotions. He would almost have welcomed that revelation, especially after noticing the flattering flare of heat there when his eyes met hers—if only she didn't immediately seek out a drink.

As soon as they were around the corner and onto the next set of stairs Draco grabbed her elbow and pulled Granger to a stop. He ignored the way her breath hitched, though it was as obvious when he was so close to her, as obvious as the flutter of her pulse under his fingertips. “If you go back in that room I will tell Healer Plum that you aren't actually drying out.” 

“I don't know what you are talking about. You don't have any idea what my treatment plan is,” she replied, her voice wavering and eyes dropping to where his skin touched hers.

Can she feel it too? He wondered, not completely able to convince himself that the sudden intimacy with Weasley wasn't making him read the situation wrong. Is she afraid of me?

He couldn't let that question deter the message he wanted to send. Maybe it was better if she was frightened.

“You'd be surprised what I know since you didn't bother to have the good healer cast a silencing spell on the library when you had your session. I don't believe your taper down included drinking out of the bottle you have hidden behind those curtains.”

Whatever feeling had lingered between them for a moment was quickly doused as she ripped her arm out of his grasp, eyes shining bright with anger. “We'll talk about that later.” 

They finished the rest of the short climb in silence.

Where the fourth floor had been odds and ends, the fifth floor was a single large space filled with furniture. It seemed that Granger and Weasley had decided to only keep what they needed on the floors they used, and stored away another small house worth of furnishings; there were numerous settees and chaises and armchairs, and in one corner of the room sat an entire dining set, the long table easily able to accommodate the twelve chairs. There were two more beds, both four-posters with ragged looking emerald green curtains. More bookshelves were waiting to be added into the library if it was ever expanded and half a dozen rugs were rolled up and leaned against one wall. 

As soon as they walked into the room Granger stopped, alert and shaking as she pointed a finger at a grouping of armchairs, set up as a little seating area with a trunk for a table. 

“The lock is undone on the trunk.” She held her chin high, even though it trembled. 

Draco pointed his wand directly at the dark crack where the lid didn't quite settle as it should, taking note of the plain silvery padlock dangling from the latch before whispering the incantation again and watching a single wavering orb of light move to tap against the opening. 

He pushed Granger behind him, stepping back onto the landing and keeping his wand trained on the trunk. “WEASLEY!” he shouted. “We've found something.” 

Ron had just decided that the boxes of stuff from Grimmauld Place were terrifying, but not more than they had been to begin with, when he heard Draco yell. 

The husk of Slytherin's locket sat at the top, still seeming to radiate evil long after the piece of Voldemort's soul had been destroyed. He would have thrown it away, but Hermione was convinced that it was best to keep at least one, saying that if anyone else ever tried to use similar items again there might be something they could glean from what had been left behind. It was by far the most dangerous item in the boxes. The protective bracelet, a few books on the arcane arts, death masks imbued with life in the same way as a portrait that seemed to constantly be screaming. Creepy but not dangerous. 

He abandoned the boxes immediately on hearing Malfoy, taking the stairs two at a time. 

“What'd you find?” he asked as soon as he got to the landing.

Ron's gut clenched seeing the way that Hermione had moved herself behind Malfoy. The burn of jealousy creeping up from the pit of his stomach was familiar and unwelcome. It had been a long time since he’d had any reason to feel it. He wasn't even sure who he envied the most in the moment: Malfoy for the way Hermione was pressed against the length of his back, or her for the easy way that Malfoy laid his hand against her arm, gently urging her to stay behind him.

Either way he hated it.

“That trunk shouldn't be open. It has a lock on it,” Hermione said, peering around Malfoy's shoulder into the room and drawing Ron's eye to where the tip of Malfoy's wand was pointed.

The trunk wasn't anything special. It was one of the things his family had sent from their attic, old and in need of mending on one corner where the ghoul had chewed on the leather for some reason. He thought he remembered that it had been full of bedding, but it was all for cots and children's beds. A single one of Malfoy's little detection lights hovered outside it. 

Reaching past Malfoy, he cast a basic Auror ward buster over the trunk but it didn't flash or react in any way. Whatever the intruder had left, he hadn't bothered to offer it any protection. 

“I'm going to go check it out,” Ron said, stepping through the narrow gap left in the doorway. “Hermione, you don't have a wand on you, please go back down to the second floor.” 

She and Malfoy both responded in eerie tandem, “That's not a good idea.”

“Fine.” he tried to ignore the impulse to question their strange opposition and focus on the job at hand.“Just stay back. . .” He thought back to a hundred missions that hadn't gone according to plan, booby-traps and incendiary spell reactions. “Actually, Malfoy, cast a protego.” 

Malfoy nodded, bringing up a crisp-edged, wavering barrier of magic in seconds. 

He used the tip of his wand to lift the lid of the trunk, arm at full extension as he flipped it back and braced himself for the absolute shit storm he was certain was headed his way. Nothing happened. No noise. No explosions. No wave of strange magic. Ron leaned forward and peeked inside. For a moment he didn't see anything except the daisy patterned cot sheets and what seemed to be a stack of small pillows, but when he got closer he could see that pressed between the wall of the trunk and the neatly folded linens was one large brass hip flask.

Ron couldn't resist. He knew it was a risk, but before he knew what he was doing, his hand had reached for the flask. It was smooth and the top popped off with the barest pressure. Through the wide mouth he could just catch a glimpse of the liquid inside. It was a deep aubergine and to Ron it smelled like candle wax. 

“It's a potion,” he said, turning back to Hermione and Malfoy and closing the lid, putting it on the floor. “I think there's some sort of compulsion on the flask. I'm having a hard time resisting the urge to drink it.” His hands itched to reach out for it and he shoved them into the pockets of his robe, marching back over to stand by Hermione. “A really hard time.” 

Malfoy approached the flask cautiously, reaching out and picking it up with a confused look on his face. 

“I'm not feeling any urge.” he said, looking inside the flask. “And the potion doesn't look familiar.” 

Hermione stepped around Ron and towards Malfoy. “Let me see.”

She reached out and gingerly pressed one finger to the smooth brass side of the flask, shaking her head when Ron looked at her expectantly. Malfoy tipped the mouth towards her, shining the lighted tip of his wand near the edge so she could see inside. 

“I can't be definitive, because the potion changes so much depending on the final ingredient added, but I believe that is activated polyjuice potion.”

Activated polyjuice.

Ron's brain was spinning, trying to make sense of the connections. The flask didn't seem to compel Hermione or Malfoy yet he was still having to fight back the urge to reach out and touch the cool metal, to bring the potion to his lips. He'd been running a case dealing with polyjuice ingredients when it was planted. Someone had secreted it away in his house, not even knowing if he would ever find it, but not exactly hiding their presence in his house. Did they want him to find it or not? What was the point?

Who would the potion turn him into?

Chapter Text

Weasley says that he has to get some sleep and suddenly Draco finds himself putting the flask back into the trunk and pulling the lid tightly shut, as if it had never been compromised. He is told to put his own wards on it, and he resists, not sure anything he knows would be strong enough, but one look from Weasley tells him it's not up for debate. 

Whatever compulsion the intruder had put on it must have been strong. The thought comes to him as he watches the other man try to compose himself. Weasley's clenching his jaw so hard he might crack a tooth.

That all happened quickly and then they were back on their way down the stairs, Draco carefully maneuvering his body between Granger and her hidden stash on the fourth floor. Weasley slipped the wards back into place on the landing, and Granger followed him back down to the second floor. Draco hadn't gone after them. He waited on the stairs until the sound of two doors slamming echoed up the staircase. 

Evidently we are not going to talk about the erumpent in the room, he thought, making his own way back up to the attic. 

Someone had planted something in the Weasley-Granger home and put a compulsion charm on it. Someone wanted to frame Ronald Weasley for something, and they couldn't possibly know what without one of them taking the potion. There was simply no other way of reading the situation, yet neither of the inhabitants of the house had said a word. He thought he might even know why Weasley hadn't. He was too smart to reveal how much they knew while there was still a chance they were being monitored. 

Draco still found it infuriating. 

They understood some of the shape of things now. It felt like they should be doing something. Instead they were going back to bed at two in the afternoon like toddlers. 

When he arrived back in the attic, the early afternoon sun filled it with light and had lulled even the tiny deranged owl into a deep sleep. There was no wind, so the creaking of the Stack had been reduced to an almost bearable level even at the highest floor. It should have been relaxing.  

Draco certainly had every intention of taking advantage of the free afternoon for sleep. He would need to be extra alert for the night when Weasley would be gone. Granger would be asleep, and the cover of darkness made the house an easier target, even with magic involved. It was easier for an intruder to hide in the shadows. Unfortunately, the bright afternoon sun had left the aftermath of that morning’s duel in high relief.

There were scorches and other remnants of hexes that had missed scattered on the far wall around the window and on the whitewashed floor. His sheets were in a mangled heap and the little desk had somehow been upended. 

Despite the disorder, none of that unsettled him like the browned drops and streaks of his blood all collected in one patch of floor. A half smeared footprint stood out in high relief. 

That's where Ronald Weasley kissed me. The thought spun through his mind as he skirted the evidence on the floor, unable to avoid the next idea that followed on its heel. No. That's where we kissed.

Because Draco had definitely kissed him back.

The knowledge felt foreign, like a joke he hadn't quite gotten yet. It was stuck in his mind like a bad song while he stripped out of his clothes and pulled back on the pair of joggers he'd worn to bed, somehow still mercifully free of blood. He laid down on the slightly lumpy mattress and as soon as his body had no reason to be moving, the events of the last twenty-four hours swept over him: Granger's screams, the guilt at leaving her behind, the adrenaline of the duel, the agony of his nose breaking (still echoed as a soft sore pulse at the inner corner of each eye), the searing intensity of Weasley's lips on his, the disappointment of Granger trying to sneak more liquor, that thrumming possibility of their skin touching, the unsolved mystery of the flask. . .

It was all a bit mad. This place. This job. Granger. Weasley. 

He needed to get away for a bit. It wasn't healthy to stay cooped up the whole time. Weasley had the night shift again tomorrow. If he could manage to take a long enough nap this afternoon, he could push through after the night watch and give his mother a visit. He could play it off as visiting his contact about the foe glass. It wouldn't even be a lie. It was a Black family heirloom and he was certain his mother had thought long and hard about how to adjust this kind of spell. She'd messed with the enchantments on it enough when the Dark Lord had occupied the manor. 

He'd have to talk to the elves and make sure she knew he was coming. She didn't like when he didn't give her an opportunity to change into something more formal. It was ridiculous, considering that her flat had a dine-in kitchen. 

But at least she was the kind of complicated he was used to dealing with. 

Someone was trying to frame him. 

Ron had a lot of time to think about it during the night shift. The hours passed by slowly in the Aurors’ Office, filling out paperwork and waiting for his chance to walk rounds down through the alleys. No matter how many times he went over the evidence, he almost couldn't believe it. 

He'd been in this situation before, usually with bigots who wanted to claim he was biased because of his stance during the war and couldn't be trusted to lead an investigation against them. They'd accuse him of all sorts of things. One had even attempted to say that Ron was the blood purist, gleefully showing up at the Aurors’ Office with his pensieve memory in hand as proof. Ron had actually felt a little bad for him when the man realized that he'd accidentally proved he was part of a blood supremacist group that Ron had unsuccessfully been trying to infiltrate. 

That experience felt far removed from this: someone breaking into his home. Someone leaving a complicated potion hidden away that could have lay in wait for years before he found it.The compulsion spell. 

Whoever was doing this was good. 

They were good, and they knew him . They knew his work schedule and the location of the Stack. It wasn't protected under the fidelius charm but the floo connection was closed and he never said where he lived. It was protected by notice-me-nots and the best wards Bill knew how to add. Whoever had done this also knew the case he was working on. They knew that he would have access to polyjuice ingredients, and that he wouldn't be able to deny having the general know-how to brew it. He didn't remember the details, but he'd made a big enough deal about the fact that he, Hermione, and Harry had brewed it in second year when he petitioned to take on the case involving the ingredients that plenty of people would have heard that story by now. Not to mention that he'd used polyjuice during the war and that was all part of the public record. There was no way they would believe him if he said that he didn't remember because Hermione had done most of the brewing; they would just say that she could have taught him. 

No. This person had known that this was one illegal substance that people would find it all too easy to believe he had access to. 

He was all but convinced they were an Auror . . . or posing as one. When the dead of night hit and he was the only one left manning the office, it was easy enough to imagine. 

He tried to pull the file on the fence he’d been investigating the day of the breakin, wanting to note some ideas he'd had on how to lure them out. The file was nowhere to be found. 

Many of the file cabinets were locked, for security, but he couldn't think of a good reason it would be in one of them. It wasn't a sensitive case, unless you knew about the illegal potion planted at the Stack. But there were twenty active Aurors in the department. All of them had files on their desks, not to mention the piles of files that went in and out of the neat stacks on Robard's desk every day. Anyone could have the papers. Anyone could be hiding information linking him to polyjuice ingredients still at large, and there was no telling who. 

Now that polyjuice was involved, he really couldn't be sure anyone was who he thought they were. 

The next step was obvious: one of them needed to take the potion. They needed to know who the potion would turn them into, but Ron wasn't sure it was the best idea to test it when anyone could be monitoring them. 

It was illegal to assume someone else's likeness without their consent. Ron couldn't remember the line and page in the books to find it, but he knew the rule was there. Breaking it sounded like a good way to have half a dozen Aurors show up in the sitting room while he was wearing someone else's face. 

If they were being monitored, there was already too much chance someone had seen something compromising. Just an outsider knowing about Hermione's condition would be a disaster. If they'd seen him assault Malfoy during their duel and then snog him senseless. . . Ron's reputation might never recover. He relied on his image as a war hero, as a good man. Good men didn't break other men's noses and then kiss them without so much as asking if they were interested. Good men especially didn't do it when the woman they loved was asleep four floors down and they'd just crawled out of her bed. 

He didn't want to think about how it made him look. It was bad. He didn't need to risk people knowing he'd abetted the commission of a crime, too.

Testing the potion out would have to wait. 

That ferret-faced bastard had been spying on her. 

Hermione should have been more preoccupied with the discovery from storage. It was disturbing. The idea that someone had been in their house and left something there with malicious intent was so frightening she half expected herself to feel the urge to run. If anything could break her out of this urge to hide inside, surely it would be obvious proof that the Stack wasn't as safe as it seemed? 

But her brain wouldn't even latch onto that familiar fear. Nothing compared to the betrayal of Draco eavesdropping on her private therapy sessions. It was disgusting and she was certain that she would have felt more violated if she hadn't been so blisteringly angry about it. 

It was bad enough that he'd witnessed her flashback the night before, bad enough that she'd actually reached out to him and he'd rejected her. Knowing that he'd done it after listening to her talk about her struggle with sobriety, that he'd rejected her after listening to her confessing how little she thought of herself. He'd heard about her dreams for a normal future with Ron, and the fear it would never happen for her. That was unbearable. 

She wanted to punch him like she had in third year, right in his smug little face. She wanted to shave off his ridiculous blond hair, except he'd probably somehow look good bald and that would completely defeat the point. She wanted him to feel like she did: embarrassed, exposed. 

She'd paced her room and thought about it for hours. Ron had gone to rest up before his shift, so there wasn’t much else to do. Just knowing she’d been watched made hot waves of shame pass through her body. The restless energy in her limbs felt fatal, as if she would implode if she didn't indulge in the compulsion to keep moving, but even the insistent voice in her head pushing her to move couldn't stand up to the lingering effects of a massive panic attack. 

Her legs were tired. Her back was sore. The bottle of gin on her nightstand looked mouthwatering. 

Settling down in a pile of covers and pillows, she measured out a glass and allowed herself a sip. 

It didn't taste as good as she wanted it to: didn't distract her from her emotions with a delicious burn down her throat, didn't give her the slightest relief from the spiraling center of her focus. Drinking was truly a useless coping mechanism. Hermione had been cutting back so much each sip should feel like a drink of water at an oasis, but now, when she wanted that distance from herself the most it was like a mirage that left her with a mouthful of sand. 

She needed something else to occupy her mind, to soothe her body — something to make her feel less restless and unsettled. Looking over at her bedside to-read pile revealed nothing but research too important to do when she didn't feel up to taking notes. She could go out to the library but that might mean running into Draco before she was ready to confront him. 

It was too early to go to sleep but with nothing else more interesting to do, it felt natural to Hermione to simply let her eyes close. 

Her mind wandered. First it drifted to the unknown threat of the potion waiting in the belly of the trunk three floors above. That was a treasure trove of anxiety, but surprisingly there was some of that thrill she'd experienced the day of the break-in. Anticipation thrummed in the pit of her stomach, making her body feel powerful and ready, tight as a drawn bowstring. That sensation led her to the anger over Draco's spying, boring, well trod over, but speckled with interesting moments like Draco looking down at her, his chin lifted, generational arrogance dripping off him. Or the feel of his hand locked onto her arm at the elbow. He'd been handsome, it was impossible to ignore, and the careful way he'd avoided the tender scar on her arm even when manhandling her hadn't escaped her notice. She ran her hand over the spots where his fingers had pressed into her skin and they were still ever so slightly sore. 

The sense memory brought another to the forefront of her mind: Ron's arms pinning hers tightly against  her body as he held her. He always did that when she had a flashback, to prevent her clawing at her skin, and especially the never fully healed wound on her forearm. He held her long after she'd calmed. Sometimes Hermione woke up in the morning with him still wrapped firmly around her. . .and sometimes he'd be pressed tight against her back, still asleep or just waking, his erection pushing firmly against her bum. She'd never done anything about it, never even purposefully pushed back into him, even though she desperately wanted to. 

That train of thought was familiar and her body latched onto it, knowing exactly how to fill the restless hours and send her off to sleep. 

Her pajamas had a loose waistband and she pushed them and her knickers down as one, her feet kicking them off. Naked from the waist down, she rolled over onto her stomach, head turned to the side. She relished the fact that the pillow still smelled of Ron's shampoo. She lifted her pelvis, knees spreading, slotting her right hand in under her raised hips. 

Hermione had once borrowed an issue of Witch Weekly from Lavender and seen an article about how to tease yourself, how to make masturbation work for you. It had made her laugh. She didn't need teasing. She barely needed a reason. Her body was just as overwhelming and distracting as her thoughts sometimes. She just needed the firm press of her fingers on her clit and the freedom to chase the building tension in the cradle of her hips. Having a feeling or an image to focus on just made it better. 

She started off with firm pressure, applied in a soft circle over her clit. The flesh was already slippery, oversensitive enough to make her hiss. In her mind they were Ron's fingers, one of his hands unlocked from where it pinned her arms against the bed to trail down and play with her as he pressed his hard cock against her.  

Hermione barely remembered the only time they'd been together in that way. It had been a truly long time ago, when they were both still half mad with grief, just after the final battle. The sounds he made then still lingered in her mind though. The little groans he had made whenever he first started to thrust against her, half strangled and deeper than his speaking voice, echoed in her mind.

It only took a few moments for her to be ready for more, unable to resist pressing her pubic bone down and hunching forward until her entire cunt was rubbing against the ridges of her fingers. She wished it was him touching her. 

How much better would the rough, wide planes of his fingers feel cupping her? 

She was sweating now, her face hot and sticky where her cheek touched the pillow. Her hips worked quickly, her fingers still circling, the motion becoming quick and jerky. Her hair trapped the gusts of her breath so it barely grazed her shoulder and it added to the fantasy: Ron's lips resting where her shoulder joined her neck, his head tipping down and taking the flesh between his teeth. She groaned, her stomach muscles pulling tight at the thought, reaching for the pinprick of higher pleasure that felt just out of reach. 

Just as she feared her climax might slip away, something shifted. Her fingertips slipped through the swollen folds of her sex, the tips barely teasing her opening. The pressure was unbearable, exquisite. She strained to maintain the teasing touch: her fingers stilled as she worked her hips, her mind imagining Ron just at her entrance, holding back until she wanted to beg him to put her out of her misery. The palm of her hand pressed against her clit and suddenly, her familiar fantasy changed. In her mind, that touch wasn't Ron. He was still holding her: his breath hot on her neck, his cock pressed just inside her entrance, but the all encompassing sensation on her clit was from Draco. 

Hermione was so surprised by his sudden appearance that she couldn't even take the moment to speculate about what he would be like. She didn't imagine his technique or even properly envision his hands. She simply knew that it was him providing the barely there friction and unbearable pressure. 

A vision of his grey eyes, intense and locked onto her own, flashed into her mind, and she imploded. 

Chapter Text

Draco firmly believed in the axiom 'early to bed, early to rise'. This was why he rarely stayed up late unless forced to by circumstance. When he stayed up past midnight he found it difficult to get up at all the next morning, and would easily take a nap over anything else he could do that day. The opposite also seemed to be true. Whenever he turned in early, it was entirely possible that he would wake up exactly eight hours after he had gone to sleep.

Unfortunately, a confusing few days of sleep meant that he woke up at four on Friday morning. The house had been quiet all night; even the wind seemed to have taken a holiday so that the beams creaking didn't echo through the attic. He had woken up to do a few checks down the stairs, but otherwise relied on his own light sleeping. After roughly ten full hours of sleep with minimal interruption, his body was screaming at him that he'd made a terrible mistake. 

Merlin, he thought, pushing up on his arms and groaning at the stiffness in his shoulders, save me from my own poor decisions and from war heroes who attract too much trouble for their own good. 

It took him less than an hour to ready himself to leave. Weasley had given him the floo key so he could get in and out from anywhere that was connected to the floo. So he flooed to the Ministry and then out to a favorite apparition spot and spun off to his mother's flat. 

As always Pinny and Scubber, the remaining house elves, were dressed smartly. They still refused to wear clothes even though the courts had required that Draco free them as part of the family’s reparations. The galleons he paid them each month went to buying fine silk pillow cases and presumably the pungent, earthly fragrances that the little creatures both seemed to prefer. He was glad they were well cared for. He hadn't always been kind to them, hadn't always even understood that they were people unto themselves. The fact that they had stayed to care for his mother just because she needed them, after everything they'd been put through. . . it said that they weren't just people, they were better than every Malfoy an elf had ever served. 

They led him through the narrow flat to his mother's bedroom and Draco felt his chest tighten. He could smell the firewhisky leaking out of her pores from down the hall. 

“Hello Mother,” he called from the doorway, trying to preserve her dignity.

“Oh, Draco!” She sat up with a start, her white hair hung up on itself in the back. “I'm so sorry I'm not presentable, darling. I thought it was still early.”

“It is early. I thought we might have breakfast together.” He didn't tell her that he was hoping that if he were here, she'd actually have to eat something. 

“Maybe just a breakfast tea and some patisserie? Scubber can whip up the most delicious croissants in no time at all while Pinny helps me get into my morning clothes.” 

“That would be fine, Mother.” 

Draco sat in the wingback chair on one side of the low coffee table, leaving the chaise free for his mother when she came sweeping out of her room, wearing one of her silk dressing robes and her hair pulled into a low, smooth chignon. Immaculate. Just as if she was still the lady of the manor. 

“Well, I was up so late because I was owling back and forth with Peony Parkinson,” she started as soon as she'd sat down. “That family has certainly decided to put on unearned airs, let me tell you—”

“Actually, I came to talk to you about something specific today,” Draco interrupted, trying to navigate the conversation away from what was clearly not a topic he wanted to broach. “The foe glass?” 

“Oh, yes. That.” She crinkled her nose in distaste.

He didn't push her. The food was delicious and familiar in a way that pub food never could be. The tea was delicate and milky and made with honey they still snuck out to collect from the hives on the manor property. The croissant was flaky and filled with creamy milk chocolate that spilled out the sides. He savored it and for a moment felt filled with the best parts of his youth: refinement and comfort.

It was a full cup of tea and a croissant's worth of silence before she finally asked, “What was it you needed tweaked with the charm?”

“I know that it detects the presence of those with ill intent to me personally, even just trace sensory magic like monitoring charms and well-hidden enchantments. I need it to redefine the idea of enemy to include those working at cross purposes to me.”

“Yes. I've needed to do that myself a time or two. . .” She looked haunted, and Draco cursed himself for having asked.  “Let me see it.” He placed the glass on his side of the table and she went to work. Her elegant black-lacquered rosewood wand flicked over the mirror in a series of barely discernible enchantment adjustments and a deep line appeared between her creased brows. “That should do it,” she finally said, handing the mirror back to him and stowing her wand back up her sleeve. Never far from reach. “Now, onto more pleasant matters.” Her demeanor lightened instantly, the cloud that had fallen over her the moment he mentioned the glass lifting and leaving her face the picture of judgmental aristocratic joy once again. “It seems you were right about Miss Parkinson no longer being an option for you.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, considering she hasn't talked to me once since I got out of Azkaban. . . yeah.” 

His mother looked taken aback by that statement despite the fact that he'd told her this at least twice before. He could never be sure how much she actually remembered from their chats. If she wasn't already drunk, she was certain to be again soon. She had a formidable memory, but it seemed remarkably dulled when it came to the present. As if she lived in the happiest parts of the past, when he'd been very young and the Dark Lord was gone and her family remained in good standing. 

“She wasn't that pretty anyway, darling. That nose.” 

Draco actually rather liked Pansy's nose. It crinkled when she laughed. “I thought this was supposed to be more pleasant?” 

“Well,” she continued on as if Draco hadn't said anything at all, “I've been talking to the Greengrasses as well, and while Ulmus isn't overly enthused about the idea, the youngest girl doesn't have a match and his oldest, Daphne, she. . . prefers the company of witches. They could be persuaded. You are a charming young man when you put effort into it.” 

“Mother.” He set down the cup of tea and grabbed another croissant, standing to leave. He didn't have to continue listening to her trying to marry him off. “The Greengrasses have a blood curse and everyone knows it.” 

“That is true, but it's supposedly on the heir, which is technically Daphne.” 

Draco had never wanted to disrespect his mother in any way, but in that moment he had the distinct, visceral urge to slap her across the face. He didn't, of course. He just balled his hands into tight fists and concentrated on the creaking of his knuckles. “Why would you even want me to risk that?” 

She didn't answer. She pulled out her wand and summoned a bottle of firewhisky that flew to her from somewhere in the depths of her bedroom. A healthy dose went into her teacup, turning the milky fluid half transparent and, for a moment, dazzling as the liquids mixed and sparked. 

“I'm lonely, Draco,” she whispered after a few deep swallows, refilling her cup. “Trying to navigate courtship for you is the first time I've really felt useful in years. I don't have the training for any fulfilling work. I don't have friends anymore, or family to speak of other than you, and you are so busy.” She didn’t meet his eyes, looking down into the bottom of her teacup with a look on her face that made his heart ache. “I'd like to feel like I have something to look forward to. A wedding. Helping set up your house. Grandchildren. . .”

Their goodbyes were formal and his stomach was still growling as he left. He felt empty. He always did when he visited and saw what his mother's life had amounted to. The best he could do was keep her supplied with enough cash that the flat was comfortable, but what she really needed was to feel like there was any path forward out of the isolation of her existence. Some semblance that what she'd risked her life to protect had come to fruition. 

He had no idea how to give it to her.

The second night shift was worse than the first. There was really no need for him to even be in the office. Ron was the highest ranking Auror in the department, so he couldn't abandon the desk and go walk a patrol, just in case there was some sort of horrifying event. But he couldn't use his time wisely and file reports or anything else interesting because the rest of the Ministry was closed. 

He'd already done all the snooping in files he could manage without looking terribly suspicious the night before, and it only took him an hour to realize that there were several desks in the office that were more heavily warded than necessary. The normal privacy charms were installed on the cubicle walls, but there were repelling charms that he only noticed when he realized that he still hadn't checked the open paperwork on those desktops off his list. 

The Aurors in question were rank and file. No one he'd ever thought to pay special attention to had put up extra protection on their desk, but Ron had seen plenty of Aurors he wouldn't have suspected of anything do horrifying things on the job. He'd seen them kick detained wizards who were already restrained and on the ground. He'd heard the jokes about 'idiot Muggle-borns who can’t just act like the rest of us' every time someone got caught trying to do magic with a computer. Half the force had pocketed something out of evidence at some point. Even Dawlish had a record for overreaching when a suspect was a former Slytherin, regardless of that person's conduct and known affiliation. As if their house in school had some bearing on their actual level of prejudice. 

Ron could think of several people in the department that he would trust to have his back in a duel. . . but the longer he sat with it, the longer he realized he wouldn't truly trust. 

He wasn't even sure he trusted himself. Robards was right about one thing; he'd walked away from an active and dangerous situation for Hermione. He made a decision to risk dangerous potion ingredients getting out onto the streets without any regulation, and he'd lied about how it had happened on his report. Now a potion made with that exact ingredient was sitting in his house.

He wasn't innocent of selfishness, of the lack of professionalism. 

The only thing keeping him from making a mistake and trying to break the wards on the cubicles himself was the fact that when he'd left, Malfoy had been waiting down in the sitting room to let him know that he'd gotten the foe glass sorted. All Ron had to do was make it through the shift, and then they could verify whether or not they were being spied on in the Stack and remedy the issue. Then he'd have somewhere to work on figuring it out, somewhere that he could be sure was safe. 

Malfoy seemed to be just as eager to have it done with. He was waiting in the sitting room when Ron flooed home, despite it not yet being dawn. 

“If you are ready to unlock the storage floors we can do a full sweep of the house. It shouldn't miss anything.” 

Ron was sure it wouldn't. Narcissa Malfoy was an expert at concealment. 

It was remarkably easy to do the detection. The foe glass was just as the ones that he had seen before. Shadowy figures shifted on the surface, the mist around them half coalescing into other figures to join them. The presence of enemies lingered in the house, but as they wandered through the rooms on the first floor the glass never manifested more than fleeting, transparent forms. 

On the stairs there was a flash of malice, a slash of stark, eyeless black over the surface of the glass. With a bit of finesse they found a seemingly inactive tripping jinx fed into a milky purple stone the size of Ron's pinky fingernail, wedged into a gap in the baseboard. It disturbed him that there would be anything they could have missed during their first round of checks, but it was truly well hidden. It somehow contained enough magic to set off the detector to another presence in the house, but Ron wasn't even sure that it could be activated without the person who had enchanted it being physically present. 

Did that mean they had intended to come back? 

The bedroom floor was clear, as was the library, though there were a few books in Hermione's collection that seemed to faintly emanate dark magic that darkened the glass without lending any form to the smoke within. Malfoy revealed his spell had led him to several times in this room when he'd had a look, but he hadn't seen anything worth mentioning. The titles of the books confirmed that there was nothing suspicious: A Treatise on the Infliction of Cursed Wounds and The Remarkable Arcane. Nothing more worrisome than Hermione's taste in pleasure reading. 

The next sign of malicious presence was on the fifth floor. The figures in the glass coalesced and turned darker the closer they got to the trunk that contained the flask of polyjuice potion. But even when they opened the lid and Ron came so close to touching the flask that Malfoy had to threaten him with a leg-lock to get him to step away, the figures never had clearly defined faces. The whites of their eyes never appeared. It had to be assumed that such a strong compulsion took enough magic and negative intent to qualify as an enemy presence. 

The attic was clear, as Ron expected it to be. If there was any dark magic here it was Malfoy's, and certainly not working against their purposes. The other man didn't say anything as they finished, simply nodding and stowing the priceless mirror away in his bags. 

As he reinstalled the wards on the storage floors Ron felt like he could breathe easy for the first time in a week.

“Mr. Malfoy wasn't downstairs to welcome me this morning,” Healer Plum said, almost offhandedly, once they'd exchanged their hellos and Hermione had settled in for her weekend session. 

She wasn't fooled. The healer was obviously worried about the ex-Death Eater in their house. Hermione couldn't blame her but she didn't think that there was really much of anything to worry about. “Ron is working the night shift so he's still here and asleep. I'm guessing that Draco is hiding in the attic. . .”  Hermione didn't know why she hesitated to reveal what had been going on at the house but she did. It seemed like if she revealed a little, everything might come tumbling out before she could stop herself, but she couldn't very well not say anything at all. “We had a bit of a breakthrough on the intent of the intruders yesterday.” 

“You seem disturbed by that,” Healer Plum replied, her quill writing a quick note off to one side, distracting Hermione with stressful thoughts of what it could possibly be writing. “Do you need to talk about it?” 

“It's sensitive information.” 

Healer Plum leaned forward in the chair. Her hands were clasped on her knees and the flickering candlelight from a nearby sconce highlighted the care and worry in her soft, expressive face. It was a familiar stance and Hermione recognized it immediately as her 'please don't shut me out, I only want to help you' face. 

“Hermione, I've taken a wand oath to never reveal what you tell me here in this room without your permission. I never will, unless I think that you are going to put yourself or someone else in imminent danger.” 

Hermione thought that there was some possibility that the good healer would think she was doing exactly that, but she needed to empty the swirling mass of worry in her mind. “The intruder left something in the house. . . something illegal.” 

“Do you think it was an accident?”

“No, it is fairly obvious it was planted. Someone is trying to frame Ron.” 

“That must be frightening.” 

“It is,” Hermione admitted, though she was honestly surprised that she didn't feel particularly panicky, just preoccupied. “Ron's been busy with work and I think that he and Draco have decided the house might be being monitored somehow.” 

“What about this situation is most concerning to you?” 

Hermione thought long and hard about the question. Her eyes floated across the library. There were a lot of things that she found concerning about the situation. Nearly everything, really. Her eyes rested on her research. She currently had about a hundred individual pieces of evidence sorted and stacked on the wide top of her desk, but there were boxes more to be gone through on the floor next to her chair, and some she was still waiting on. The piles of documents showed the encroachment of prejudice into every aspect of wizarding life. It wasn't like it was any different in the Muggle world, but it was incontrovertible proof of how much good people seemed to be unaware of. 

“That I can't tell if Ron knows it's a Death Eater yet. I can almost see his brain working, trying to trace back the moves and figure out who might care enough to find out where we live and break through the wards to do this. . . but I know who it is. There's only one person with the curse breaking knowledge and that much of a vendetta against him.” 

“You think it's Dolohov.” 

“Of course it is.” Hermione scoffed, trying to sound unaffected even as the ugly scar across her chest throbbed just thinking of him. “Three Death Eaters are neither in Azkaban nor dead. Gregory Goyle Junior, Antonin Dolohov, and Draco Malfoy. I went to school with Gregory Goyle, there is no way he would ever be able to do this type of magic. It requires years of study and he didn't have that kind of discipline. Dolohov worked for Gringotts, just like Bill Weasley, who set the wards in the first place.” 

“You don't suspect Draco then.” 

“No. I might never like Draco—” The words died in her mouth as she realized she wasn't even sure about that anymore. She suddenly felt the need to explain herself, her face felt flushed and hands fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt. “He came running when I had a flashback the other night, and he stayed for a while and talked to me. It was actually good. I think he deeply regrets his involvement in the war.” 

“I think that you are right about that. People who don't feel remorse fight their prison sentences, and they fight the reparations.” Hermione felt a weight lift of her chest hearing someone else say it. It was easy to doubt your instincts when they weren't acting as you expected. “Are you scared Dolohov might know you are here?” 

“Oh, I'm certain he suspects. If he is monitoring us he knows, but I don't see what I can do about that beyond trying to dry out and get some control over my magic again.” 

Healer Plum smiled brightly when she said, “You seem to be handling things remarkably well.” 

“If I'm honest. . . I'm feeling really good” Hermione admitted, feeling her stomach drop with a sense of foreboding. It felt anathema to say it out loud, as if the acknowledgment would make the universe realize its mistake and reverse course. 

“You seem surprised by that.” 

“More concerned. Don't get me wrong, I am feeling the decrease in alcohol—” Merlin , was she feeling it. Everything was so strange and she longed for the comfortable numbness of being vaguely drunk. That longing had almost persuaded her not to take her sober-up today, but Ron had set it so expectantly on the bathroom counter. She would have had to actively lie to avoid taking it. “But I'm also feeling more present. I'm functioning much better than I have in at least the last four years and I don't understand why. There are so many things happening that should set off flashbacks, that do make me anxious. I just don't understand why I'm handling it all so well.” 

Healer Plum leaned forward, elbows on her knees and hands framing her face as they moved into position, ready to emphasize her points. It was her lecture mode. 

“Anxiety isn't always a bad thing. If there is a tiger chasing you, then you should be worried. You should be vigilant. You should be ready to run or fight. It becomes a problem when we are experiencing anxiety that is disproportional to our problem, or when that feeling is manifesting in ways that aren't helpful to us. Like when it focuses on a trauma in the past. You fought in a war, and before that you were under a tremendous amount of pressure. You adapted. It is not surprising to me that you are handling a more high pressure situation well. It is what you spent your adolescence learning to expect.” 

“So I am better equipped to handle the possibility of facing the man who disfigured me than I am walking down the street.” 

“Oh, by far!” Healer Plum threw her hands up exasperatedly. “You have no idea how to turn a corner and not expect an enemy on the other side. Exposing yourself to the world again is the next step after we get the drinking under control. You'll get there.” 

She was so confident. Hermione rarely saw her so thrilled. It made her wonder if this was something the healer had been trying to work into their conversations for a long time, but she'd never been able to because Hermione wasn't functioning at all. Now she was getting to flex her expertise. 

Hermione had no idea how to respond to her enthusiasm except with honesty. “I hope so.” 

Chapter Text

Granger had avoided Draco successfully for days, but things were finally coming to a head. 

He had known that eventually she would venture into the library for something other than her therapy sessions, and he finally got lucky. Weasley was still on his last night shift, and Draco was determined that as soon as he got home they would test the potion. He couldn't stand waiting another day not making progress. So he got up at an ungodly hour, the sun just barely lighting the attic and the owls not even returned to roost yet, and headed down to the library. 

It was dim in the library so early in the morning, the long narrow windows between the shelves not catching much of the barely gray dawn. Granger was already there, her head bent over a long roll of parchment that stretched across the length of her desk. Stacks of paper were pushed to the far edge and the books sitting on the floor to one side of her were so tall he could have used one as a stool. She was clearly hours deep into her day's research. 

“Five in the morning on a Sunday is an odd work hour, Granger.” 

Her whole body stiffened, her hands going still where they had been shifting through a pile of parchment. 

“I often do my best work in the wee hours of the morning. It really depends on when I went to bed. I end up tired by mid afternoon and wanting a nap, usually.” 

Maybe that's because you start drinking by noon. The thought was poised on his tongue but he managed to choke it back, trying for a more neutral suggestion. “Have you ever considered that might be because you are up at dreadful hours of the night?” 

“Do you have to be here?” she asked, finally finding whatever she was digging for and setting it to the side. “There's six floors, you'd think you could find somewhere else to be.” 

She wasn't wrong. He wasn't even where he'd intended to be.  Weasley would have to go through the sitting room before he could crawl into bed and slow down the whole process. So the sitting room was where Draco should have been, where he would have been if he hadn't taken this unnecessary detour. 

“I got bored of the owl's company.” It was a terrible excuse, and the dramatic roll of her eyes said that she knew it. “You never told me what you were researching.” 

“You never asked. I guess you assumed I might mention it in my therapy session.”

Well, at least it's out in the open now, he thought. Not much to be said about it. He wasn't going to apologize. He didn't feel bad for taking advantage of the opportunity. Trying to do better would have to do. 

“I'm asking now, Granger.” 

She continued working, not giving him a single indication of how she would respond, but he could see her struggling with it. The knuckles of her right hand were white where she gripped her pen and her movements were repetitive: underlining the same phrase several times and moving the same colorful scrap of paper to different portions of the long scroll she was navigating. 

“The Wizengamot has enacted remarkably few laws and policies considering how long-lived it is. They meet half as often as Muggle parliament, and most legislation is held up and nitpicked over years if not decades—at least when a megalomaniac isn't acting as a puppeteer." She spoke with the passion of a lifelong crusader, and Draco knew she was right. He sometimes thought half of why his father had followed the Dark Lord was that the man made the wheels of politics work faster. "Most of the common regulation and enforcement falls to the different departments of the Ministry, and it's very difficult to get an idea of the culture of the Ministry at any given time without examining the things it’s prioritized via the individual departments." She held up one of her pieces of paper and Draco realized that it was an interdepartmental memo "I'm aiming to write a history of the modern Ministry beginning from about 1650, using major Wizengamot decisions as a framing device and then tracing out bureaucratic choices that undermined, upheld, expanded, or led to those decisions.” 

Now that Draco knew what it was for, it became obvious that the long scroll was a timeline, and the colorful scraps of paper were notes about certain dates. There had to be a dozen just in the section she was currently working on, and tight winding of the remainder of the scroll indicated there were several more feet of parchment left to be filled. 

“I'm assuming your starting point is the Statute of Secrecy, seeing as you are starting off just a few decades before it went into effect.” 

She grinned, eyes still trained on the timeline. “Swot.” 

“So what's your point?”  

“ Hogwarts: A History is the most important book I've ever read. I want to make a contribution that significant.” 

“That's very nice.” It was also a bullshit answer. She knew what he meant. “But let me rephrase. What are you trying to prove? Every person writing a book has an idea of what they want their work to say. What is it your history of the Ministry is going to say?” 

He'd half expected her to hesitate or equivocate again, give him another line of bullshit. He should have known better than to assume he understood her. Granger had never done anything but surprise him. 

She looked him dead in the eyes and said, “It's going to say that the Ministry has tacitly, or outrightly, enforced the oppression of Muggle-borns as well as werewolves, half-humans, and humanoid beings.”

“That sounds a bit obvious.” He scoffed. 

“You'd be surprised how few people see the way the Ministry has wielded its power.” She sounded bitter. He didn't blame her. “Even Ron didn't seem to see it until recently.” 

Draco took a seat in his usual armchair by the chess board, turning it to face her. “I had to force them not to offer me a full pardon. Believe me. I see it.”

“Why didn't you take it?” she asked. Draco wasn't surprised. It was probably the question he answered most often. 

For once, he answered with the full truth of it. 

“I had a lot of time to think during the war, about how the fuck I'd ended up where I had. At first I blamed my father: he was the one who was an incompetent fool in the Department of Mysteries; he was the one who had joined the Dark Lord in the first place." Draco still hated him for that. His father had always counseled him to conservativism, to not take risks. It was too bad he hadn't followed his own advice. "But then I started to think about how the Ministry had just let him get away with it. They had bought his cock and bull story about being imperius ed and had never even done a check of his memories or any of his accusers’ memories. He was never required to endure questioning under Veritaserum.” 

Normally, he would just tell people who asked that he had refused the pardon because he deserved to go to Azkaban. It was hard to put the full meaning of his decision into words and Draco found himself falling into silence. 

The library was an easy room to get distracted in. Draco's eyes wandered over the shelves full of random items, including the one next to him, which seemed to be Weasley's Quidditch shrine. Just at his eye level, there was a photograph that was clearly of the World Cup. He remembered that day clearly. There had been so many fucking Weasleys in the top box along with Potter and Granger. They'd been ridiculously loud but not even they could ruin the excitement. Draco smiled when the photo went through its motions and the little Potter leaned forward, revealing a young version of himself. 

There was something extremely nice about knowing there would be something left of him in the Stack when the job was over and he'd gone. He found that the closer that moment got the more he dreaded it. 

“That's not actually a foolproof method you know,” Granger said after a while. “If you can throw off the imperius you can resist Veritaserum.” 

“That would have been very handy for me to know during the war. I would have lied a lot more often,” Draco replied, unable to suppress a grin. “My point is that my father was far from the first or only to get away with murder and warmongering. The Wizengamot is made up primarily of the old families and they never want to risk creating feuds or divisions, so they slap us on the wrist and carry on as if we weren't part of a coup the year before. I felt like if I took the pardon I would be just like all of them: my father, the other Death Eaters. . .just like I had been the night Bellatrix tortured you in my home. I didn't want to keep standing by and doing nothing. I didn't want to die, but I wanted people to see us getting punished, and not just the worst offenders. I wanted people to know that it isn't worth it just to preserve whatever superiority you might feel. A few years of my life and my family money were a small price to pay.” 

Granger's voice was softer than he was used to hearing it when she asked, “Is that why the Malfoy seat remains empty?”

“How do you even know that I thought you were a hermit?” he teased, hoping to lighten the suddenly maudlin atmosphere. He'd intended to open up to her a bit and make up for the spying, not act like a complete sap. 

“The paper comes by owl, Draco,” she said, her hair sparking as she shook her head with exasperation. 

The shift in her curls revealed movement behind her head. Drifting up from the stack beside her was a huge leatherbound book. It moved just as if someone had grabbed it with two hands and was carefully trying to move it without dropping the heavy antique onto the floor; Slowly but deliberately, the time rose up until it was even with her shoulder, inching forward along the way. 

“Hermione.” 

Her face scrunched up in confusion. “Did you just call me by my first name?” 

“Granger, shut up and turn around. Look at the book.” 

It reached her before she could fully turn and her eyes went wide as the book nudged against her shoulder. She plucked it out of the air, hands visibly shaking as she looked at the faded gold leaf on the spine. 

“I was just thinking I needed to show you a passage in that book. It has a record of the last Malfoy to openly refuse a Wizengamot decision,” she babbled, standing to look around the room at the shelves, which Draco noticed were subtly vibrating. “One of your ancestors was the paramour of young James the 1 st . He refused to break his ties with the royal family after the enactment of the Statute of Secrecy and the Ministry sentenced him to the Dementor's Kiss and obliviated the soon to be king.” 

“Believe it or not, I already knew that. He was also the last Malfoy to not be sorted into Slytherin. My father used to use his fate as a warning to be better at not getting caught.” More books were starting to float around the room, pulled from their places and leaving behind gaps where they had been on the shelves. “How are you doing that?” 

“Magic,” she whispered, reaching out to gently touch the spine of a lavender book that was just within reach, making the book spin like a top, pages ruffling. 

She was so close now, the hem of her nightdress gently lifting in the wind that spun the books. 

“It suits you.” 

It suits you.

Draco Malfoy thought that magic suited her. She never thought she'd see the day. 

Hermione had to agree with him. 

She hadn't felt this good in a long time. Recently she'd begun to think that she had dreamed the effervescent feeling of power that came when she finally had a name for the strange things that happened to her; she felt as if she had imagined the static tingle that swept over her when she first held her wand. She'd started to almost believe that magic was the problem. After all, it hadn't brought her anything but pain and suffering in the end. She had pushed the boundaries of what she was allowed to do, of what she should do, and had still barely survived. Then afterwards it had offered her nothing of value. Her reflexes were over-reactive and a simple startle could suddenly turn into an unintended hex. 

Magic had felt dangerous. 

She didn't feel out of control now. She didn't even have to wave her hand to make the books floating around her twirl in the air. They followed her thoughts. Nothing could feel better than this. 

Suddenly she realized Draco was standing beside her. 

“Did I make you move, too?” she asked. His face looked open and dazed, and for a moment she was worried she had done something to addle his mind without meaning to, but his eyes were bright and cunning as ever, his mouth twisting into a familiar, slightly acidic grin. 

“No, I did that on my own,” he said, more quietly than necessary, brushing her hair behind her ear and pulling back his hand to show her the clinging strands of sparking, electric magic clinging between his fingers and her curls. “You're glowing.” 

The words tumbled out of her mouth like she'd been dosed with Veritaserum. “I want to kiss you.” 

“Thank, Merlin,” he said, stepping in so close the edges of his jacket brushed against her. 

She'd been wrong. Kissing Draco Malfoy was even more exhilarating than the rush of her magic. His hand cupped her cheek and his hands were so warm and gentle against her skin. Like she was precious. Their noses bumped and she tilted her head, a tiny breath passing from his lips to hers, carrying a spicy hint of peppermint. Her heart beat fast and she wanted to put her hands into his slick hair and grip it, to leave some sign of her having been there. 

The worst possible phrase ended the unexpected moment of bliss. 

“Bloody hell!” 

The books dropped all around them but the glow stayed. Sparks lingered around the room but concentrated in the mass of Hermione's hair. 

Ron almost couldn't process what he was seeing past the feeling burning a hole in his chest. Jealousy. Familiar and horrifying and sour at the back of his throat. He was exhausted. Another long, boring night shift and he'd been ready to get the potion testing over with so he could go to sleep and know he didn't have to do it again when he woke.  

Trekking up to the library to instead find him and Hermione in the library, kissing like something out of a fairytale was the last straw. 

“I'm going to go pop by the Burrow for a bit,” he said, his voice as deadly calm as he could manage, trying to make up for his sudden outburst upon entering the room.

“Ron, stop. Don't leave. Let me explain,” Hermione said, flinching as a particularly large spark shot through her fringe. 

“You don't need to explain, Hermione. I have eyes.” He half-wished he didn't, but then he wouldn't be able to see her. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth was ever so slightly pink and there was ink in a line on one side of her face. She always got it there when she was working because she dragged the edge of her hand against the paper when she wrote and then forgot and propped her chin in her palm. The blue-purple sparks in her hair created a halo around her face and he thought she might never have looked more beautiful. 

She reached out a hand and one of the books shot up into it, like a perfectly cast summoning charm. “I did magic, Ron. On purpose.”

He couldn't help but smile. That was fantastic. She was so excited. He wanted to wrap her up in a hug and spin her around. He wanted to have been the one to kiss her. He still wanted to do it now. 

His thoughts swirled around in his mind. He was happy, really, deep down. There were just a lot of other feelings to deal with at the moment. . .Like the one that said on top of kissing her he should also punch Malfoy in the face again and then maybe snog him right in front of Hermione. 

“That's great. Honestly. I just need a little bit. Malfoy—Draco—” He should get used to that. “—will be here. You'll be safe.” 

He was most of the way out of the library when her voice came, trembling but full of anger, “You're really running away. Abandoning me. Again.” 

“I AM NOT ABANDONING YOU.” He was shouting. Fuck. He didn't mean to be. He turned around and saw exactly what he expected. Hermione cowering. At least she wasn't hiding behind Malfoy. Ron wasn't sure he could handle that. “I'm sorry. I don't want to yell at you and I can't stop myself. I need to walk away. I promise I am coming back.” 

Ron couldn't keep looking at her so he looked at Draco instead. His face was blank. Ron wondered if he was occluding. There was none of that soft, glazed look he'd been wearing after they'd kissed in the attic. That didn't mean that it had been a bad kiss, though. Having her boyfriend show up had surely ruined the afterglow. 

“You don't have anything to be jealous of, Ron, I love you. You have to know that,” Hermione choked out. The sound of her trying to talk through her tears was something he knew like the back of his own hand. It even ruined her saying she loved him like she meant it. He fucking hated that he made her cry so much. Draco didn't like it either, evidently, if the pointed look on his face was anything to go by. 

“Of course I know that, Mione.” He said, hoping his voice was as gentle as he meant it to be; maybe he would say the right thing for once. “But I've been waiting for years to kiss you again and then I walk in on this. . . I know we don't have any arrangement, but that doesn't stop me feeling this way—even though I know I have no right to be mad about it,” he added in, not wanting to face that accusation later. It wasn't a point of fidelity. “You can't expect me to not have feelings about it.”

“I can't handle the pressure of being the only thing in the world you want like that. No one can.” Her voice was heated, like she was throwing out the winning barb. 

“YOU ARE SO FUCKING SELF-CENTERED SOMETIMES AND YOU DON'T EVEN REALIZE IT!” He was screaming again before he could even think, seeing red around the edges of his vision making the library fuzzy and unreal. He needed to stop himself before he said something he would regret but the best he could do was lower the volume. Suddenly he was at the point of rage where the words burst out of him like spell fire, like he wanted to burn down the house around them all. “I kissed him days ago.” 

Draco looked like he wanted to kill him. 

Ron probably would have felt worse if it didn't feel so good to watch him squirm. “You decide who I'm jealous of and let me know, because this shit is confusing and I'd love an answer.”

He spun on his heel and apparated, the satisfying image of Hermione's shocked face burning into his mind.

Chapter Text

“You two kissed? ”

Draco dragged his hand over his face, the friction painful but not nearly so much as Granger's scrutiny. There were several ways he could answer her question. He could say 'Weasley's a liar' but it would be disingenuous and there didn't really seem to be a point. Same went for saying 'Weasley kissed me '; technically true, but not very truthful. He'd kissed Weasley back, he'd do it again if he ever got the chance—not that that seemed terribly likely now. 

“Yes, we did.” 

It barely took her two seconds to ask, “Are you gay?”

“Why the fuck would you ask that, Granger? We just kissed not ten minutes ago!” 

She backed up against one of the bookshelves and slid down, huffing as her legs folded and her bum hit one of the fallen books. 

“It seemed the thing to ask considering I just found out you snogged my boyfriend! And I'm back to being Granger now? Mature.” 

“Your given name is ludicrous,” Draco replied, dropping back into his usual chair and propping his elbows on his knees. Granger could be dramatic all she wanted, he wasn't going to sit on the floor. “You said you wanted to kiss me so I don't see how him being your boyfriend is suddenly my problem. I didn't know you were a couple—though I should have; I've never seen two people pine so ridiculously over someone who was literally in the next room over.” 

His mind screamed, LIAR! He had in fact noticed they had some sort of feelings for each other. It would have been impossible not to, their worlds revolved around each other. But he didn't think it mattered. . . he'd assumed that it was falling apart. She was a drunk, and they slept in separate rooms. Something had to give and when the other man had kissed him, he'd assumed it must be fidelity. Stranger things had been known to happen, and who was he to turn down an opportunity just because it was sad that things weren't working out between a couple. 

“You're right, I'm a hypocrite. . . also Ron isn't my boyfriend. He wants to be but I've been telling him to move on for years,” she said, sniffling. “He deserves better.” 

“He does.” She winced and he wanted to take it back but he couldn't, because it was true. “Far be it from me to say that a Weasley deserves anything, but the man loves you. He deserves better than watching you drink yourself to death.” 

“I'm working on it.” 

“I know.” Draco meant it. The library felt empty compared to when he'd entered that morning, somehow diminished. He thought it might be her that was missing. She'd been spread out over her desk before, the energy of her mind working filling the room with purpose. Then her magic had been almost too much for somewhere that was meant by nature to be quiet. Now the room felt empty, even with the both of them in it, all because she was curled up on the floor, but she still hadn't rushed off for a drink. It was progress. “What do you want to do now?”

She thought for a long moment before she answered, “I want to fix things with Ron.” 

“I can leave, or just go up to the attic and hide, let you two talk it out,” Draco offered, pride stinging more than he might care to admit. 

What did you expect, he thought, feeling disgusted with himself. In what world would Granger pick you over Weasley?  

Her head thumped loudly against the shelf behind her as she threw it back and groaned. “I'm so fucking tired of talking, Draco. All I fucking do is talk. I write down my thoughts for my research, and I try to make small talk with Ron, and I do therapy and it's helping but it never stops.” Her eyes slid over to meet his and despite everything he could feel a frisson of remaining heat, the promise that they could pick up right where they'd left off. “Don't you ever just want to stop talking and do something?” 

“Just doing something has never been my style, but I can see how it would be appealing. It seems to me like first you have to know what it is you want to do. . . or who, in this case.” 

Her fevered excitement was palpable, and the wicked grin on her lips was terrifying as she said, “I know exactly who and what I want to do.” 

Ron was glad to walk through the Burrow's kitchen door midway through a Sunday morning and find no one but his mum.

“Ronald!” She said, smile wide as she drew him in for a hug. The comforting smell of flour and vanilla wafted over him and made his shoulders instantly relax. “What a lovely surprise! I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow. You said you'd be working the night shift this weekend.” 

“I did. It's been hell.” He muttered as he squeezed her. “I just needed to get out of the house.” 

“Let me get you something to eat. You have to be half-starved just getting off shift.”  

In only a few flicks of her wand she'd piled a plate of sausages and tomatoes in front of a seat at the kitchen table, with a side of thick sliced toast. 

“Thanks, Mum,” he said, mouth already half full as he sat down. 

He was starved. Hungry was the easiest problem to fix, sometimes fixing it even fixed the being angry. . . but he had a feeling it wouldn't be this time. He ate like he had as a child, toast first, then working his way to the sausages, saving his favorite for last. 

“Are you ready to tell me what the problem is?” his mother asked after a moment, sitting across from him at the table and waiting for him to open up. As always. 

Ron just kept chewing. 

His mum reached out and put her hand over his arm, the weight keeping his fork out of his mouth. “Is Hermione getting worse?” 

Nearly three years of keeping the state and whereabouts of Hermione secret and it was all gone in one knowing look from his mother. She clearly knew everything, or enough of everything that whatever parts she was missing didn't matter. Something told him that she'd known for a while. 

“I ought to kill Ginny for blabbing,” he muttered around a mouthful of sausage.

“You can't be mad at her for worrying, Ron,” his mother admonished, refilling his mug of tea with a point from her wand. “She's your sister and it's an extremely stressful situation. I ought to box your ears for keeping it from me in the first place. . . though I'm impressed you managed to keep it a secret this long.” 

“It's not my secret to share, Mum.” 

“That's the only reason I haven't blasted my way into your house yet.” Her face was drawn and pale in a way he hadn't seen it for a long time. As if she'd been carrying around this worry with her and trying not to let it slow her down. “It hurts that Hermione wouldn't tell me she's in trouble. As far as I'm concerned she is one of my children. But me barging in over there won't make her trust me any more. I've made my share of mistakes with you all, more with the girls I think. . . I cannot blame her for worrying about my judgment.” 

Ron wished she wouldn't think like that. It made him think too much of himself; he always felt as if he was trying to catch up with mistakes he hadn't even known he was making at the time. Maybe she was where he got it from, but as far as he was concerned she'd done a pretty amazing job. At least someone had been worrying about them. 

“She doesn't want anyone to know, Mum. It's not just you, and no, she's not doing worse. She has been laying off the gin. Hasn't stopped drinking but her Healer seems to think she's been tapering down at a good speed.” 

“That's wonderful.” Her smile was wide and genuine and a little sad. “So, why are you here then?” 

“There are some things you just can't talk to your Mum about.” The memory of Hermione and Draco snogging felt twisted in his mind, layered with memories of his arms wrapped around her, the taste of Draco's blood in his mouth. “This is one of them.” 

“Well, whatever it is, she'll come around.” She was clearly unhappy, but she didn't push for once, and Ron was grateful for it. “Let me distract you with some gossip, then.” 

As always, once she started talking it was easy to just let himself eat and listen. She told him that Fleur was desperate for Bill to get home from a trip to Egypt because the children were driving her round the bend. Charlie had flooed earlier in the week and almost given her a heart attack because he was missing an ear, but the head dragonologist had responded to her howler with an assurance that there would be no lasting disfigurement. Ginny was in a funk after her team's last loss. George told Dad that he wanted to propose to Angelina and Percy's wife was expecting again. Even Dad had had an eventful week. Kingsley was opening an investigation into confiscated items held in the Muggle artifacts room. It was odd that Ron hadn't heard about it, considering his department would be doing the investigating. He'd have to look into it on Wednesday when he went back into the office. 

She was still talking when Ron saw a flash of green flames from the sitting room. 

“Ron?” came the sound of Hermione's voice, faint and thready. 

“Hermione, dear!” His mother rushed around the corner as if it was a surprise birthday and this witch's head in the fire was exactly what she'd been hoping for. Her questions came fast, piling one on top of another until Hermione started to look panicky, even as a flickering and distorted version of herself. “It has been too long since I've heard from you! You don't even owl anymore.” 

“I know Mrs. Weasley. I will write soon. I promise. I have some things I'd really like to talk to you about.” She finally turned her face to Ron and her brows were drawn together, the image of her face trembling as though it might fall apart completely. “Ron, I'm sorry. Will you come home please.” 

There was nothing to forgive. She didn't need to apologize. He wanted to come home. “Yeah.” 

Hermione had thought that she would feel nervous standing naked in front of the floo in the sitting room, Draco lounging across the sofa behind her fully clothed. How long had it been since she really had a new experience? She wasn't sure but she was certain it hadn't been nearly this pleasant. New was usually frightening, and this was the very definition of new. But it was impossible to be nervous when she could feel the heat in Draco's gaze on her as she described her plan.

His enthusiasm had been moderated when she told him her plan, the only indication of his interest his drawling innuendo: you two have always worked better as part of a threesome. But when she'd turned and undressed, his breath had been coming in quick, soft pants that continued as he trailed after her down the stairs. When she'd bent to put her head through the floo to the Burrow he'd groaned so loudly she'd been afraid Mrs. Weasley would hear. It was exceptionally flattering. He'd only seen her from behind, and he'd been a perfect gentleman about it, but that groan made her feel like the center of his universe, if only for a moment. It left her heart racing, but if there was any fear it was good, anticipatory. Her moment felt open with possibility. 

The waiting was the worst of it. Draco shrunk and moved all the furniture but for the settee he lounged on and then there was nothing else to do but wait for Ron to come through the floo. It took him maybe five minutes after she'd pulled back from the flames before he appeared. 

“Hermione,” he said, immediately dropping the basket of food he’d been carrying to one side. “What are you doing?” 

Hermione let out a shaky breath and reached deep down into herself to find the thrill of excitement she’d been clinging to the last few weeks. She thought it might be her last thread of courage. It was enough to force her across the floor towards him, the bare rug rough under the soles of her feet. It was enough to get her to throw her arms around Ron’s neck and look up at him. 

“ Something.” At least she was trying to. Whatever anger had been there before was gone. He was all surprise now and the way he was struggling to keep his wide eyes on her face fanned that flame of excitement higher, spurring her to keep making things happen. Still, her thoughts were spinning frighteningly fast, spiraling in on the fact that he might say no. “We don't have to talk about it. Unless you need to.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Ron. You used to know how to be selfish,” Hermione whispered, letting her hot breath wash over his ear. He shuddered. Hermione could feel all the last threads of tension leave him. In that moment she knew that he understood she wasn’t going to pull away, she wasn’t going to suddenly reject him. She wasn’t hiding anymore. She wasn’t blaming him.  

He looked past her to Draco. He must have liked what he saw on the other man's face because where he'd already been stiff where he brushed against her stomach, he was instantly rock hard as he pressed into her. 

She slid her arms free from the back of his neck and dragged her fingertips down, trailing her way towards his cock and wishing he wasn't in his work clothes. So many layers. Too many. Only there suddenly weren't. 

“Bloody Hell, Hermione. Those were my work robes.” He flicked his wand toward the floo and the flames flashed purple to signify the connection was fully cut off. “I don't think there's anything to be laughing about, Malfoy. Aren't you joining us?” 

Hermione looked over her shoulder when no answer came. Draco's eyes were hooded, the silver barely visible in the dim light. As he bent forward to tie his shoes, Ron spun her around. His hands came around over her arms to palm her breasts. The feel of it made her eyes flutter shut.  

Ron noticed. “Watch him. You won't get another chance to see him for the first time.”

She didn't dare disobey.

Draco stripped slowly, watching them all the while, as if he were afraid he'd miss something if he tried to rush through. When his shoes, socks, and jacket had all been left to the side Ron squeezed her breasts, lifting them and letting the flesh press into the spaces between his fingers. Her back arched involuntarily, pushing her chest forward and hips back against the line of Ron's body. Both of the men groaned. 

“Fuck, Weasley,” Draco muttered, his eyes locked onto the spot where her nipples were hidden by Ron’s hands. “I'm trying to give you a show, the least you could do is return the favor.” 

“Do you want him to see?” Ron asked, his palms still pressed tight over her nipples. She knew why he was asking. The scar from Dolohov ran over her left breast. He was giving her an opportunity to turn around and keep that to herself.

She thought about it for a moment as she watched Draco's fingers rushing over his shirt buttons, but she'd already seen his scars. It seemed rude to hide her own. “Yes.”

Ron moved his hands, letting her breasts sink and letting his thumbs brush across her nipples. Hermione knew that the full extent of her scars had to be visible to Draco as Ron's fingers moved deftly, rolling her nipples so that the soft flesh crinkled around them, pulling slightly at the tight scars. The contact felt like fire. The sensation somehow directly connected to the gripping desire low in her belly, pulling it tighter.

Draco came closer, his shirt hanging off his shoulders to the elbow as he fussed with the placket of his trousers, shedding the last of his clothing in a rush. His eyes were locked onto where Ron was touching her.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, reaching out to trace his fingertips over Ron's, barely grazing the tip of her breast. She felt Ron's arms stiffen at the contact, his breath catching in his chest. He opened his right hand, leaving her breast sitting in his palm and Draco's fingers trailed up, where the burgundy scar intruded on her areola, the deep diagonal dimple bisecting her breast nearly in two.

“Beautiful,” he insisted. 

He placed a gentle kiss on her lips, nearly chaste, that only lasted a moment; then his lips were moving down. If Ron's fingers on her nipples had been fire, then Draco's mouth was electric. Ron lifted her to  Draco took every advantage, light licks quickly turning to sucking, pulling her breast into his mouth deeply and then backing off so that everything stretched deliciously, his teeth scraping just so as he let go with an audible pop. Tiny zips of static pleasure radiated out where the cool air met her now wet skin, making every sensation amplified. 

“How does his mouth feel?” Ron asked, his voice a low rumble in her ear as Malfoy repeated the same treatment on her other breast. 

Hermione couldn't manage an answer beyond a stuttered, “G-good.” 

“You can do better than good, Draco.” The sound of the other man's first name pulled Hermione out of her pleasure soaked haze. “Get on your knees.” 

There was a flash of sharp heat in Draco's eyes as he looked over her shoulder into Ron's face but he did as he had been ordered, falling to his knees in front of her. His face was just level with her sex when he settled and, even with half a foot between his face and her, she could feel his soft breath just ghosting over her curls. 

It was only once he was that close to her that Hermione was suddenly aware of how unkempt it must look between her legs after she'd mostly forgone grooming the last several years. 

Her hands started to come forward reflexively to cover the full, unruly patch of hair. “I'm sorry, you don't have to—” Ron was suddenly no longer holding her breasts, his hands dropping to keep her from blocking herself. 

“Do you not want to do this or are you just embarrassed?” 

“I'm embarrassed,” she whispered, so low it was more a breath than words, her cheeks feeling like they were on fire. “I want this.” 

The apex of her thighs was damp with wanting it. 

Ron pulled her hands up against her chest and wrapped his arms around her, not painful, not even tight, but firm. “Alright. This is how we are going to deal with that. I'm going to keep your arms held just like this, nice and tight, so you don't try and cover up again, and you are going to spread your legs. If Draco thinks there's any problem, he’ll stop. I promise you he's enough of a selfish bastard that he isn't going to do anything he doesn't want to.” 

She wiggled in his grip and there was no give. He just tightened slightly, his strong arms straining against her and pulling her closer into his body, hips jerking and rubbing the length of him against her arse and groaning. The press of him around her on all sides shortened her breath and made her cunt clench like an empty fist. She wasn't sure if she wanted to melt into the surrounding pressure or struggle a bit more, just to feel him squeeze tighter again. 

“You don't have anything to be embarrassed about, Granger,” Draco said, hands sliding up her inner thighs and encouraging them apart. She couldn't help but cant her hips forward, searching for the rough pads of his fingertips. He spread her open with his thumbs, leaving her feeling exposed and desperate as he stopped to look at her. The look on his face said that he had been wandering through the desert and her slick cunt was his oasis. “As far as I'm concerned I'm the luckiest bastard in the world.” 

Ron laughed and the deep rumble felt as if it came from Hermione's own chest, they were pressed so closely together. 

Draco placed soft kisses all over her: on her lightly dimpled thighs, on the thatch of curls over her sex, in the crease where her leg met her cunt. Draco licked with long sweeps of his tongue, concentrating on the rippled flesh to one side and then the other before centering in on her clit. She'd never felt anything like it: slow, deliberate, accompanied by suction that ripped a guttural sound from her and focused her entire mind where his face pressed between her legs. The rhythm was steady and devastating; he'd waited for her to react and he didn't add more or show off once she did. He. Just. Kept. On. 

She was writhing. His tongue felt like it was everywhere that mattered at once, one slow swipe barely ending before the next had started. It was overwhelming. Hermione had completely lost control, unable to keep her body still against the onslaught of sensation. 

“I'd say that's better than good.” Ron's low voice brought a hot wash of air over her ear, raising goosebumps on the back of her neck. “You gonna come for him, 'Mione?” 

She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated. Pleasure had settled deep in her cunt. She felt heavy, swollen, the waves of sensation pushing ever outward toward her opening. She clenched involuntarily as the tip of his tongue flickered inside, the emptiness almost painful. Every lick was close to pushing her over. 

She nodded, her breath escaping in a whine. 

“Good. I want you nice and wet and relaxed, because I'm about to bend you over the arm of that couch and make up for lost time.” 

The words helped push her over the edge as Draco's tongue dragged flat and firm over her clit. Her entire body pulled tight and she knew she was making an unholy sound. She could feel the hoarseness in her chest but she couldn't hear anything. She couldn't taste or smell or see. Everything was light and the stuttering feeling of her cunt spasming around nothing, stomach clenched and rocking her hips forward. 

Ron held her tight. His hands circled round her wrists, keeping them tight against her breasts and cradling her as she came back down and Draco slowly pulled away, the final flicks of his tongue almost too much. 

Her vision focused and Draco's silver eyes were right in front of her. He looked intense, close to the end of his rope as he pushed close against her, his cock curved up against his belly, a hard line against her as he pressed in. She thought that he meant to kiss her but his face turned and while she couldn't see their lips meet the sound was electrifying, close and wet. His damp jaw grazed her cheek, making her realize it was more than a kiss. They were sharing the taste of her. 

Her cunt pulsed and she felt her face heating with embarrassment at the pitiful whimper that came with it. 

Draco slipped a hand between them to cup her, the heel of his hand pressing hard over her clit. 

“I think she wants to go again, but I need some attention here. It would be severely disappointing to come on the floor.” 

“I want to fuck her.” 

“I assumed.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I'm happy to take her mouth if she's up for it.” Hermione tried to nod but she wasn’t sure the motion translated well. She might have just looked sleepy, which was unfortunate because she was genuinely excited by the idea of returning the favor. “Or we could put you in the middle.” 

Ron went completely still behind her for a beat and Hermione thought that Draco might have pushed the whole thing too far. She’d been best friends with Ron since age twelve and he’d always been sensitive about how people saw him. She braced herself for his defensiveness, for an explosion at the idea that he would ever consent to being penetrated or some perceived attack on his manhood. . . but it never came. Instead he was suddenly moving again, and everything happened so fast Hermione couldn't have told you how Ron managed to untangle himself from her and get one arm under her knees so she had to hold on around his neck as he carried her. 

“Where are we going?” she asked as he started to walk. Draco had clearly seen something in Ron’s face because when she looked over at him he winked at her, his face the picture of arrogance and anticipation. 

“Upstairs.” Ron replied, hefting her up higher in his arms. “We need the room.” 

Chapter Text

Being carried up the stairs by her best friend was a deeply familiar sensation, but their bare skin pressed together everywhere it touched made everything new and exciting. With each step his cock would bob, occasionally brushing the crease of her thigh. It was casual and intimate, to Hermione it felt like a promise. 

When they reached her room, Ron laid Hermione out on her bed gently, leaning forward and using his arms to brace her all the way down. The dim light from the lamps did nothing to dull the keen blue of Ron's eyes locked onto her face as he placed his palms on her knees, fingers wrapping around to touch the sensitive skin at the back. 

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.

She wasn't quite sure what he was asking. He could just be checking in. Ron did that. He had done it before. Memories of the other times they'd been together. Half drunk, and desperate for comfort. The first time, his eyes had been the same keen and questioning blue. He'd asked the same thing. ' Do you want this?' She'd known then what he’d really meant: Do you want me?  

It was different now. That question could mean so much more: Are you ready to take it this far? Are you okay with me and Draco doing this? In front of you? 

But deep down she could still feel that same question: Do you want me?

Luckily the answer to all of the questions was the same. 

“Yes. I want this.” She paused, pushing up on her elbows to glance over his shoulder at Malfoy, who had stopped in the doorway. His body was lithe, propped up against the doorjamb and somehow looking incredibly relaxed despite the straining pink distraction of his erection. She was almost unable to say the thought that followed her assent, but it burned a desperate path all the way down to her core and she couldn't resist whispering it, just to Ron. “This feels right.” 

Ron’s lips on hers were all the affirmation she needed. He felt it too. It was more than a kiss; the passion of it was overwhelming. He was kneeling between her legs and the weight of him pushed down on her knees, hands gripping and positioning them so that her legs bent back and she was curled in on herself. His cock was pressed, flush against her inner thigh, grazing the slick folds of her sex in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. 

The bed dipped and another hand made itself known, fingers trailing down her shin just under Ron's grip. 

“Lift her legs over your shoulders, it will give you something to brace against,” Draco said, all the arrogance gone out of his voice. Hermione could hear a soft, insistent sound that told her that just out of her line of vision Draco had his hand wrapped around himself, pumping slowly. 

For once in his life, Ron didn't seem to take offense to the advice, simply pulling back from the kiss and guiding her legs up to hook her knees over his shoulders. “I take it you've done this before.”

“No, actually. But I've been on the receiving end in less complicated circumstances and I don't want you to fall forward on her. What about you?” 

“I. . .” Ron’s words drifted off with a gasp as Draco's free hand traced the line where the back of Hermione’s thighs pressed against his torso. “Not this exactly, three people.” He shut his eyes and Hermione wasn't sure if it was because of the movement of Draco's hand or embarrassment. “But yeah. Harry. Both ways.” 

Hermione felt like she shouldn't be here for this. Ron had a right to that secret. That was his. She'd suspected, but she'd never planned to ask. The past was painful enough as it was. She tried to focus on the physical sensation of her body, dangling from Ron's strong shoulders, her arse barely resting on the mattress. 

“You'll want to be inside her first, I'd think. It will be hard to maneuver once I'm. . .” His voice trailed off and Hermione felt a flare of heat across her face at the unspoken implication. 

Ron groaned, so quiet the sound was more the rumble of his chest against her thighs than any audible sound. 

His eyes were open again, and he looked into her face as he let go of one leg, forcing her to keep it hooked over his shoulder as he reached between them to angle his cock down through her folds to her opening, brushing for a long, torturous moment over her still sensitive clit. The fiery heat of his skin felt good. Almost too good. Painfully good.

“So fuckin' wet,” he said through gritted teeth, as he held himself still, the tip of him barely caught against her entrance. “So ready for me.” 

“Yes,” Hermione responded, desperate for him to fill the aching emptiness. “Please.”

He thrust in with one smooth move of his hips and her breath was coming in fast pants, her heartbeat loud in her own ears. So. Full. God, it had been too long. He didn't move at all, holding himself slotted fully within her, and it was still overwhelming. The end of him was hitting something deep inside that was both slightly painful and exactly what she needed. Like a muscle she'd been ignoring for years was finally being stretched. 

She heard a whispered spell and felt Ron grunt, his hips hands tightening on her thighs. Draco shifted so that he was braced on his knees and had just enough space to lean around Hermione's leg and kiss Ron. She hadn't been able to see earlier when they'd kissed, but they were beautiful together; their lips were kiss reddened, excitement making their faces flushed, and she could hardly tell where one ended and the other began if it weren't for the freckles. Draco pulled away and pressed kisses along Ron's jaw all the way to his ear, where Hermione could see he whispered something and she was glad she couldn't hear it. Whatever it was made Ron shudder as he adjusted his stance until she felt like she was nearly bent in half, his arms to either side of her braced on the bed.

Draco left the bed and Hermione could barely see him, just a fringe of his hair and one hand, braced against Ron's shoulder, but she could feel him moving. He was touching Ron and whatever he was doing was effective. Ron rocked his hips in against her in shallow, jerking thrusts and squeezed his eyes shut. The muscles in his arms strained and she was glad that her legs could support him, just a little. 

“Be still for me.” Malfoy's voice wasn't commanding, it was soft, coaxing, and he chuckled when Ron's hips jerked again. “I know it feels good. It'll feel better in a minute, but you have to relax.” 

She felt Ron try, the muscles in his body slackening as Draco pressed in close, just in reach of Hermione's dangling feet. He placed a gentle kiss on her instep before he began to move. Hermione could feel it, his hips forcing Ron's harder against hers as Ron's face contorted into a grimace that was both pained and pleasured, his breath coming out in a sharp hiss. 

After a long moment with nothing but the sound of their labored breathing Draco, braced his hands on Hermione's hips, his grip tight in the ample flesh. “You can move now.” 

Ron groaned, and it was like a dam breaking. He slammed into her again and again, his hips stuttering every time he pulled back and it forced him back against Draco. It was all-consuming. She didn't feel the slow tightening pressure of a building orgasm. She felt the full sharp force of pleasure with every stroke as it hit deep inside her. It made her cunt flutter, tiny spasms that made tears leak out of her eyes which had somehow squeezed shut without her intention. Her jaw was trembling. It was almost too much. She wanted to push them both away almost as much as she never wanted it to stop. Almost.

It didn't last long. It couldn't. Draco was chanting. “Close, close, fuck, fuck, fuck,” as Ron moved, faster, his thrusts becoming uncoordinated. 

“Hermione,” Ron said suddenly, frantically. “I'm gonna come.” 

She didn't know whether it was a warning or a lament but she clutched at his arms, opening her eyes and nodding vigorously, wishing she could pull him closer. Somehow.

Malfoy released a low guttural sound and his hips jerked forward hard: one, two, three times, before his fingers dug into Hermione's hips and he stilled with Ron pressed tight between them. Ron throbbed inside her and let out a few half-choked breaths. 

They stayed incredibly close for a few moments, Draco's hands still gripping her hips. Hermione felt as though they were connected in more ways than one. As if they could melt into one being if they weren't careful. Then Draco pulled away, collapsing to one side of them, leaving Ron plenty of room to do the same on the other side, whispering cleaning charms as he went, so that he could lay against her side without making a slimy mess. Draco looked into her face, lifting one hand to brush through her quickly frizzing curls. 

They were quiet, but it wasn't awkward. It was content. . . sated. 

It was right. 

They cuddled, and that was exactly what it was, no matter how strange the idea of being cuddled between Draco and Ron was. It was a long while before Hermione's eyes started to flutter shut, no longer able to focus on the soft touch of Ron's hand on her bare stomach or the unfocused grey of Draco's eyes, but as soon as they did Draco dropped his hand to tweak her nipple. 

“Hey!” 

“Not sorry. We are not going to fall asleep in the afterglow and leave testing the potion until tomorrow.”

Hermione wanted to fight but there was no point. Ron was already out of bed and shaking the lethargy out of his arms and Draco had flicked his wand, summoning his pants and shirt from downstairs. Evidently it was of such importance to do this now that he wasn't even willing to wait for his trousers. 

Bed would wait. 

The fifth floor was much darker and more sinister in the evening light. The arrangements of furniture cast long shadows along the floor and the larger pieces seemed to lose their distinct shapes, hulking menacingly in corners. Draco hated everything about it. It still reminded him distinctly of the room of lost things. It might have been more organized, but there were just as many traces of dark magic lingering on the Black family antiques. The heavy atmosphere was not helped in the slightest by the fact that there was something very wrong about the visual of Weasley tied to a chair in the middle of the room. 

He moved a lot, normally. It was impossible not to notice considering he was big and freckled and ginger. He was practically an orange blur with how much he fidgeted. Now he had gone still. 

He looked vulnerable.

That might be a positive if he were naked , Draco thought, as he waited for Granger to dig the flask out of the trunk, or if he didn't look so scared . . . but at this point Draco wasn't sure he'd ever be willing to try and find out. 

He went to check the ropes, mostly to have something to do with his hands. His incarcerous had done a fantastic job. Every coil of the thin black cords was doubled around, hitting all the obvious movement points and layered across the big muscle groups. Weasley wouldn't be breaking free with manpower alone, but nothing seemed too tight and there were no odd twists to his limbs. His wand was boxed up two floors below. There wasn't much more they could do to make the test safer,  but Draco still didn't like it. The compulsion on the flask had been very strong, even when the other wizard hadn't been touching it, and it had gotten much worse with contact. Thinking about what ingestion could cause left Draco feeling wound tight, nervous sweat collecting at the nape of his neck. 

“Got it,” Granger said quietly before looking over at Weasley, her face brows pulled together with worry. “Are you sure you're comfortable, Ron?” 

“It's as good as it's going to get,” he grumbled. 

“I just double-checked. He'll be fine.” Draco rolled his eyes but it was mostly an affectation. It wouldn't do to have her panicking now. He'd make her go downstairs if he thought she'd listen.

“You're going to have to give it to him. My hands are shaking.” 

“Alright.” 

They had all done a lot of very intimate things very recently, but none of the fucking, long conversations, or fighting held quite the same level of domestic intimacy as helping Ron Weasley to sip the potion. It required gentle, careful attention to the other man's lip as he tipped the flask and let the thick liquid flow out. It was barely purple, almost black in this lighting, and so thick that Draco worried he would have to shake the container to get it to move past the edge of the container. His heart beat in his ears as he watched the smooth, gel-like potion fill the other man's mouth. 

Granger stood close by, her hand on his shoulder, rubbing sweet little circles where the muscles were held tense and uncomfortable. She better be right about it being polyjuice, he couldn't help but think as he lifted the flask. I don't want to ruin my life-long streak of not murdering anyone by poisoning a man I'd actually like to live. 

Weasley looked Granger dead in the eye, a bewildered look on his face and said, “It tastes like honeycomb.” 

She looked just as confused as Draco was about what that meant, but neither of them got a chance to ask more about it because, as soon as he'd said it, the skin on his face began to bubble. 

Somehow the transformation was even more horrifying with him unable to move. It put every moment of torturous shifting on display. For a horrible moment, Draco was terrified that Granger had been wrong after all as Weasley's freckles seemed to meet up, darkening and radiating out across his skin. His hair receded into his scalp leaving behind shiny, taut skin over the dome of his head, which became dark umber brown. His body contorted and strained the ropes, but they gave where they needed to and retracted where they didn't, and within a minute a perfect facsimile of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt was tied to an old dining chair in Ronald Weasley's storage room. 

Draco had never met the minister, but he was certain that this fake would be at a distinct disadvantage. He had all the height and the chiseled features that seemed to so inspire the public. But his dark brown eyes lacked the compassion they normally displayed, even across the black and white pages of the Daily Prophet. They weren't filled with Weasley's good humor or shrewdness either. Weasley looked first at Draco, then at Hermione, and not even for a second did Draco see some shadow of recognition. 

It only took seconds for him to start moving. He jerked against the bonds with remarkable force but the ropes held. There was no variation in the movement, though he repeated it over and over again: a small kick of the foot, and strong shift of the shoulders. It was as if he were trying to spin the chair in place. 

Granger seemed to come to the same conclusion after a few more tries. “He's trying to apparate.” 

“If I had any money to bet, I'd put it on his trying to get to the Ministry. Where else would he be going wearing that face?” 

“Obviously.” 

Ron-Shacklebolt managed to twist the chair enough to fall onto the floor, and while Draco didn't think the incarcerous could be broken he brought out his wand and stunned the other wizard just in case. 

He'd been stunned. 

Ron wasn't sure how but he knew what a renervate felt like. It was like floating up from a deep well, senses fading back into focus as you  neared the surface. He was in Hermione's room and the bedside lamp was casting familiar shadows on the ceiling. Familiar voices were having a half-hushed argument. 

“You should have let me keep him tied up, we have no idea why he was trying to tear out of the bonds. Don't you have an ounce of self-preservation?” 

“Ron isn't going to hurt me, or you, for that matter.” 

“The bruise paste still hasn't fully taken care of the last time he did, so forgive me if I don't trust your judgment there.” 

“A lot has happened since then.” 

Ron managed to lift his head up, bringing Hermione and Malfoy into his sight. “She's right. I'm not going to punch you again. Unless you're being a real prick.” 

“Hardly reassuring.” His voice remained drawling and unimpressed as ever, but he couldn't hide the soft, relieved smile on his face. 

Draco had been worried about him. Hermione didn't look half as bothered. Her hair had completely taken over, still tousled from their afternoon and frizzing at the edges, so that the light behind her created the effect of a golden halo. Malfoy was disheveled too, a pale strip of his torso visible down the middle of the shirt he'd thrown on and never buttoned after. It was a nice moment. Ron wanted to just look for a moment. To savor it.

As he looked he thought about how intimate it was to sit in a messy room, half-dressed and bickering. He could imagine sitting just like this on a lazy Sunday morning, with Draco and Hermione arguing about something less life-threatening.  

Maybe he'd need more than a moment.

“Notice anything?” Hermione asked after he'd been silent for some time, her smile wide and her warm brown eyes seeming to twinkle, like she'd just gotten away with something. 

It took Ron longer than he'd like to admit to notice that the hand that was tapping against her thigh held her wand. 

“'Mione,” he said, sitting up fully. “Your wand’s out.” 

“Yeah, well, Draco wouldn't listen when I said to untie you.” She shot an annoyed glance at the other man. “I didn't get to use it mind you. Stuff started flying out of the closet, so he finally backed down and rescinded the spell, but not before I called it.” 

Ron glanced at the other man and shot him a wink. “Bastard.” 

“You were fine.” 

“He levitated you downstairs tied to the chair.” 

“You were fine ,” Malfoy repeated, rolling his eyes. Ron was almost grateful he'd been stunned. They'd only been arguing for a few minutes and he was already bored. Inviting Malfoy here had clearly been worth the risk. At least it gave Hermione someone to argue with who wouldn't take it so personally.

“I was worried this would all be awkward after this afternoon, but listen to the two of you. You sound like an old married couple.” 

“Oh, shut up, Ron.” Hermione pulled her legs up under her and turned towards him. “What do you remember after taking the potion?” 

Ron thought hard. There was always a bit of immediate fogginess after being renervated, but it always came back. Mostly he remembered the feel of the rope holding him against the chair, and the strange, sweet taste of the potion. . . but there was more there, if he pushed. A feeling. 

“I remember being surprised the potion didn't taste terrible. It was like honeycomb, waxy but super sweet. It doesn't always taste terrible but that was better than usual—” 

“Disturbing that you have this varied an experience with that particular potion,” Draco said. Ron decided quickly it was best to just ignore him. He clearly just liked being snarky.

“I felt really foggy, but I can tell you that that compulsion spell was still working, and it wanted me to apparate to the Ministry. I probably would have, if you didn't have my tied down. I was trying.” 

“That explains why you flipped the chair, and makes sense considering you turned into Kingsley,” Hermione said, a yawn taking over and preventing her from explaining further. 

Kingsley? Ron's mind was spinning. He'd already half convinced himself the potion would turn him into Robards. . . though now that he thought of it, that wouldn't make much sense at all. Robards was fishy. He knew things he shouldn't know and Ron couldn't help but trust the feeling in his gut that said there was something wrong with the man. . . but there wasn't any sense in his commander planting a potion that would make it look like Ron had been impersonating him. It would only call attention to any misdeeds he'd been getting away with. Kingsley being the target made perfect sense. If you wanted to get someone in trouble, accusing them of illegally impersonating the Minister of Magic seemed like a foolproof way to do so. It was a decent plan, no matter who the intruder had been. 

Hermione yawned again and that was enough for him. “Well, now we know the next bit of their plan,” Ron said after a moment, brain still humming as it tried to work through the information. “I doubt we're going to figure out the rest without getting some sleep first. I know I'm exhausted.” 

Hermione obviously agreed. She crawled up the bed and snuggled in next to Ron, crowding him to one side of the bed and tucking her back against him, just like she would after a nightmare. She was warm and soft, and the whole room still smelled like sex. Despite the difficult revelations that came with taking the potion, Ron couldn't help but feel like things were looking up. 

Draco didn't seem to feel the same. He stood up, stiff and awkward as soon as Hermione had started to worm her way into the blankets. “Yes, we all need some sleep. I'll see you two in the morning.” 

“What?” The question was out of Ron's mouth almost before he'd thought it. Did Malfoy think that they didn't want him there? Didn't he see the whole other side of the bed?

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, patting the bare stretch of bed in front of her. “I left you plenty of room.” 

Malfoy didn't look conflicted so much as he looked embarrassed. He looked sallower than usual, and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, as if it was sweaty even though he was standing there in pants and an open dress shirt. 

“I wasn't sure—”

“Get in the bed, Malfoy.” Ron cut him off before he could say something about how he was intruding or how he didn't want to come between Ron and Hermione. Ron was well aware of how insecurity worked. It was best to nip it in the bud, since if he had his choice, Draco wouldn't be a temporary fixture. He smiled and tried to put every bit of happiness he currently felt into it, so that Draco might actually feel it. “Don't you know it's bad manners to fuck someone and then leave before the morning?” 

Chapter Text

The morning had somehow gone so smoothly that it felt like a new normal. Not at all what Draco would have expected, considering the hectic day before. He woke with a sweaty, bed-tousled Granger curled against his chest and the back of Weasley's fingers brushing his side from where the other man had thrown his arm around the woman between them. Granger seemed to feel his eyes on her and woke quickly, her canny brown eyes half-lidded with sleepiness. They talked softly until she confessed her need for a drink and her morning sober-up, which revealed that Weasley was awake as he grumbled and went to fetch it for her.  

Draco made breakfast. It was just toast and jam but it felt like something important, to be making food for someone else. They ate mostly quietly; the Prophet had been delivered, and they managed to split it up happily between the sports, front page, and international sections. One thing he did find surprising was how quick Weasley ate. He'd never seen anything like it in his life. The other man fidgeted as he ate and once the food was gone, which took less than a minute, he was tearing little pieces off the corner of the paper, as if he needed the day to move on already but didn't want to rush anyone else eating. 

Draco hadn't even finished chewing his last bite of toast when Ron started in. “Chess?”

“We need to discuss what happened with the potion. We’ve put it off long enough.” Draco said once he'd managed to swallow. 

“I know, but I'll work better if we're playing.” Ron insisted.“You can talk and play at the same time, can't you?” 

“I can attest to that. If you try to just get him to talk about anything, he'll start fidgeting with everything in reach and drive you up a wall,” Granger said, pouring herself another cup of tea for the trip up. 

Draco rolled his eyes. What is the point of fighting once they are both decided? Stubborn as hippogriffs, the both of them. 

The floor of the library was still littered with books from the day before: some stacked in oddly neat piles, but most were open with pages fluttering in a draft, or face down and crumpled. Hermione looked like she'd been slapped. Draco didn't even bother to pull up her chair at the chessboard. She was scampering around the room picking up her mess the moment they walked through the door. He half expected her to start cooing at her books like they were babies, and he supposed they were, in a way. Fragile and invaluable. 

Draco picked the white on a whim. The reds were prettier, but the loss of the first move certainly hadn't done him any favors before. Within just a few moves, it became clear they were playing a very different game than they had been before. 

“The potion turned you into Kingsley Shacklebolt,” he finally commented, determined not to let himself get distracted by the game. 

Weasley shook his head and laughed. “That's what the two of you said. I honestly couldn't have told you. I was too desperate to follow the compulsion.” 

“To apparate to the Ministry.” 

“Exactly.”

He seemed remarkably calm, considering the danger inherent in what he'd just confirmed, simply directing one of his pawns to claim one of its counterparts with a sharp crack of stone breaking stone. 

“Well, the plan is pretty obvious, then,” Draco prodded. “Or at least the objective of it.” 

“I'm not exactly sure of every element. They are clearly patient. They left it here and just hoped I'd stumble on it. I have to assume they were hoping that I'd do some sort of sweep of the house and find it. Otherwise, it means they were prepared to wait nearly indefinitely.” 

It's like talking to a brick wall , Draco thought, wishing he knew the right combination of words to get the other man to admit what they were facing. Of course,Weasley was right to say that they couldn't really know anything, but they knew enough.

“What are the pertinent details? In your mind?” 

“Well.” Weasley thought before continuing, examining the board as his lips pulled into a small smile. “I've been working a case with polyjuice ingredients and a bottle of the potion turned up in my home. I'd say that's pretty pertinent.” 

Draco nodded; it did seem to be the most undeniable connection. “You're still convinced it's someone in the Aurory.” 

For just a moment, they locked eyes and the intensity of the worry there behind the usually bright and cheery blue was heartstopping. 

“I'm convinced at least one specific person involved is in the Aurory.” 

Across the room, Hermione's tidy had slowed down. Her feet shuffled quietly and she kept her head ducked down. She was listening, eavesdropping, as if she wasn't privy to the conversation happening at the chessboard. Draco was also fairly certain she wasn't happy with what she was hearing, if the stiffness in her shoulders was anything to go by. 

Not that I can blame her, he thought , watching Weasley flub a chance to castle a pawn for the second time in the game. How are we ever going to trust anyone in the Ministry to serve justice at this point?

“So we're looking at your Auror doppelganger, at least,  plus whoever is currently posing as Minister Shacklebolt.” 

Ron tapped his index finger to his nose pointedly. “Exactly. I'm convinced it's Robards.” 

“Wasn't he one of yours?” Draco said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. “A member of the Order of the Phoenix or whatever ridiculous name you all called yourselves.” 

“Do you really want to get into a fight about who joined the underground organization with the worst name?” Weasley rolled his eyes dramatically. “And no, Robards wasn't ours. Not one of yours either. He was Scrimgeour's man. I don't know him well enough to question him and catch him in a lie, but I think he's involved. He knows things he shouldn't, and he has been right nasty with me a few times.”

Draco shook his head, taking advantage of a handy bishop to distract Weasley into taking a pawn and opening up the right side of the board for development. “So, the Head Auror and the Minister of Magic are no longer who they appear to be.” 

“I don't know. Maybe. Depends on if and how often they are being impersonated. I've made a lot of assumptions before based on too little evidence. Thinking you know the shape of the game is what makes you lose.” 

“What is the goal, then?” Draco asked, knowing he sounded impatient but getting close to his breaking point. 

Why won't he just admit what is happening? He wondered, looking at the game. Somehow they were evenly matched here, where before Weasley had always been moves ahead.

“I don't know. Sending me into the Ministry uncovers their ruse. Even if they get me thrown in Azkaban, the only direct outcome I can see from this, every official will be held to prove they aren't being impersonated. They won't be able to get away with any more posing—”

Hermione's blood was pounding in her ears, almost drowning out their ridiculous speculating when the venom she'd been biting back finally fought its way out, interrupting Ron. “You are both so incredibly naive.”

Ron stopped talking immediately. 

“Why don't you tell us what you really think, Granger?” Draco said with a light huff of laughter. 

Hermione put down the stack of books she was carrying gingerly, trying to arrange them so they wouldn't topple to the floor as soon as she turned her back. She hadn't really prepared to elaborate. She hadn't expected to say anything at all. She usually tried to bite her tongue when she didn't have specific, evidence-based reasoning for her feelings. Right now she was working from something other than research. The only thing she had was a lifetime of experience. 

She rearranged her regular chair by the chessboard and looked over the game that had been laid. They seemed evenly matched, more so than usual. Draco was playing with more panache, as if he were actually having a good time.

“Tell me how you'd describe the game you are currently playing.” 

Ron thought for several moments before answering, his eyes tracking across the board as he remembered the previous moves. “It's classic. We've been moving towards a variation on the Evergreen Game: A friendly match between two Muggle masters, Anderssen and Dufresne, not a championship or anything like that, but everyone still loves it. We've got the Evans Gambit setting everything up, so the middle's been very constructed. Draco's ahead a bit and I muddled a move a turn or two ago, should've castled and now I'll be behind. I don't regret it though; look at the board. I'm not sure who's winning. It's fun , beautiful even.” 

“What about you Draco?”

“Weasley's got the right of it. It's a good game. I suspect he might be holding back on me a little but I couldn't prove it, because the moves are somewhat inspired. I'm going to win.” He looked so proud of himself that Hermione almost felt bad about what she was going to do. 

“What is the objective of wizard's chess?”

“To take the King,” both men said in unison. 

“No. That's the objective of Muggle chess.” Hermione felt her magic rising up and she couldn't direct it well, but it didn't take much focus to start the chess pieces to crumbling. They were already designed to be broken. They wanted the violence. Every piece on the board shattered in a rapid succession, leaving the board covered in rubble. “The objective of wizard's chess is to destroy. You two are analyzing this like it's Muggle chess, looking for strategy and logic. . . but the person you are working against isn't playing the same game. They don't care about winning: they know they've already lost. They just want to watch it all fall apart.” 

Draco's face looked sour as he said, “You think this is revenge.” Hermione couldn't blame him. She had ruined his chance at winning. 

“I do. I am all but certain it's Antonin Dolohov.” 

Ron blanched, his freckles standing out starkly against the pallor. “Why haven't you said anything before?” 

“Because I assumed you would see it!” Hermione snapped, her head pounding at the base of her neck and jaw tight with frustration. “He broke Bill's wards, Gringotts wards, and he's been on the loose for years with nary a peep.” Her hand reached up to touch the deep, indented scar covered by her top, remembering the flash of rage in Dolohov's eyes when she'd silenced him, a moment before he’d cursed her. “And he's known to lash out. You're the most visible remaining member of the three teenagers that took down his Master. Kingsley is the most visible order member, the Minister of Magic. He wants to hurt you, and I'm afraid he's already hurt Kingsley.” 

The silence that fell in the room felt permanent, it lasted so long. The minutes ticked by, and with every one Hermione could feel the tension grow. Her heart felt like it was wrapped in someone's fist. Every beat was painful, and they came quick and shallow. It felt like desperation, or the beginning of something. It felt like she needed a drink. 

“We don't have much time, then.” Ron's face looked grim as he finally spoke, locking eyes with Draco across the chess board. “We need to flush him out.” 

Two days of planning. That was all that they had to go on before it had to be in motion. Ron knew that he was right about Robards being involved. Taking off an extra day would telegraph their move to the opponent, and if Hermione were right, giving him an advantage would be dangerous indeed. 

It moved by in a blur. 

After Hermione's revelation, there wasn't any slowing down. After years of no guests but Neville and Ginny, the Stack was suddenly full to the brim with people they knew could be trusted, and be tested. Ron knew he didn't need to hesitate with his Mum or Dad, but his Dad surprised him by bringing in Percy. Draco brought in Millicent Bullstrode, of all people. She evidently worked for the Hog’s Head now, and as such had a good idea about suspicious activity. It felt dangerous to have her involved but the casualness with which she took an unbreakable vow was hard to dispute. 

Hermione became overwhelmed the second morning, sometime after George arrived. She barricaded herself in her room, swearing she was fine, which Ron didn't believe but he had to accept. He didn’t have time to break down her door. He had to supervise. 

Still, worry plagued him while he sat and discussed the Ministry situation with his Father and Percy. 

It seemed that he wasn't the only person to have been gifted with something illegal. Kingsley had started an inventory of the Muggle Artifacts room and put Arthur in charge of it. The first day, he had found illegal potions ingredients shoved into several items marked for illegal extension charms. The list of what they found squared nicely with Millicent's story of a constant demand for boomslang skin that seemed to have the underbelly of the Wizarding World in a frenzy for the past year. This was too widespread to have happened without Auror involvement. Someone should have noticed the movement of ingredients long before the case that Ron had been assigned. 

By the time he was done evaluating all the information and setting the plan into motion, he felt bone-weary and like he'd crawled through mud. Draco had disappeared an hour before, when it had come time to rearrange the fifth floor and get furniture transfigured into manageable beds for everyone who'd be staying. Ron didn't really expect much better. The other man was not a fan of clutter, and even after the little tidy when they'd gone looking for dark magic, the movement and transfiguring had kicked up enough dust to leave Ron's clothes and hair looking slightly dulled. But with Draco gone, it all felt more overwhelming, more exhausting. Ron just wanted to get in and out of the good bathroom before anyone decided to sneak down and have their own soak. 

But someone had beat him to it. 

Flickering lights from a few candles placed by the vanity mirror lit the whole room.  Draco and Hermione were settled in the tub, his body propped under hers as she dozed, keeping her lifted out of the water. Humidity had the tiled walls dripping condensation and everything smelled of strawberries.

“She fell off the wagon,” Draco said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake her. “I broke into her room and found her curled up with a bottle.” Ron’s stomach clenched with guilt. He should have been there. “ I can't blame her. It was a lot all at once, and people kept wanting to talk to her about what she's been up to. Your mother actually boxed one of your brother's ears to get him to leave her alone earlier, but there were just too many of them to really escape.” Hermione snored loudly and Draco shook his head, repressing laughter. “Don't worry too much. I made her drink another sober-up before I got in here with her and owled Healer Plum to let her know. ” 

Hermione looked completely worn out. Her face looked troubled, even when relaxed with sleep. Her scars seemed hyper visible in the hot, bubbly water. Whatever had been added to the bath turned the water a shade of pink that shimmered silver and gold where the candlelight hit it. Combined with the flush of her skin, it turned the scar tissue almost purple, and the water diverted into the dip where her flesh was indented. Her arm floated out beside her, the text of the always-fresh wound warped by the ripples. 

“Do you think she's going to be okay tomorrow?” 

“I think so.” Draco nuzzled his face into her hair absentmindedly, his words half muffled, and the simple gesture made Ron want to reach out and grab them both, so that the moment could last. “The other day, she said something about just wanting to do something. I think it's the anticipation that is killing her more than anything, and obviously just the sheer number of people.”

Ron swallowed the feeling and asked, “How much did she have?”

“Maybe an extra glass worth of actual alcohol. I watered down everything I could find almost as soon as I got here.”Malfoy paused, as if waiting for the admonishment for sneaking around. “I think what was in her room was the last of the full strength, and she ran out of that yesterday.”

That made him a little uneasy. What kind of person comes into someone's house and starts watering everything down after less than a week? But it was hard to care when Draco Malfoy was lying in the tub, face just as naked as everything else, concern written into the fine lines between his brows.

Looking at Hermione’s insensible face Ron was tempted to throw out every drop himself. 

“You've been taking good care of her.” 

“ You've been taking good care of her,” Draco said emphatically, shifting in the water so he was sitting up a little straighter. “You were just busy today. I tagged in. Hermione will listen to me to some degree, but I couldn't keep your family and Longbottom in line.” 

Ron knew he was right, but the worry still sat in the pit of his stomach. He'd worked so hard to make a safe place for her, and now everything was changing. What if he couldn't manage it all? What if next time Draco wasn’t there to pick up the slack?

He couldn't stop himself from asking, “How do you think this is going to work, after it's all taken care of. . . are you going to leave?”

“I don't know. I haven't let myself think about it,” Draco replied, eyes cast down into the shimmering pink water. 

“You can stay, you know,” Ron said, turning his back on them and casting a muffliato on the shower,“if you don't have anywhere better to go.” 

The sting of the hot shower was mind-numbing and perfect. It washed away the anxious feeling in the pit of Ron's stomach that had come with undercutting his offer to Malfoy. If you don't have anywhere better to go. . . he felt like a coward. What he'd really wanted to say was: Please stay, I want you here, Hermione wants you here, we're better with you here. 

He'd do better tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Every minute after the owls left was unbearable. 

Ron sat with the floo wide open for all comers and waited. Despite knowing it would take some time for things to start moving, it felt impossible to act on that knowledge. Hermione sat in her position under the invisibility cloak in the niche by the stairwell. Draco was just around the corner and out of sight in the kitchen, but talking to either of them could risk someone flooing through and realizing that he wasn't alone. Five minutes passed before his attention started to wander and he crossed his arms to keep himself from messing with the setup. George and his father had done a good job of replicating the original; the brass had a deep antique shine and the lid was poised to pop open at the slightest provocation. If the person who enchanted it saw it, he couldn't see why they'd be suspicious. 

After what was probably only twenty minutes but felt like two days, the flames in the hearth turned brilliant green. 

Robards was the first one through into the sitting room. He looked disgruntled and harried, as Ron would expect considering the letter he had received. Kingsley stepped through right on his heels and, unlike the Head Auror, he seemed to be genuinely worried by being summoned away from the Ministry. It was comforting to see his face, gentle as it always had been. . . but Ron wasn't about to underestimate the acting ability of the possible frauds. 

“What is going on?” Robards asked, his nose crinkled like he'd smelled something offensive. “Why are we here?” 

“Ron, are you alright? You said that Hermione might be in danger. I didn't even know she was in the country? No one from MACUSA has contacted the Ministry. I have her name flagged, and any mention of threats against her should come straight to my desk.” 

That was just like Kingsley. If someone was impersonating him, they knew him well or they'd been studying him. He had to shove down the overwhelming thought of the older wizard, who he respected so much, locked up in someone's basement. 

“Not long ago there was a break-in here at my home. I didn't report it because Hermione lives here as well and wants her whereabouts kept under wraps. You won't see her today; she's up in her room.” He fought the urge to look over where he knew she was actually standing, keeping his eyes locked on Robard's face and searching for any sign of guilt. “Last night while digging through one of my storage floors, I encountered this flask. There is a powerful compulsion set on it that made me want to drink it. I didn't want to bring it into the Ministry because I've got no idea what it is.” 

Robards began to do a spell analysis on the flask, causing the item to flash several different shades of orange and sickly yellow. The spell took nearly half an hour to complete and had the other man beading over with sweat as he worked. It would have been an impressive bit of magic if Ron hadn't already seen his father do the same thing on both the original and the replica. They were almost perfect matches. 

“He's right. That's the cogenticertis enchantment. It's a powerful compulsion spell. Almost more effective than the imperius and you don't have to be there to cast it. It's not necessarily dark. . . I know that some countries use it to help dementia patients stick to their routines. But it isn't common here.”  

Kingsley picked up the flask. “I don't feel any need to drink it.”

“It's targeted. I don't see anything that makes me worry about transporting it back to the Ministry.” Robards held out his hand. “I suggest we take it back to the Aurory and bring in a specialist from the Unspeakables to do some analysis.” 

The Minister nodded and handed off the item to Robards. The minute that the brass made contact with the Head Auror's skin he began to speak. 

“My name is Antonin Vladimir Dolohov. I have been assuming the identity and likeness of Gawain Robards since the summer of 1999 when the record will show an extended leave of absence due to exposure to spattergroit.” He struggled against the spell, trying to pry his fingers from the brass but the words kept spilling forth. “I placed a flask that looked just like this in an upper storage room when I broke into this home just over two weeks ago. It contained polyjuice potion that was activated with a nail sample from Minister Shacklebolt and was intended to frame Mr. Weasley for attempted identity theft and remove him from the Aurory as he'd become a thorn in my side as I tried to arrange a coup from within the ranks.” 

His face twisted with fury as he finally managed to drop the flask, wand already out and casting a protego. It was unnecessary as Ron had pulled his wand, not to attack Dolohov, but to stun the Minister. He couldn't risk having him up and mobile when there was someone around perfectly willing to use the Imperius . 

“What the fuck is it making me say? None of that is true!” 

The feeling of triumph at being right seemed to be at war with the dread rising in Ron's stomach. “You've been here for 45 minutes, and I doubt you took a drink as you entered the floo. It won't be long until we find out.”

It was one of those moments where Ron felt like a seer. It couldn't have happened more perfectly if he had prophesied it. The other man began digging in his pockets with the fevered rush of someone desperate to prevent their undoing. As if it would matter at this point. Taking a drink would be almost as damning as the way the skin began to ripple and twist across his face, causing him to double over with pain. The only thing that kept Ron from rushing him then was the tip of his outstretched wand. Even as his bones stretched obscenely, his limbs extending so that his previously tidy clothes looked mismatched and ill-worn, his wand never lowered. Dolohov had discipline, Ron could give him that. 

“There you are,” Ron said once he had a clear view of the other man's face. 

Now everyone could be sure exactly what game had been laid.

Dolohov shook his head and pointed his wand down, blasting three runes in front of him that raised a shimmering shield of purple fire. When he was protected he pushed up his sleeve to reveal the dark mark and a cyrillic rune just below it, over the pulsing veins in his wrist. A whisper of something in Russian and, within moments, several people appeared in the room. There had to be at least seven of them, and Ron could recognize four of his colleagues among them. 

“He's seen my face. Don't let him leave the house.” 

It was bad enough that they were involved, but what really made Ron's gut twist as Dolohov spoke was that it proved at least some of his fellow Aurors had known there was a Death Eater in their ranks, and they had said nothing. 

“Thanks for that, Antonin , ” Draco said, his voice booming through the house, interrupting Ron's spiraling sense of betrayal. When he stepped out from his hiding spot in the kitchen , his wand was pressed hard into the flesh of his own throat as he cast a sonorous . “You just made it really easy to justify what is about to happen. IT'S TIME .” 

Feet thundering down the stairs almost drowned out the few cracks of apparition, and the room was suddenly filled with enough people to match the force Antonin had called to the house. 

The battle was on.

The fight felt like a fever dream. 

Hermione had taken enough sober-up and pepper up potions to render her thoroughly capable, but the moment that the first curse left Dolohov's wand, blazing purple fire twisting towards Ron, she was lost. The thin, sheer fabric of the invisibility cloak around her seemed as thick as ten feet of water, distorting the images of the room into nothing but sparks of light and familiar faces flashing against shimmering darkness. The noise was a dull roar, punctuated by the sound of Draco's voice: WEASLEY, TAKE COVER! NOT YOU, WHICH ONE EVEN ARE YOU? RON, FOR MERLIN'S SAKE!  

She wasn't sure how long she was standing there in the corner, an invisible spectator unable to even take proper notice of the fight, but eventually the adrenaline soaked through to her brain and with a jolt she remembered: she had a job to do. 

Get Kingsley to the floo. Drop him through to the Ministry. Scream for help. 

That's all she had to manage. Her wand was secure in her hand and, with a thought, her magic thrummed. Hopefully she could use it if she needed it. Hopefully. 

Hermione had never regretted a drink more than the bottle she'd consumed the afternoon before. 

When Ron had stunned Kingsley, he'd still been close to the hearth, so luckily she didn't need to move him far. She kept herself pressed close to the wall as she moved, holding her breath as a pair of fighters came close. Several hexes volleyed between them before one hit, leaving one opponent laughing and gasping for breath as George Weasley took him out of the equation by capping it off with a stunner. 

Creeping past the opening to the kitchen, she made her way around to Kingsley. Dolohov was still all too near to him, constantly running the risk of stepping on the Minister's outstretched hand. He was an excellent dueler, and years of hiding didn't seem to have dulled his instincts. Ron was distracted, taking on Dolohov while also fending off a secondary fight from the left. Without Draco targeting the second opponent he wouldn’t have been able to get off any spells at all, and he was still spending most of his time putting up shields. 

Hermione waited and when Ron distracted Dolohov by levitating the coffee table and kicking it at him, she got on her hands and knees to pull Kingsley back toward the floo. He was too heavy. They should have thought this through better. Kingsley was a big man, and she was atrophied and weak. Still. Her wand was alive in her hand. She could do this. She'd been doing it since first year. 

It was going to work.

“ Wingardium Leviosa. ” 

The form of her lips as she whispered the words was achingly familiar. Magic surged, through her and her wand and suddenly his body was floating—too high. He was going too high and his limbs were limp. As she tried to pivot him into the fireplace, one of his knees hit Dolohov in the back and the man whipped around, runes he had somehow gouged into the floor holding his shield in place. 

“ You,” he said, with such malice that she felt pinned under his stare, trapped by the intensity in his hazel eyes. His long, twisted face was now covered in deep, furrowed wrinkles. He'd aged so much since they were last in this situation. It should have made him less frightening, but age and physical infirmity mean little with magic coursing through your veins, and this time she could hear his voice: deep, gravelly, cruel. “No mistakes. This time I kill you quickly. Sectum sempra. ” 

Hemione flinched. She could have dodged, or even thrown up Kingsley's body as a shield. They had managed to deal with Snape's cutting curse before. They could do it again. There were options, but she reacted on instinct, shying away from the pain she knew was coming. She closed her eyes. 

“NO.” Draco's amplified voice cut through the din of battle, and when Hermione opened her eyes he was there, just between her and Dolohov. 

It was as if time had slowed down. Draco crumpled and red seeped out of him in a river. Gash after gash opened up in the crisp cotton of his oxford. He wore a shocked look on his face, as if even he was in awe of the fact that he'd done it.

Ron screamed and suddenly Hermione was back on the open grounds of Hogwarts, that same guttural, painful sound surrounding her, watching Harry fall to the ground. Dolohov turned his back and Hermione was certain that he was about to apparate away. Again. Leaving her holding the body of someone she loved. Again. But then Ron moved, nothing but an orange blur as he surged forward and forcing Dolohov to shield. 

Draco's eyes fluttered closed, his body shaking, already going into shock. 

“No,” Hermione said, Kingsley's body dropping in a heap on the floor as she grabbed at Draco, warm slick blood keeping her from seeing the wounds. “No. No. No. No.” 

She needed help. But there was no one. Ron was fighting Dolohov again, Molly at his shoulder and firing off the killing curse in frighteningly rapid flashes that cut through Dolohov's shields as Ron threw furniture into every place he could dodge. Everyone on her side was engaged with an opponent. Neville was straining to hold someone in a body bind, George was puking up massive slugs in the corner, Arthur and Percy were back-to-back at the foot of the stairs. Kingsley was still next to her, stunned and defenseless, with a nasty knot on his head from where he had fallen. She was on her own.

Her mind whirled and she grabbed onto Draco, sliding her arm under his. She reached out a hand, grabbed Kingsley by the ankle, and twisted her body hard, thinking of the storefront that hid St. Mungo's. She felt the sickening compression of apparition and, for once, it brought relief. 

There were flashes of memory. 

Hermione's voice screaming, “HELP! PLEASE! WE NEED THE VULNERA SANENTUR!” 

Mannequins. Draco remembered mannequins. 

Mediwitches and Healers bustling nearby.

Hermione grasping onto someone in pale green healer's robes. Why was she covered in blood? The Healer was saying her name. Why were they so familiar? Dark wispy hair and warm eyes. Healer Plum. 

“Dolohov. It was Dolohov.” Hermione's voice around ragged gasping breaths. “Send help.” 

Then there was nothing for a long while. His mind was a white void. Mist over the hills in Wiltshire. The perfect pure white of a peacock's tail. Crisp sheets. It all melded together and there was nothing but the white, then the occasional searing reminder of pain, streaks of red burning through his consciousness. 

Once he thought he might have heard his mother, singing softly in the distance. 

The smell of strawberries, hazy and mixed with the warm, salty smell of skin. 

Draco tried to open his eyes. A blur of violent orange and lights that stung. He closed his eyes again. 

The next time he opened them, it was dimmer. Thank Merlin. The room was quiet, but he could hear someone talking. 

“Hermione, dear.” He didn't recognize the voice, but it was pleasantly shrill and motherly. “He's opening his eyes again. Wake up. I'll go get Ron from the canteen.” 

Hermione. The memories hit him like the Hogwarts Express. Looking over to see Hermione partially revealed as Potter's cloak slipped and she levitated the Minister's body toward the floo. Hermione flinching back from Dolohov as he spat the curse that Draco feared most. Ron's eyes meeting his as he fell, beet red and inhuman with rage. Pain. Pain. Pain. The hot viscous feeling of his own blood pouring through his fingers. 

He tried to sit up. 

“Draco, don't try to sit up on your own, you're still healing,” Hermione said, appearing beside him, looking rumpled but beaming a watery smile at him. “I'm glad you're awake.” 

His answer came out in a dry croak. “Me too.”

“I've got the fix for that.” Weasley's voice came from the open door as he rolled through with a cart loaded down with a pitcher of water and a pot of tea. 

The two of them worked in a coordinated way that said they'd been doing it for days. Weasley left Hermione to put together their tea and came to help Draco sit up. The hospital bed was adjustable, and as it raised up, a feather-light charm allowed Weasley to scoot him up without too much difficulty, though the tight feeling across his side told him his wounds were still fresh and tender. It felt practiced.  He wasn’t sure anyone had ever touched him as gently as this large, ungainly man was in this moment. Big hands braced carefully under his arms, avoiding the slashes in his sides. He felt small. Fragile. 

How long have they been here? 

Hermione brought him a cup of ice cold water from the pitcher and it was possibly the best thing he'd ever put into his mouth. Possibly. 

Once his throat no longer felt like sandpaper, he asked, “How long have I been out?” 

“On and off for three days,” Hermione informed him, pulling her legs up into the overstuffed armchair that he’d watched her levitate over to the bedside from the far wall.“This is the first time you've seemed lucid, though.” 

Weasley snorted, winking at Draco as they locked eyes for a moment. “Trust her, she'd know. She hasn't left the room since they got you fixed up.” 

That seemed to ruffle her feathers and Draco couldn't tell if she was offended or just embarrassed. He didn't understand why either way. She'd left the Stack. She'd apparated him here. He could remember that much. Hermione should be proud of herself. He was proud of her, though he didn't say it. It could wait, and he rather enjoyed watching her square off her shoulders and roll her eyes at Weasley.

She's pretty when she's annoyed, he thought. At least, she is when it isn't directed at me.  

“He's been here too, and his mother, and your mother. You haven't lacked for company, even if you weren't up to conversation.” Before Draco could even ask she added. “Don't worry, Mrs. Weasley went to pop over to Narcissa and let her know you are awake. She'll come visit just directly, I expect.” 

“What have the Healers said?” 

“They healed it quickly, but Vulnera Sanentur is not a standard spell and I think they didn't do as good a job as Professor Snape would have. . . and it took time. They were distracted by the Minister's head injury. So you had a lot of blood replenishers after, that's why you've been out. The wounds knitted well but there is some extensive scarring on your left arm, the left side of your neck, and on your side. It will be stiff for a week or two while the scar softening salves penetrate.” 

He twisted his neck and felt the scar tissue pull a little. His arm was a mess. There were at least a dozen raised white scars over his forearm. At least it hadn't spared the Dark Mark. The faded grey of the brand was now crossed over in three places with scar tissue, mangling the design in a way that felt final. 

“Could be worse.” 

Ron nodded, his brows pulled together in a way that made Draco suspect that it almost had been. “That it could.” 

“When are they letting me go home?”

The question felt awkward, loaded. He hadn't meant it to, but there was really no other way to take it. He'd been staying in their house for weeks. Weasley had already hinted that he was welcome to stay, but nothing had been settled—Draco certainly couldn't ask to stay now. They barely knew each other. Everything was new and he was the outsider.

Neither one of them had signed up to be his nursemaid. They had their own troubles. 

“Well, you can't go off by yourself for at least a couple of days, but the hospital said you could stay here if you wanted to while you recover.” A blush worked its way up her neck as she spoke, turning her face a fetching shade of rosy peach. “But I was hoping you'd come back with us to the Stack.” 

Draco shifted his attention to Ron, still leaning against the wall and fidgeting with the worn edge of his jumper. “And what do you think of that proposition, Weasley?” 

“As far as I'm concerned, the attic is yours, though I'll be disappointed if you actually sleep there.” The other man responded with an ease Draco envied. It was as if he’d just been waiting for an opportunity to say it. His words were half joking but his eyes revealed a depth of emotion that he almost couldn’t handle. It was too new, too real to admit to. “I do think we've moved past last names though, mate.” 

He might just be right about that. The thought was followed by the image of his hands gripping the other man's hips, the tip of his thumb resting on the edge of a particularly large freckle. Though there was still something appealing about calling him Weasley.

“I'll work on it. . . Ronald.” 

“Merlin, don't call me that.” Ron replied with a groan. “It's bad enough when Hermione does it.” 

“Oh, this is going to be fun.” Draco and Hermione shared a conspiratorial grin. “You never answered me. When are we going home?” 

The word home felt as magical as any spell. Once he'd said it, the whole tone of the room changed. Hermione was almost bouncing in her seat and Ron was grinning like an idiot. The excitement was infectious and Draco found himself filled with the urge to get out of the bed and set off. They had things to do. It was the start of something. 

Hermione's voice was so firm it was impossible not to believe her when she said, “Tonight. We're going home tonight.”

Chapter Text

Healer Plum's office was not at all what Hermione had imagined.

The other woman was so soft and gentle, and her hair was always lifting up from her scalp in fly-aways that had escaped the little ponytail that she tended to pull her hair back into. She just seemed to lack pretension in a way that completely defied the way she kept her space.

The walls were a deep aubergine that required five different lamps to relieve it, making the room almost cavelike. Every piece of furniture or paneling was painted a stark white that would have showed every speck of dirt, if there had been any. A few graphic art prints were framed on the walls, and the shelves were full of books on healing, both Muggle and magical, but there was little to distract from the session. The only concession to practicality seemed to be the carpet on the floor. It was simple, variegated grey berber. Hermione could understand that, seeing as the Healer seemed to have something against wearing socks or shoes in her office.

“ How do you like it?” Healer Plum asked, when Hermione stepped through the floo.

“ It's different,” Hermione said, still taking everything in. “But in a nice way.”

“ I'm surprised you think so. Many of my patients seem to think it's sterile, but it helps me to focus if it's all about work in the office.”

Hermione thought about the Stack and how much she loved the separation of spaces, being able to let her room just be what it was while the library instantly filled her with the energy for work.

“ That makes sense to me.”

“ How are you handling being back in the outside world?”

She'd started her reentry slowly. First just trips to the Burrow. Then to see Neville's water garden. To her publisher for a meeting. Months later, she was now leaving the house for small errands, and she'd even attended Ginny's birthday party. It had been slow going but she mostly felt stable.

“ Better than I thought in some ways.” She thought back to the night last week when she'd stopped outside a pub for several minutes, and wondered if drinking outside the home would be the problem it had been inside, now that she had coping mechanisms. “More difficult than I thought in others.”

“ I think that is fair. The world is a complicated place.” The Healer seemed to think for a moment before revealing, “I saw Mister Malfoy yesterday. He came in to ask if I knew any other Healers dealing in Muggle therapy. He told me that you know.”

“ I do. He needs someone to talk about things with. Someone who isn't me or Ron. There's too much baggage about some things.” Like the fact that he still couldn't stay in the bedroom on nights when she had nightmares, though she didn't reveal that to Healer Plum. She didn't think it was wise to let things overlap too much. If it was a problem for her, she would talk about it. Right now it was Draco's struggle and he needed to tell it in his own time.

“ Well, I set him up with a friend, a Squib who became a therapist. I think he will find it a good fit. I ought to get you to do an advertisement, getting two pure-blood wizards to admit they need therapy in less than a year.” That seemed to be that, and suddenly she was setting out her note-taking quill and the session was beginning in earnest. “What do you want to talk about today? Any successes? Any setbacks?”

Hermione felt the excitement almost bubbling over, the magic sparking in her hair, a steady and constant companion. “I finished my book.”

MUDBLOODS, THE MINISTRY, AND OTHER MISCATAGORIZED BEINGS 

Foreword by Draco Malfoy

I will admit that when Hermione first told me about her book, I had worries that it would never see publication.

That is the sort of thing you worry about when the author cannot stop drinking. Or leave their house. Or use their wand.

I could not have foreseen the circumstances that would see me moving in with her and with our now-husband Ronald Weasley while I was recovering from a major injury. Neither could I foresee the ways in which our healing would be intertwined, but I am proud to say that this book was a major part of that process.

During that time of convalescence, I found myself thinking about what had led me to that point and how it mirrored Hermione’s recovery. My state at the time was a result of trauma I experienced at the hands of the Death Eater who once taught me how to shave, because my father was imprisoned when I first started needing the use of those charms. Hermione’s mental health spiraled after she was used as a child soldier in the second war against Voldemort. A situation that saw her cursed by the same man who had cursed me, starved and deprived of a home, and tortured by my own aunt. 

This is an experience that is held in common in our home. All three residents and most of our visitors are recovering in some way from the trauma of fighting in a guerilla war at too young an age. 

In the end, it was Ronald’s decision to leave the Aurory that managed to help me see what had set the path of my life in motion towards my time as a Death Eater, and subsequently my time in Azkaban and my eventual falling back on skills of violence to make ends meet as a guard for hire: the Ministry. 

For centuries before I was born, the Ministry had been charged with the well-being of the magical peoples of Britain; but Muggle-borns, werewolves, house elves, goblins, centaurs, and various other intelligent species and those humans intermixed with them were neglected at best, and enslaved at worst. 

This book shows how the choices the Ministry has made actively led to the two wars against Voldemort, but it also traces its path of influence through the goblin wars, house elf enslavement, and the segregation and scapegoating of werewolves. 

Throughout this information she will tell you another story. It is our story: hers, and mine, and Ronald Weasley’s. It is a love story, but it is also something else. It is the story of how even in the time after we fought a war against the ideals of blood supremacy, violent bigots were able to worm their way into high positions of the Ministry. 

I hope by the end Hermione will have convinced you of the necessity to apply ourselves towards remaking our government and ourselves, so that monsters may not blend in with the everyday bigots. 

I will leave it to her to close the foreword with her dedication, because I have no desire to indulge her sentimentality.  

This book is dedicated to my husband Ronald Weasley, who always gives me the space to be vulnerable and heal. You are the bravest man I have ever known.

And to my husband Draco Malfoy, who spends every day pushing me to be my absolute best. I hope to one day live up to your example of dedication towards change and renewal.

I have fallen down more times than I can count and I thank my lucky stars I've had you both by my side to bolster me when I stumble. I love you both with all my heart.

They had been playing for hours. 

There had been many games of chess played since this had all begun. Hermione might join them on occasion, but this was the time that they took to indulge themselves. Across a chessboard they could be competitive and obsessive and have important conversations while they were half distracted. 

It was easier to say some things when they didn’t have to look at each other. 

Some games had been good. Some had been bad. Some had been long. Some had been short. But what they had all had in common was that in the end, Ron won.

Except for the one that Hermione had obliterated. That one they’d decided was a draw. 

This time Ron wasn’t so sure of his victory.

The moves were different: Ron hadn’t fumbled his opportunities to castle, and Draco was moving more slowly and deliberately, but it was somehow the Evergreen Game again. There was the Evans Gambit, the middle of the board constructed into a maze of moves that would be nearly impossible to navigate, unless you played like one of the computers that Hermione sometimes indulged in showing him. Humans made mistakes. They made moves for immediate fun or reward instead of predicting ten moves down the line. 

They got distracted when pretty women sat in their laps and whispered in their ears. 

Hermione had been at it for nearly an hour. Shooting grins at Draco, getting increasingly creative in her enticements to get him to throw the game: 

“ I brought home Black Forest gateau, but you have to eat it in bed. I’m not bringing it up here. 

“ I enlarged the tub. Do you think, with the buoyancy, I could manage to stay on my knees longer?

“ I can tell I’m getting to you. You could tie me up and take it out on me, as long as you make Draco watch.” 

He didn’t know if he’d done it on purpose or if she’d just finally distracted him into a mistake he couldn’t fix, but Draco cornered his king with a bishop and as soon as he retreated out of its diagonal, feeling safe behind the protection of his final knight, the second bishop slammed through the horse. 

Draco shot him a smug, self-satisfied grin. It was a smile that said things had gone exactly as he’d intended, crooked and a little mischievous. Ron loved that smile. “Checkmate.” 

It didn’t really bother him to lose, a thousand to one was still a great record, but if Draco was going to use Hermione to cheat then Ron felt obliged to do the same. He smiled back, taking out his wand and clearing the board, making sure that the pieces all made it back into their drawers before turning the wand on Draco.

“ Incarcerous,” he said, following the spell up in his mind with the addendum minima so that the ropes that held the other man to the chair were thin and silky. Just barely tight enough to hold him. 

When he stood up and flipped Hermione over the board, Draco groaned.

“ Oh you Bastard.”

Ron thought it was possibly the best game of chess he'd ever lost.