Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The leaves were falling from the trees. Ah, autumn. Season of crisp air, cinnamon tea, and, of course, people dying. Letting go. Nature’s beautiful little metaphor for, well… murder.
“Hush, little baby, don’t you cry…” Theo sang softly, circling the trembling man chained to the damp stone wall. “You’ve been naughty, Vexley. Thought no one would connect a string of vanished children to a wizard with clean hands and a smile. All blamed on some poor Muggle lunatic, wasn’t it? A tragic coincidence. A serial killer with no trace of magic. Clever. But I notice everything. And I do so love a good game. Don’t hate the player…”
He leaned in close, his breath warm against the man's ear.
“Hate the game.”

Vexley whimpered, soaked from the endless drip of water, and not just from the ceiling. The real soaking had come courtesy of Theo’s “games.” A little waterboarding here, a splash of ice-cold truth there. It wasn’t about pain, not really. It was about control. Rhythm. Mood. The Nott family dungeon reeked of mildew, iron, and old sins, and Theo inhaled it like fine cologne.
Vexley gasped violently as the water soaked fabric slammed over his face again. His body convulsed, instinctively fighting for air that wouldn’t come. Theo held the enchanted cloth in place just long enough. Not to kill, at least not yet.

“Breathing is such an overrated habit,” Theo mused as he finally pulled the cloth away, letting Vexley choke and sputter. “I’d recommend inhaling less water next time.”
He gave a little twirl with the dripping rag, like a magician finishing a trick. “Round three?” he asked brightly.
He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful, then tapped the stone wall with his wand like it was a childhood friend.
“Ah, memory lane,” he said dryly. “Most kids had a treehouse. I had mold, iron cuffs, and a father who thought love meant watching how long you could scream before passing out. Sentimental, really.”

He chuckled softly, dead in the eyes. “I used to count the cracks in this wall to distract myself from the bone fractures. Worked surprisingly well.”
He paused dramatically, glancing over his shoulder. “Speaking of childhood trauma…Draco, darling, are you still awake?”
From the shadows, Draco gave the faintest nod. No words. He rarely spoke during these sessions. Never offered judgment. Never asked questions. He simply watched. Calm, composed, as if this too was part of the world he’d long accepted.

Theo didn’t need words. Draco’s presence was enough. A fixed point in the chaos. A quiet witness to a dance most would call madness.
And truth be told, Theo liked an audience.
He always had. Not for validation. Merlin no. But for the art of it. For the theatre. For the delicious tension that came with being observed and not interrupted. There was something intoxicating about performing with someone watching. Especially someone like Draco. Cold-eyed. Sharp. Impossible to impress and impossible to ignore.
It sharpened his rhythm. Gave edge to his phrasing. Turned cruelty into choreography.
Because pain was power, but performance, was poetry.

He didn’t condone it. Not openly. Not with anything resembling approval. But he didn’t leave either. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. And for Theo, that meant everything.
Pansy found it distasteful.
Not the violence. Merlin, no. That never bothered her. But the aesthetics of it all? Dreadful.
“If you insist on making a spectacle, Theo, at least do it somewhere with decent drapery and good lighting. And for Salazar’s sake, change your shirt. Blood clashes with that shade of smug.”
She understood darkness. Wore it like perfume. But she preferred hers with velvet and veils, not blood on flagstone and a man humming Christmas carols while someone screamed. Pansy liked her horrors curated. Pretty. Contained.

So she stayed away. And Blaise?

Blaise simply didn’t care to watch.
“Oh, I believe you, mon ami,” he’d said with a shrug and a sip of firewhisky. “You don’t need my eyes to make it real.”
He had no appetite for cruelty unless it served something beautiful. Knowledge. Leverage. Gold. But this? This was Theo’s playground, not his.

They didn’t judge. Not truly.
They just chose not to look.
Because friends didn’t need to understand everything.
They just needed to recognize which doors were better left closed.

And Theo, in his own way, appreciated that more than any applause.
“I used to sleep in the rain,” Theo continued conversationally, twirling his wand like a conductor's baton. “My father said it would teach me resilience. It mostly taught me pneumonia.”
Vexley let out a ragged breath that might’ve been a laugh once. Before it curdled into something harsher. His voice was hoarse, cracked open by hours of pain and silence.
“This is who you are?” he breathed. “A boy playing god because no one ever loved him right?”

Theo stilled. Just for a moment.

Then he smiled. Slow, sharp, like a blade being drawn. “Oh, darling,” he said softly, almost fondly, “you say that like it's an insult.”
He leaned in, voice velvet and venom.
“But if you must know…” Theo tilted his head, as if considering. “They did love me. In their own... spectacularly dysfunctional way. Just enough to shape the edges, not enough to dull the knife.”
Vexley let out a ragged sob.

“Oh, come now,” Theo said with a mock pout. “Don’t cry. It makes me feel like the villain.”
He straightened, took a slow breath, and let the silence stretch.

“Anyway,” he said lightly, as if they’d just wrapped up a pleasant tea, “let’s talk about those children you made disappear.”
He spun his wand slowly between two fingers.
“Their parents will never know what happened. No grave. No goodbye. Just an empty chair at breakfast and a silence that screams through every wall.”
He looked up, eyes sharp and strangely calm.
“And that,” he said, “that’s the part I don’t do well with. You see… children are innocent. And what’s innocent,” he took a step forward “we like to keep that way.”
His voice dropped. Silk over steel.

“But you… you reached into places where no darkness belongs. Took something pure. And turned it into silence.”
A pause. Just long enough to ache.

He tapped his wand once, soft as punctuation.

“So now,” Theo said, the smile curving slow and unnatural, “you get to learn what that costs.”

Theo clapped his hands once. Loud, sharp, commanding.

The torches flared. A spotlight. Literal, magical, and entirely unnecessary, snapped into place above him, casting him in golden-white brilliance.
He spun into it like a performer hitting his mark, arms flung wide, coat flaring like a cape.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, voice ringing through the dungeon like the opening of a cursed carnival, “welcome, welcome, to tonight’s exclusive performance.”
He paused. Blinked once. Then gave an exaggerated, sheepish bow toward the shadows.

“Oh wait,” he added cheerfully, “just the one gentleman tonight.”
He straightened, grin never faltering. “Exclusive indeed. A private show for our most discerning critic.”

From the darkness, Draco’s voice drawled back, low and unimpressed:
“Wake me when he screams something useful.”

Theo then gestured grandly to Vexley, slumped and shivering in his restraints. “Our brave volunteer, guilty of crimes so vile even Azkaban raised its eyebrows. And now, tonight, we explore the ancient question: how far can a wizard stretch… before he snaps?”

With a flourish, Theo summoned a cruel-looking contraption from the shadows. Metal arms, winding gears, and leather straps that glinted ominously in the torchlight.
“This delightful piece,” Theo cooed, caressing one spiked gear affectionately, “was purchased at a delightful little Muggle auction just outside Newcastle. Originally designed to extract confessions from ‘witches.’”
He winked. “So resourceful, those Muggles. So… inventive.”

A flick of his wand, and Vexley was wrenched upward. His body jerking like a puppet on fraying strings. The magic seized him midair, then flung him with deliberate carelessness into the iron embrace of the device. Straps snapped tight with a brutal efficiency, metal groaning as the ancient structure adjusted to his frame.
Vexley twisted, muscles clenching instinctively, but it was useless. The cuffs locked around his wrists and ankles, pulling him taut, until his shoulders strained and his back arched unnaturally against the frame. His breath hitched.

He knew what was coming.

And then.
Music.

Theo spun again, wand slicing the air, and from nowhere, a slow, unmistakable chord progression began to echo through the stone chamber.
🎵 “Hello darkness, my old friend…” 🎵
The first line of The Sound of Silence rang out. Warped and reverberating in the acoustics of the dungeon, as if the room itself was remembering something it wanted to forget.
Theo threw his head back and sang along, off-key, all teeth, like a conductor mid-finale.
🎵 “I’ve come to talk with you again…” 🎵
He twirled his wand like a maestro and prowled around Vexley’s suspended body, eyes gleaming.
“The classics, Vexley. Always reliable. Always haunting. Rather like guilt, don’t you think?”
He drew closer, voice dropping to a murmur as the next line swelled behind him.
🎵 “Because a vision softly creeping…” 🎵
“You know,” he whispered, crouching at eye level, “it’s not the screaming that gets to people. It’s the quiet. The waiting. The knowing.”
As the mechanism creaked and pulled Vexley’s limbs tauter, the music swirled with eerie solemnity.
🎵 “Left its seeds while I was sleeping…” 🎵

Theo smiled. A slow, patient smile.

“And now,” he purred, “we listen. To every word you never meant to say.”
He prowled in a circle around Vexley, wand spinning lazily between his fingers.
🎵 “And the vision that was planted in my brain…” 🎵
“…still remains,” he added softly, grinning like it was a private joke only he and the walls understood.
Theo crouched to eye level, eyes alight with glee, voice syrup-smooth.
🎵 “Within the sound of silence…” 🎵
“Poetic, isn’t it?” he whispered. “Some screams echo louder when swallowed whole.”

And then Theo clapped his hands like a delighted child at a birthday party.

“Oh, look at that!” he sang, practically skipping over to the crank. “It moves! Isn’t that fascinating, Vexley?” He gave the mechanism a playful flick, and the iron arms jerked forward, just a little. Just enough to force a strained gasp from Vexley’s chest as his shoulders jolted unnaturally in their sockets.
Theo beamed.

“Such responsive craftsmanship. Muggles, for all their flaws, do understand leverage.”

Another twist. Another inch.
Vexley groaned. Low and guttural, pain began to bloom behind his clenched teeth. His fingers twitched where they were shackled, trying and failing to curl into fists. Muscles began to tremble, joints resisting the slow, deliberate drag apart.

Theo watched with rapt attention, head tilted.
“Don’t you love how the body resists?” he cooed. “How it tries to stay whole, even when it knows better?”

He gave the crank one more turn. A deeper pull. A sharper angle. Vexley’s scream cracked the air this time. Raw, involuntary, broken.
Theo’s eyes sparkled. “There it is.”

He leaned in close, voice a velvet lilt edged with knives.“Let’s turn this performance into something educational, shall we?”
A pause, theatrical.

“Tell me where you buried them, Vexley. The children. Every last one. What you took. What you kept. And maybe I’ll stop turning.”
He straightened, drawing out the silence.

“Or maybe I won’t.” He gave a light shrug, almost apologetic. “It’s been a long week, and I do find this relaxing.”
He turned briefly, wand twirling lazily between his fingers.

“I mean, Merlin. I’ve had to endure days of Draco making heart eyes at Granger like a third-year student trying to brew a love potion with nothing but desperation and a teaspoon of shampoo."
He sighed dramatically, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. “A man can only take so much.”

From the shadows, Draco’s voice was cool, dry, and just a touch too quiet.

“Keep talking, Theo, and you’ll find yourself in that contraption next.”
Theo grinned over his shoulder. “Oh, darling. At least I’d make it entertaining.”

And then..

A flick of his wand, and new music filled the dungeon.

🎵 “Sometimes I feel I've got to… run away…” 🎵
The synth-heavy intro of Tainted Love echoed eerily off the stone. Theo let out a delighted gasp, eyes glittering as he spun with arms outstretched, like a ringmaster greeting his tent of horrors.
🎵 “I've got to… get away…” 🎵

“I mean, really,” he said with a smile too bright for what followed, “what better anthem for a man about to be stretched like dough?”

The tension in the room stretched with each groan of the device. Vexley’s arms trembled, joints pulled just far enough to sear white-hot along the nerves without snapping. His breath came in gasps, hitched and shallow. Sweat clung to him like a second skin.

But still. No scream.

Theo crouched to eye level, fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of the iron.

He cocked his head, playful now.

“Tell me, darling. Where did you bury them?”

A pause. Then quieter, darker:
“What did you take from them… and was it worth it?”

Theo tutted, circling like a slow-moving storm. “You're being very rude, you know. Most men would’ve begged by now. But you…” He tapped the metal frame with the tip of his wand, watching it twitch and strain. “You’re holding out. Admirable. Foolish, but admirable.”

He leaned in, nose to nose, voice soft as silk and just as dangerous.
“So. Once more for the people in the back: Where are the children?”

Silence. Just a shudder.

The gears clicked. Limbs stretched a fraction further. Vexley groaned. a strangled, animal sound. His head lolled, jaw clenched.

Theo cocked his head. “No? Still nothing? Shall we add a soundtrack? I’ve got a truly disturbing rendition of Barbie Girl queued up…”

But then Vexley broke.

It wasn’t dramatic. No howl, no scream. Just a cracked, wet whisper.

“The glen,” he rasped. “North of the Forbidden Forest… behind the blackthorn trees. Shallow graves. Eight of them.”

Theo stilled.
The room did too.

He blinked once. Then twice. The amusement didn’t leave his eyes, but something colder slipped beneath it now.

“And why?” he asked, voice deceptively calm.

Vexley coughed, choked, then spat blood onto the floor. “I… I heard rumours. Old magic. Pieces of children. Unspoiled. If you… if you take them young enough…” His breath hitched. “You can use them. Grind the bone. Preserve the magic. Fuel a potion that halts decay. Not true immortality, but close enough if you’re rotting from the inside out.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Theo exhaled slowly, wand lowering just an inch.

“Thank you,” he said. Not softly. Not kindly. Just... done.
He turned his head slightly toward the shadows.
“Draco?”

A pause.

“Your call.”

From the dark, Draco stepped forward, expression carved from ice.
“I vote we kill the bastard,” he said flatly.

Vexley’s eyes widened in panic, blood still streaking his lips. “Wait-no. No! I told you! I told you what you wanted!”
He writhed, metal clanking as the restraints dug deeper into his skin. “You asked for the truth, and I gave it! I, I did what you wanted!” His voice cracked, frantic now, laced with incredulous fury.

Theo didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

Draco, arms crossed, stepped closer. Just far enough to meet the condemned man’s gaze.

“And now,” he said coldly, “you get what you deserve.”

“No, please..WAIT-!”

The word tore from Vexley’s throat just as the device answered for them.

A sickening series of creaks filled the room. The iron arms ratcheted outward, inch by inch, methodical and merciless. Muscles stretched taut, sinew trembling, bones grinding under pressure.
Vexley screamed. A full, guttural wail this time. Raw and animal. Fingers spasmed. His shoulders jerked unnaturally. Something gave with a wet pop.
Theo tilted his head as if admiring an abstract painting.

“Better lighting really does make all the difference,” he murmured.

Another wrench. Another scream. Then a tearing sound. Thick, wet, final.

And then... silence.

The device hissed as it locked in its final position. Blood dripped steadily to the stone below.

Theo stepped forward, brushed invisible dust from his sleeve, and gave a low, theatrical bow.
“Thank you for attending tonight’s performance,” he said softly. “We hope it was... illuminating.”

Draco didn’t answer. He was already walking away. But as he passed, he murmured just loud enough for Theo to hear:
“You know,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “some people deal with trauma by journaling.”

Theo turned, one brow raised, eyes gleaming with unrepentant delight.

“And miss out on all this?” he gesticulated broadly at the splintered remains of Vexley and the still-humming device. “Honestly, Draco, where’s your sense of narrative flair?”

He twirled his wand once more, as if conducting the aftershock.

“Besides,” he added airily, “I did try journaling. But parchment doesn’t scream half as beautifully.”

Chapter Text

Draco left Nott Manor with a breath of restrained relief.

Since Theo had inherited the estate, it had transformed from a bleak, aristocratic mausoleum into something that could only be described as a fever dream of decadence.

The once stone-grey hallways now bloomed with crimson velvet drapes that spilled like blood from the ten-foot ceilings, each held back by serpentine gold clasps shaped like smirking masks. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine, myrrh, and something that clung too closely to opium.

Every sitting room was a stage. Plush lounges in deep purples, black velvets, and emerald satins stood under crystal chandeliers shaped like twisting vines and thorned roses.

Random pedestals displayed twisted magical artifacts: a glass sphere that whispered insults if you got too close, a dagger made of frozen shadow, a taxidermied cat in opera costume...Nothing matched. And yet, somehow, it was all undeniably Theo.

Even the grand staircase, once stoic mahogany, had been replaced with lacquered black wood, each step etched with silver-inlaid quotes from murder ballads and morbid lullabies.

It was elegant, yes. Impressive, even. But it was also exhausting. Stimulus layered upon stimulus. Curated chaos masquerading as charm.

Theo had made his home into a theatre of the absurd. And he loved every bloody inch of it.
Draco, meanwhile, preferred clean lines, controlled silence, and the subtle weight of consequence over theatrics. Where Theo reveled in spectacle, Draco sought precision. If he had to kill, he did it fast, neat, silent, clinical. Not for pleasure. Not even for justice. Just necessity.

He didn’t need a show. He needed silence.
Theo was chaos with style. A theatrical storm of velvet and bloodied poetry. Draco was the scalpel: cold, sharp, deliberate. And though he appreciated Theo for what he was: a necessary chaos, a brother in darkness…it always left him craving something else. Something quieter. Something clean.

He thought about Hermione. About the way her eyes had flicked to his after the last incident in the Manors dungeon, when she probably realized what Theo had done to the man who sold Draco the mirror.

She hadn’t said much. She hadn’t needed to. But something in her expression had shifted. A flicker of judgment, maybe. Or was it disappointment? Perhaps he was imagining it. He’d always been skilled at finding ghosts in people’s eyes.

Since then, she’d made sure they were never alone. Always others around. No refusal, no confrontation. Just silence, wrapped in civility.

And Merlin, he was starting to miss the arguments. At least those had fire.
He shook the thought off like ash from his sleeve. He had other matters to attend to. His mother, for one. And the heavy, whispering legacy she was still so carefully guarding.

Back at Malfoy Manor, Pipsey greeted him at the door with a wide smile and a spring in her step.
“Master Draco returns!” she chirped, her eyes sparkling. Only to narrow a moment later in solemn contemplation. She sniffed the air dramatically and tilted her head, as if listening to something only she could hear.

“Mmm,” she murmured, suddenly serious. “Death leaves a trace, sir. The magic feels it. The walls... hum a little lower when blood has been spilled.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Then light some incense and tell the walls to get over it, Pipsey.”
“Of course, Master Draco!” Pipsey chirped, already bustling toward the hallway. “Lavender and sandalwood. Always good for clearing death’s residue. And it lifts the spirits! Quite literally, if one isn’t careful.”

Without missing a beat, she turned on her heel and added with a regal nod, “Also, your mother requests your presence at dinner this evening. A proper one, sir. Courses. Candles. Conversation. Not just soup and strained silence.”

Draco gave a faint snort. That was unusual. His mother rarely summoned him with such ceremony. Most of the time, she was in Paris. Flirting information out of diplomats, coaxing galleons from aristocrats for charities that walked the razor’s edge of legality, or hosting soirées where her smile could bankrupt a room.

Her invitations were never just about food.
“Charming,” he muttered. “Nothing like being ambushed between courses.”
Pipsey, oblivious, or pretending to be, beamed and added, “I shall press your collar, sir. And ensure the wine behaves better than last time.”

With a theatrical sweep of her tiny hand and a sharp pop, she vanished.
Draco watched the spot she’d disappeared from, one eyebrow arched. Then he turned on his heel with a muttered, “I should’ve fired her five years ago.”

From somewhere in the distance, Pipsey’s voice rang out cheerfully, “You know the cellar spirits only behave when I sing to them!”

He made his way to the Manor’s library. His sanctuary of order, and with a flick of his wand, the enchanted cloak slid from his shoulders and folded itself neatly over the nearest chair.

The room smelled of aged parchment, dark wood, and the kind of silence he could almost drink.

With another flick, a bottle of firewhiskey floated to his side, followed by a cigar from a crystal box. He didn’t even particularly like cigars. Too bitter, too smug. But they suited the moment. A ritual. A performance for an audience of one.

He sank into his favorite chair, the one that made him feel like a king in exile, and exhaled smoke into the quiet.

The peace was short-lived.
A Floo-call shimmered green in the hearth.
“Draco,” came Blaise’s voice. Smooth, amused, as if he were already halfway through the punchline of a private joke. “Mind if I drop in?”

Without waiting for a reply, he stepped through the flames, brushing an invisible fleck of soot from the shoulder of his immaculately tailored midnight-blue coat. Blaise Zabini never arrived anywhere underdressed, even when interrupting someone’s brooding session.

Draco didn’t bother to object. Blaise, at his most tolerable, was refined company. Sharp. Measured. Always three steps ahead in any room. Like his mother, only marginally less terrifying. And far more charming on purpose.

He smirked to himself. Her charm had once been aimed at him, years ago. A younger Draco had briefly entertained the idea. Flattered, intrigued, perhaps even a little tempted. She was beautiful, after all. Seductive in the way only very dangerous things could be. But even then, he’d known better. You didn’t dip into the Zabini gene pool unless you were prepared to never resurface.

And Blaise? Blaise knew. Of course he knew. But they’d never spoken of it.
They didn’t need to.

So Draco merely arched a brow, his voice smooth with practiced disinterest. “One of your many lovers finally tried to murder you?”

“Worse,” Blaise sighed, unfastening his cufflinks with a look of weary grace. “She wrote me poetry. Bad poetry. Four stanzas. With rhyme. And an acrostic of my name.”

Draco winced. “Fuck.”

“I know.” Blaise dropped into the chair opposite him with effortless poise, crossing one leg over the other as if they were in a private club rather than a haunted ancestral library.
With a flick of his fingers, he summoned a glass of firewhiskey and a cigar. Then lit it with a murmured Incendio so precise it might as well have been whispered seduction.

He took a slow draw, letting the smoke curl languidly through the air. Not addiction. Presentation. A ritual. A statement. Something to do with his hands while the world quietly burned around them.

They sat in silence for a while. An easy, deliberate quiet. The kind shared by men who had long since learned that power didn’t need to raise its voice.

“Theo?” Blaise asked eventually, his tone dipping beneath the surface polish. Cool, precise, all silk over steel.

Draco gave a small nod. “Had his fun. Got what we needed.”

Blaise exhaled slowly through his nose, swirling his whiskey once before replying. “That boy and his hobbies. “He turns torture into performance art. Macabre, yes. But the results speak volumes.”

Draco snorted. “More like a circus act with trauma. But sure.”

Blaise raised his glass in mock toast, his smile sharp but never unkind. “To monsters with manners.”

They drifted from topic to topic with the practiced ease of men who had known each other too long to pretend they cared about the answers. Quidditch scores. A scandalously boring duel between two cousins over an inheritance neither deserved. Whether they’d finally hit the age where skipping charity galas was considered suspicious rather than rebellious...

Eventually, Blaise rose with his usual, infuriating elegance, leaving behind only the faintest trace of expensive cologne and superiority. Draco didn't walk him out.

He never did.

Chapter Text

With a sigh, he prepared for dinner.

Pipsey had, as usual, performed culinary witchcraft. The venison was perfectly pink and tender beneath its rosemary glaze, the roasted pumpkin rich and caramelized, and the truffle potatoes so decadent he nearly forgot his mother’s likely agenda.

Say what you would about the pureblood elite, most of it deserved. But they knew how to season a damn meal.

The dining room at Malfoy Manor was aglow with candlelight and silent expectations.
Narcissa greeted him as he entered, rising only slightly from her seat, her expression cool but warm enough to be motherly.
“Draco, darling,” she said with a smile that had disarmed politicians and dismembered rivals. “It’s lovely to see you. I do wish it happened more often.”

He inclined his head, neither confirming nor apologizing. She didn’t expect him to.

“You,” she continued, pouring herself a measured glass of elderflower wine, “devour your hours with visitations and secrets. And I spend your father’s fortune on causes he would’ve loathed in life. We all find our ways to cope.”

Draco allowed himself a dry chuckle. It was always like this with her. Poised honesty dressed in expensive silk and scented with amusement. Their civility was a waltz: elegant, practiced, and never quite relaxed.

Dinner unfolded with quiet precision, course after flawless course. When the plates were cleared and the wine decanted, Narcissa finally spoke again. Lightly, but with purpose.
“I’ve invited Miss Granger to tea next week.”

Draco froze, glass halfway to his lips.

She noticed, of course. Narcissa noticed everything.

“Not you,” she said, voice smooth as satin. “Just her. I find her... compelling. Smart, principled. A little too serious, but I imagine she’d call that a virtue.”

She reached for a sugared plum with delicate fingers, then added, almost idly, “And I’d like to know who, precisely, has had the audacity to wrinkle that perfect composure of yours.”

Draco raised a brow but said nothing.
He didn’t have to. Narcissa had already decided the silence meant yes. Or something close enough.

She smiled faintly, victorious in her own quiet way.
“Good,” she said. “Then you won’t mind if I ask her whether she realises she's being looked at like that.”

He met her eyes, expression flat but a muscle in his jaw ticked.
“You never ask, Mother,” he muttered. “You just observe until the silence speaks louder than words.”

She gave a pleased hum. “Naturally. Some truths aren’t meant to be confessed. Only returned.”

There was a pause. Elegant, deliberate. She turned her gaze toward the tall windows, where dusk was bleeding into the sky.
“You’re wondering about the family secrets,” she said then, lifting her wineglass. ”And you should. But don’t be impatient. The ones who know the most tend to speak last.”

She was right, of course. She usually was. He just hated that it always felt like a game of chess when she spoke, and he was never entirely sure whether he was the opponent or the piece.
The silence stretched. polished, peaceful. Comfortable, even.

Crack.

Pipsey appeared in a soft pop of air that smelled faintly of lavender and something sparkling.

She balanced a silver tray in her hands, eyes bright, voice chipper.

“Would the Lady care for anything else? The wine whispered it was well-received.

Narcissa smiled, just a little. “Perfectly adequate, Pipsey. Though I think the roses in the conservatory have been pouting again.”

Pipsey’s ears twitched. “Ah. I told them to keep their thorns tucked in. They’re very temperamental during the waning moon.”
She stepped forward to gently place the tray down, then paused and looked up at Draco, head tilted with a curious kind of reverence.
“And you, young master? Is your heart humming in harmony?”

Draco blinked. “It’s… humming something.”
Pipsey nodded solemnly, satisfied. “That’s a start.”

Then, with a cheerful clap of her hands, she vanished again.

Draco huffed a laugh despite himself.

Narcissa turned her head slightly, watching him from behind the rim of her glass. “Are your… friends well?”

He nodded once. “More or less. They’re-”
He hesitated.
“Complicated,” he finished. “But loyal.”

She gave a faint nod, accepting that as enough. “Good. I do hope Miss Parkinson is staying productive. I may have another client for her. Marietta Bletchley was nearly hexed out of her own carriage by a cursed necklace she picked up in Prague. Absolute disaster. She had to Apparate home in a nightgown.”

A beat.

“Fortunately, she’d just bought one of miss Parkinson's spell-threaded shawls. Divine craftsmanship, really. Stitched in moonlight silk with warded seams. It absorbed three hexes before releasing a pulse strong enough to shatter the necklace entirely. Marietta’s hair did turn blue for an hour, but honestly, it improved her.”

Draco huffed softly, somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
“You should consider a career in marketing. Pansy would sell out in minutes if you told that story at a gala.”

Narcissa lifted her brows, entirely unoffended.
“Oh, I already have. Twice. I take a modest commission in the form of eternal gratitude and early access to her winter line.”

He shook his head, but there was a trace of fondness in it.
“She’ll pretend to be outraged and then send you a monogrammed cloak, won’t she?”

“She already did,” Narcissa said, eyes gleaming. “Charcoal velvet with a protective glamour against unsolicited conversation. It works remarkably well at fundraisers.”

Draco laughed, low and genuine this time. For a moment, the tension between them dissolved into something simpler. A shared understanding of performance as survival.

He stood, slowly and walked around the table.
He stepped behind her chair and slid it back with the quiet formality of a pureblood upbringing.

“Thank you, darling,” Narcissa said, rising with elegance. “Do enjoy your brooding. Baths help.”
He offered a dry smile. “So I’ve heard.”

And then he turned, leaving the room behind as his footsteps echoed down the marble hallway.

Upstairs, the manor exhaled around him. High ceilings, quiet corners, shadows that knew better than to move. He entered the bathroom and turned the tap with a flick of his wand. The tub began to fill with dark, calming water laced with bergamot and subtle restorative charms.

He sat on the edge for a moment, fingers threading through his hair.
His mother’s voice still echoed somewhere behind his temples.
The ones who know the most tend to speak last.

He didn’t know whether she’d been talking about the secrets or Hermione.
And that, somehow, made it worse.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, then stood and reached for the clasp at his collar. His fingers moved with practiced ease. First the top button, then the next. Each undone with the kind of restrained elegance that came from a lifetime of tailored robes and knowing how to hold a room without speaking.

The fabric slipped from his shoulders like water, revealing the fine lines of his back.
All smooth muscle, pale skin, and the faintest trace of old spell-burns along his ribs, like shadows that refused to fade. Just beneath his left shoulder blade ran a thinner, jagged scar: silvered at the edges, deeper at its centre, the ghost of a curse meant to maim.

Sectumsempra.

He folded the shirt carefully, as always, placing it on the bench beside the tub. As if reverence could undo history. As if tidiness could disguise the places where magic had once carved him open.

His belt came next, unfastened with a quiet hiss of leather. He didn’t rush.The trousers followed, falling around his ankles before he stepped out of them in one fluid motion, bare feet silent against the cool marble.

The boxers where last.
Soft fabric, dark and unforgiving, clinging low and tight around his hips. Cradling him with the kind of precision that left little to the imagination.
He hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband and pushed them down.
They hit the floor and were forgotten.

He stood there for a moment. A body honed by discipline and inheritence.
He knew what he was.
He´d never questioned the way eyes lingered.

Then, wordlessly, he stepped into the bath.
The heat closed around him like a second skin. A soft hiss of water against muscle, steam rising to kiss his collarbones. He sank slowly, shoulders tensing even as the warmth pulled at them, coaxing him into stillness.

He let his head fall back against the marble edge, eyes half-lidded, breath steady.

And still, she found him.

Hermione.

The image of her, leaning over the map-strewn table in the library, candlelight catching in her hair. The furrow between her brows when she was thinking. The way she bit her lip when she disagreed but didn’t want to interrupt.

Her voice. Sharp when it needed to be, softer when she forgot to guard it.

You're being looked at like that, his mother had said.
Had she seen it, too?

He wasn’t sure what was worse. The idea that Hermione might return what was beginning to burn in him…
or the possibility that she didn’t, not really. Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way that could survive the weight of everything between them.

His mother had plans. Subtle ones, threaded between polite invitations and casual conversations.

She liked Hermione. Respected her, even. But Narcissa Malfoy didn’t invest in anyone without purpose.

And Draco had learned, painfully, that being chosen by his mother wasn’t always a gift. Sometimes it meant being shaped, sharpened, offered like a blade.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.

The steam blurred the edges of the room.

He closed his eyes.

And saw hers.

Chapter Text

The Ministry was quiet in the way only magical buildings ever were.
Wards whispered through the stone.
Magic here was never truly still.

Most departments had emptied hours ago, but the warding division, tucked deep below Level Four, rarely followed standard hours.
Especially not when Hermione Granger was on shift.

She moved with precision inside the ritual circle, hair tied back, wand steady.
The incantation lived just under her breath. Controlled and deliberate.

Three layers of protection were already woven into the perimeter, but this last strand was different.
Reactive, not passive. A single misstep could cause a cascade failure.

This ward wasn’t routine. It had been commissioned under high secrecy.
A containment net for a secure holding site deep in Wiltshire.
Where fragments of unstable legacy magic were to be stored under constant regulation.

The golden thread of her spell hummed beneath her skin, vibrating gently against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
She adjusted her grip.

Behind her, a voice slithered into the quiet.

“Tell me, Granger,” Theo drawled, lazy and amused, “do you breathe like that when you’re hexing someone, or only when you’re being admired?”
She didn’t respond. She stepped clockwise out of the inner ring, checking the edges for instability.

The energy pulsed. Low, steady and obedient.
Exactly as it should be.

She heard the shuffle of fabric, the soft thump of bootheels as Theo moved. But his attention wasn’t on her. Not really.
His gaze tracked the lines of magic, sharp and hungry. He looked casual, lounging against the worktable like he owned it, but Hermione had learned to read the lie beneath that posture.
Every flicker of his eyes was a calculation dressed as charm.

“You do know,” he said, twirling his wand, “that layering a flux-dampening loop over a reactive weave is overkill.”
“It’s protocol,” she answered, clipped.
“It’s redundant,” he countered. “Like double-knotting your shoelaces before a duel.”
“I like my protections airtight,” she said, shifting to the western node. “And stable. And tested.”
Theo sighed, all theater. “And utterly boring.”

Before she could reply, he moved. He stepped into the unanchored quadrant, without permission, and with a muttered charm she didn’t recognize. He flared a lattice of violet-tinged wardlines across the space and they pulsed irregularly, asymmetrically.

Hermione’s wand snapped up.
“That’s unstable.”
“It’s dynamic,” he said.
“It’s reckless.”
“It’s alive.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You just constructed a semi-sentient ward net in a government facility.”
Theo grinned. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

She stepped around it, scanning the pattern. It wasn’t wrong.
Not dangerous.
But it was wild.

Theo’s magic was like controlled fire. Beautiful, unpredictable.
And too close to consuming everything if left unchecked.
Hers was a symphony. Composed and Measured.
And yet… as the structure settled, she felt her own magic lean into his.
Not break. Not bend. Just… shift. As if curious.
She hated how satisfying that felt.
“I’ll admit,” she muttered, “your framework’s holding.”

Theo gave a shallow bow. “Praise from the Ministry’s regulation goddess. I’m honored.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Regulations exist for a reason.”
“Yes,” he said, “to prevent me from making something truly memorable.”
He stepped closer, just enough to breach her personal space, eyes glittering with amusement.
“Ideally with a screaming chorus and a scorch mark the shape of a moral lesson.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, uncertain whether he was joking or not.
With Theo, it was always a performance: charm wrapped in mockery, wit sharpened just enough to draw blood but never quite pierce the skin.
But something in his tone...it wasn’t just amusement.
There was a flicker of something else. Mischief?
She couldn’t tell. That irritated her more than it should have.
Was he trying to provoke her? Distract her? Test the wards or test her?

Probably all three.

Theo dragged his fingers through the air where their wards met, smiling as it sparked.
“You and I were never bound by mediocrity.”

Hermione didn’t answer.
Because he wasn’t wrong.

They worked in tandem after that. Silent and fast. Their magics, so different in rhythm, somehow syncing into something shared.
Her wards stopped fighting his. His net adjusted to hers. The final glyphs pulsed like a shared breath.

She adjusted a rune. Then, deliberately casual: “So. That thing you did. In the Manor’s dungeon.”
Theo didn’t look up. “Ah. That.”
“Was that a one-off? Or…” she trailed off, focused on her wand tip. “Is that normal for you?”
A pause. The air shifted.

“Does it bother you?”

“I don’t know what it does,” she said truthfully.

Another beat.

Then: “I only hurt the ones who deserve it,” Theo said softly. “And I make sure they remember why.”

She said nothing.

Because what haunted her wasn’t just Theo.

It was Draco.

The way he’d stood there. Unbothered. As if cruelty didn’t warrant his attention.
And the worst part, the part she couldn’t explain away, was that she hadn’t stopped them either.

She was smoothing a glyph when Theo’s voice returned.

“So. Since we’re sharing uncomfortable truths…”

A pause.
Measured.

“What’s going on between you and our favorite brooding aristocrat?”

She stiffened. Slightly.

“Nothing,” she said.
Theo hummed. “Liar.”

She focused on the rune. “We were solving a magical issue. That’s all.”
“Oh, right,” he said cheerfully. “That time you cracked a riddle in his romantic library, with your enemy from Hogwarts. A textbook case of problem-solving, really.”

Her glyph faltered.

Theo’s smile was sharp.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she said quickly.
“Mm,” he mused. “Funny how people only say that about the things that meant too much.”

“Drop it.”

“Did he pull away?” he asked, voice silked with curiosity. “Or did you?”

She looked up. Cold.

“We’re not anything.”

“Not even almost?”

She turned back to the ward.

“It was a mistake.”

Theo made a quiet sound. Not cruel. Just sure. “Yes,” he said. “And that kiss…”
He let the word stretch, savoring it.
“…in the hushed sanctum of Malfoy bloody Manor,” he murmured, “after a night of truths neither of you dared name…”
He tilted his head.
“Was that really a mistake?”

She didn’t answer immediately.
Then, eyes still on the glyph, she asked, voice flat:
“Ever kissed someone just to remember what it felt like?”

“Once,” he said softly. “Didn’t help.”
His smile was crooked, too polished to be sincere.
“But I do recommend trying it twice. For science.”

Hermione let out a dry breath. Almost a laugh.

But it caught.
Because she remembered too well.

His fingers trembling when they touched her face.
The look in his eyes like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
And then...
The silence.
The distance.
The quiet, deliberate decision to never be alone with him again.

Draco Malfoy was not simple.
Not safe. He moved like someone who’d learned the cost of power.
And she hadn’t known what to do with that.
Still didn’t.

Her wand paused. Her breath caught.
Theo saw it. Of course he did.

“I see,” he murmured, voice like velvet over a blade.
She said nothing.
So he added, softer now. Sharper.
“Malfoy hasn’t looked at anyone else like that.”

Hermione swallowed and bent again to the rune, correcting the smear with a practiced flick.
Her hand was steady now.
Her heartbeat wasn’t.
Theo didn’t speak again. For once, he let the quiet settle.

When the final ward locked into place with a low, resonant hum, she straightened.
The magic stabilized, cooling like glass pulled from flame.

“Done,” she said.

Theo gave a languid nod and leaned back, examining their work like it was a canvas. “Functional. Robust. A touch uninspired, but I suppose that’s the price of structural integrity.”
She ignored him. Pulled her notes together and tucked her wand away.

“Try not to get creative with the bindings when I’m not here,” she said, not looking at him.
“No promises,” he said with a smile in his voice.

She paused at the door. “And Theo?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, darling?”
"Just because I didn't hex you doesn't mean you're right."

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The corridors outside the warding division were quiet. Dimly lit. Hermione walked slowly, letting the silence settle into her spine. Each footstep echoed a little too loudly, but she didn’t care.
She didn’t take the Floo.
She didn’t Apparate.
She walked all the way home.
The evening air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of London stone and distant rain. Somewhere, someone was playing music too loud through enchanted headphones. A dog barked.
Normal things.
By the time she reached her flat, her fingers were cold and her shoulders ached. She kicked off her shoes by the door, hung up her cloak with a flick of her wand, and stood in the hallway for a long moment.
Still.
Listening.
But there was nothing there but the soft ticking of the clock and the faint hum of her own wards. Perfectly symmetrical, meticulously layered, and completely under control.
She let out a breath.
It didn’t help.
Then, finally, she whispered a single spell. Just one, and watched as the lights dimmed around her, soft and golden.
Safe.
Contained.
Uncomplicated.
And yet… she couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere, deep in the bones of Malfoy Manor, that kiss was still echoing.

Chapter Text

Sleep did not come easily.

It never did when her thoughts had been stirred into motion.
But tonight, they refused to settle entirely.
Theo’s voice echoed like an incantation that hadn’t quite finished casting: “Malfoy hasn’t looked at anyone else like that.”
She’d turned the words over again and again, as if re-examining a spell from every angle would render it inert. It didn’t.
At some point, the sky outside her window began to pale. The city moved beyond the glass.
Hermione gave up pretending.

She slid from bed and pulled on her fluffy pink slippers. Well-worn, charm-warmed, and thoroughly unflattering.
The soft shuffle of fabric and faux fur was the only sound in the flat as she padded toward the bathroom.
Behind her, a gentle thump landed on the edge of the bed.
“Morning, Crook,” she murmured, not turning around.
The Kneazle let out a low, rumbling chirp, not quite a meow.
Equal parts greeting and complaint, it stretched long-limbed across the duvet like he owned it. His tail gave a single twitch. Mild judgment.

Hermione reached out a hand as he passed, fingers threading briefly through his thick fur.
He leaned into it with the weary tolerance of a creature who’d seen her wake at all hours, and for far worse reasons.
“I know,” she said softly. “It’s too early for both of us.”
He blinked, slow and knowing, then promptly curled into the warm patch she’d left behind as if to prove the point.

The shower was long and hotter than necessary. Steam coiled around her like a ward, thick and blinding. She stood under the stream, hands braced against tile, head bowed. Letting the noise drown out her thoughts.
But they came anyway.
Malfoy’s eyes. The way he looked at her.
Not possessive.
But something worse, somehow.

Like he needed her. Like he was trying to memorize her in pieces. Eyes first, then lips, then the slope of her collarbone, like he was taking her apart one glance at a time.
As if he was stripping her down with nothing but silence, and didn’t even need to touch her to do it.
And worse still. Like he couldn’t help it.
She hated how that made her feel.
Seen.
Wanted.
Known in ways that had nothing to do with logic or language.
She clenched her jaw.

No.

She wasn’t going to do this again. She’d made a decision. Clear and deliberate, not to be alone with him anymore.
Not just because she feared herself.
She feared him, too.
Not in the way she once had, back at school, wand drawn in corridors that still smelled of war.
But in the quiet, more dangerous way.

Because part of her recognized the darkness in him.
And worse. Some hidden, unruly part of her didn’t flinch from it.
The way her breath shortened when he stood too close.
The way her magic leaned toward his like it remembered something she hadn't named.
The way her rules, her lines, blurred at the edges in his presence.

She shut the water off with a sharp flick and dragged a towel around her shoulders. She stepped into the fog-cooled air of her flat.
By the time she reached the kitchen, her movements had settled into their usual rhythm: structured, and efficient.
A pot of strong black tea.
Two slices of seeded rye in the toaster.
Poached egg, half an avocado, cracked black pepper with a pinch of sea salt.

Boring.
Balanced.
Hers.

She plated the breakfast with unconscious precision.
Then stood at the counter, tea steeping, watching the steam rise in quiet spirals.

A soft tap-tap-tap at the window broke the silence.
She turned.
A sleek, charcoal-grey owl perched on the sill.
Elegant and clearly far too proud for standard Ministry post.
Its pale eyes blinked once. Expectant, aloof, before extending a talon wrapped in a thin strip of green silk.

Hermione opened the window, and the owl stepped inside with practiced grace, landing soundlessly on the back of a dining chair.
She untied the ribbon.
The parchment was thick, and faintly perfumed with something cool and floral, like winter jasmine.
The handwriting was impeccable. Neat, looping script in deep green ink, each letter balanced with deliberate grace.

Hermione,
If your schedule allows, I would be pleased to receive you for tea this Saturday at three.
No pretense, no obligation.
Only conversation.
I find I rather enjoy your company.

Warmly,
Narcissa M.

Hermione blinked at the page.
It was simple. And utterly disarming in its directness.
Conversation. No pretense. I rather enjoy your company.
Coming from Narcissa Malfoy, that felt less like small talk and more like an intentional move in a game Hermione hadn’t realized they were both playing.

She folded the letter carefully and set it down beside her cup.
She didn’t know what to make of it.

Not yet.

Hermione stared at it for a long moment.
Saturday. That was only three days away.

And yet…

There was something about her. Something sharp and observant beneath the surface. Something commanding without ever raising her voice. Hermione had expected disdain, manipulation, maybe veiled contempt.
Instead, she’d found composure. Elegance. And a gaze that missed very, very little.

Intriguing, Hermione thought, almost begrudgingly.
More so than she’d ever expected.

She took a sip of her tea, eyes still on the folded parchment.
Then, with quiet certainty, she nodded once to herself.
She would go.

Of course she would. Curiosity demanded it.

And if Narcissa Malfoy had intended the invitation as a test, Hermione would not be the one to blink first.

A low, throaty sound vibrated through the kitchen.

She turned.

Crookshanks, curled on the windowsill, half-lidded eyes fixed on her, gave a slow, judgmental blink.
Then he yawned, turned his back, and curled tighter into the sunlight.

Hermione exhaled a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Noted,” she said dryly.

The week dragged on in slow, stubborn increments.
Hermione kept herself busier than usual.
Between towers of Ministry reports, a mountain of overdue correspondence, and the ongoing project with Theo on ward protections, her days were full.
Structured and purposeful.

But not full enough to keep her mind entirely off him.
Which was ridiculously Infuriating, and utterly unhelpful.

She’d seen him -what, a handful of times since the Shrieking Shack?
Just enough to make forgetting him an absurd little lie she told herself.

Draco Malfoy had a talent for lingering. In thoughts, in rooms, in the breath between words.

And then there were the Fridays.
Those oddly normal evenings at the Three Broomsticks.
At first incidental, then habitual.
They’d become something unspoken, a rhythm.

Ron, Harry, Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Neville, Luna, Draco -and her.

A group born of war and stubbornly held together by loyalty, politics, and emotional shrapnel.
Near-death experiences helped too.
Beer, banter, and bickering were the glue. In no particular order.

And then there was Draco.

It had started on one of those Fridays.
The kind that blurred at the edges. Firewhisky warmth, overlapping voices, and just enough laughter to make the ghosts stay quiet.
Theo was mid-monologue, delighting in the sound of his own cleverness, trying to provoke Blaise into something unpolished.
Blaise, as ever, was untouchable. All poise and charm.

She should’ve been listening.
Should’ve been laughing along, rolling her eyes at Theo’s theatrics, teasing Blaise like the rest.
But her attention had drifted.

To him.

He wasn’t even doing anything. Just leaning back, quiet, a half-empty glass in one hand.
But it was the silence that drew her. The way he watched. Not just the room, but her. Like he was waiting for something.
Or maybe daring her to admit that she was.

Chapter Text

Around them, the pub hummed.
Ron was stealing chips off Neville’s plate while nodding distractedly at something Harry was saying.
Theo's voice rose in some theatrical flourish.
Laughter sparked at the next table.

She hadn’t noticed Draco move until he was suddenly close.
Beside her.
Close enough for his shoulder to brush hers if either of them breathed too deeply.

His voice cut through the noise. Low and deliberate.
“Would you ever consider meeting,” he asked, “outside of this... weekly circus?”

That was it. No flourish. No smirk. Just the quiet certainty of a man who rarely asked a question without already weighing the odds.

Her mind stalled for a heartbeat, then jerked into protocol.
She smiled -too fast and polite.
Said something vague about wards and reports and ministry deadlines.
Something safe.
Impersonal.

He only nodded. Once. Like he’d expected as much.
“Of course. Granger-level obligations. I should’ve known.”
But his eyes lingered a fraction too long.
Reading her.

And even now, weeks later, that moment pressed against her.
Like the start of something she wasn’t ready to name.
Every Friday since, she hesitated at the threshold.
Because of him.
Would he be there?
Would he look at her like that again?
And, more recently: did he know about Narcissa’s letter?

She hadn’t told anyone.
Not Harry. Not even Ginny. And Ginny had opinions about everything.
It felt too... curated.

Should she bring it up? Pretend it never arrived? Wait for him to?

Merlin.

She groaned, buried her face in a pillow, and muttered a list of highly creative obscenities into the fabric.
And now, as if her dignity hadn’t suffered enough, the eternal question arrived: What was she going to wear?

She wasn’t dressing up for him. Obviously.
Still, Hermione lingered in front of the mirror longer than she’d meant to.
Swapped her boots for ones with a subtler heel.
Added a touch of definition around her eyes.
Let her hair down. Wild. Defiant. Unbothered.

In theory.

She apparated just down the street. The lanterns outside the Three Broomsticks bathed the cobblestones in soft amber.
The group was already there, clustered near the door.
Theo, as expected, was holding court, arms sweeping dramatically as he recounted something absurd. Ron was bent over laughing.
Neville stood next to Pansy, his arm loosely around her waist. Protective.
Ironic, really, Hermione thought. If anyone didn’t need protecting, it was Pansy bloody Parkinson.

Blaise looked her way the moment she appeared. All charm and calculation, with a nod that said he missed nothing.

Harry was talking to Luna, who smiled as if lit from within. Listening to him...or the stars.

And Draco.

Leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, posture effortless and irritatingly perfect.
His coat dark. His expression unreadable. Eyes silver, catching the light and holding it.

Of course it did something to her.
Get a grip, she told herself.

Then he looked up. Right at her.
His gaze didn’t just meet hers. It moved through her.
Like he noticed everything: the boots, the hesitation, the loosened hair.

Harry spotted her, pulling her into a warm, brief hug. He smelled like parchment and peppermint. He looked better. Lighter. A small smile tugged at her lips.

Then Luna. A soft squeeze and a murmur: “You’ve got the kind of energy that happens before lightning strikes.”
Hermione blinked. “That’s... oddly specific.”
“It’s a compliment,” Luna said, as if that were obvious.

Blaise gave her a nod. “Granger. Late. You’re lucky. I was just composing a list of suitable consequences.”
“I had a dramatic monologue prepared,” Theo sighed.
Ron handed her a butterbeer with a grin. “Consider yourself rescued. You owe me snacks.”

Pansy gave her a slow once-over. “You look unexpectedly tolerable tonight. It’s unsettling.”
Neville just smiled. Solid. Kind. The kind of look that always made her breathe easier.

And then Draco pushed off the wall.
No hello. Of course not.
Just that slow, impossible gaze. And, with it, the words: “Is this the part where you pretend not to have received my mother’s invitation?”
The smirk was subtle. But beneath it, a glint. Something keen. Waiting.

Hermione didn’t flinch. But something in her spine straightened, as if bracing for impact.
“I didn’t think it required a formal RSVP,” she said coolly, folding her arms. “I thought it was an invitation, not a summons.”
It was a clean parry. Smooth. Practiced.
But his eyes didn’t waver. And she could feel the weight of them.
He tilted his head, gaze steady. Not smiling.

He let the silence stretch.

Then, voice low and smooth: “Semantics, Granger. You of all people should appreciate the weight of language.”

A pause.

“And my mother doesn’t issue invitations lightly. When she sets the table, she already knows where everyone belongs.”
His gaze lingered on her. But something in it flickered, like curiosity resisting containment.
“You’re not invited by accident.”

Hermione met his eyes for a breath longer than she meant to.
Then she looked away. “We’ll see.”

He gave a soft exhale that might have been amusement. Or something else entirely.
Before either could speak again, the door to the side hallway creaked open and Theo’s voice floated in, theatrical and amused.
“Are you two done testing the tension in the air, or should we bring in instruments and call it a rehearsal?”

Hermione stepped back slightly.

Draco didn’t move.

Theo grinned as he strolled in, coat draped over one shoulder. “Come on. The others are already at the pub. And I, for one, would like to drink before my charm wears off and people remember who I really am.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Lead the way.”
Theo held the door with a mock bow. “With pleasure.”
Draco fell into step beside her as they exited the hallway.

The group was already gathering at a corner table: Harry, Ron, Luna, Neville and Pansy deep in conversation.
Theo waved dramatically as they approached.
Draco brushed past her shoulder as he walked ahead.

Hermione passed the bar, slowing as she caught sight of Ginny behind it.
“Hey,” she said, more softly than usual. There was a flicker of guilt beneath the greeting.
Ginny looked up, already reaching for a glass. Her eyes met Hermione’s. Steady, sharp, but warm.
“Hey yourself,” she said. “You’re later dan usual.”
Hermione smiled, a little sheepishly. “Blame Theo. Or Draco. Possibly both.”
Ginny arched a brow. “That’s not new.”

Ginny had looked at Harry first, a glance held a beat too long to be casual. Something unreadable passed over her face, not quite a smile.
Harry caught the glance, his shoulders easing the tiniest bit.
He looked toward Ginny and offered a quiet, familiar smile. “Hey, Gin.”
“Harry,” she said, her voice even, though something unreadable flickered behind her eyes. Still, her gaze softened. Just enough.

Ron walked towards the bar and leaned over “You working late again?”
“Someone has to keep you lot hydrated,” she said dryly, but with the ghost of a smirk.
Theo offered a sweeping bow. “A vision, as always.”
Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.
Even Pansy, already sitting at the table, tossed a quick, “Evening, Weasley,” towards Ginny. Tone neutral, but not unfriendly.
Draco didn’t say anything. But he gave the slightest nod as he passed, and Ginny returned it without hesitation.

Their usual table was slightly too small, perpetually loud, and absolutely theirs.
Cloaks came off. Drinks arrived without asking and the candlelight flickered a faint green.

Ron launched into one of his typical stories.
“-So the bloody Diricawl teleports explosively. Feathers everywhere. Right as I’m coaxing it out of the vault. And do you know how long enchanted feathers cling to cursed scrolls?”
Neville winced. “Hours?”
“Three. And two disciplinary notes later, I’m still finding them in my hair.”
“That’s what you get,” Blaise said, sipping, “for flirting with teleporting poultry.”
Theo deadpanned, “And people say I’m the dangerous one.”
“Please,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. “The true victim here is the Diricawl. If I had to endure Weasley’s voice, I’d vanish into traffic too.”
Ron looked positively offended. “Oi, I handled that situation perfectly.”
Hermione snorted into her drink. “You chased it through four lanes of enchanted traffic, Ron.”
“Because the interns froze,” he said defensively. “Someone had to act.”
Theo leaned back, smirking. “And what was the plan? Shout it into submission?”
Ron ignored him. “It was under control.”
“Right,” Pansy drawled. “And then what? You serenaded it back to safety?”
“I whistled. It worked.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “It bolted into a newspaper stand.”
“Which slowed it down, didn’t it?” Ron countered. “And then I fed it the apple slices.”

There was a pause.

“You bribed it?” Theo asked, delighted.
“With honey-dipped apple slices,” Ron muttered.
Neville blinked. “Wait, those were for the Diricawl?.”
“They were snacks,” Ron said. “Just not for me.”
Pansy gave him a slow, appraising look. “Saint Weasley, patron of chaos, flailing, and acts of heroism so stupid they work.”

That made Hermione laugh. A real one, sharp and sudden.
The laughter lingered for a beat, warm and easy.
Then Harry cleared his throat.

“I was in the Forest again this week,” he said, voice quieter now. “Same spot, near the old centaur trail.”
No one looked surprised. Of course he was.
“With Luna and Hagrid?” Ron asked anyway, more out of habit than curiosity.
Harry nodded. “Yeah. They were already there when I arrived.”

Luna, curled in the corner of the booth, gave a dreamy smile. “The trees were humming. They do that when he stops thinking so loudly.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “Apparently I overthink even in silence.”
The table chuckled, but it faded quickly.
He glanced up. “It still helps. Being there. The quiet. The way everything feels older than we are.”
Ginny looked up again. Just for a moment. Their eyes met.
Hermione caught it. The flicker of something that wasn’t quite romantic, like shared history pressing gently against the present.

Harry looked down at his hands.
“I’ve been thinking about visiting the Dursleys,” he said.

A pause.

“Just once.”

Silence.

Ron’s brow furrowed, the humor draining from his face. “You sure you want to do that?”
Harry gave a small shrug. “No. Not really. But I think I need to.”
Hermione’s voice was quiet. “It’s your choice. And if you go… you don’t have to go alone.”

He looked up, met her eyes, and nodded once. Grateful.

Pansy swirled her glass once, then said, “Visiting your abusers. Very Gryffindor. Or very foolish. Possibly both.” But her voice lacked its usual venom, and her gaze lingered on him just a moment longer than expected.

Blaise swirled his drink too, slower, more thoughtful now. “Closure is an expensive indulgence,” he said. “I hope it’s worth the cost.”

They all drank.

Theo finally exhaled, as if releasing the weight of the silence. He leaned back with a theatrical sigh.
“Finally. A proper confession. I was starting to think the highlight of tonight would be the runaway bird story.”

“Poultry-based heroism,” Ron muttered. “There’s a difference.”
Blaise gave him a look of mild pity. “You chased a panicked Diricawl into traffic, bribed it with fruit, and crashed into a kiosk. That’s not heroism, that’s slapstick.”
“It worked,” Ron said flatly.
“It was something,” Pansy added, lifting her glass. “Personally, I think the bird showed excellent judgment.”
Laughter rippled around the table.

Draco didn’t join in. He was watching Hermione over the rim of his glass, silent.
Hermione met his gaze with equal calm. “Something to add, Malfoy?”

His eyes flicked briefly to Pansy, then back to Hermione. “Only that I admire the Diricawl’s timing. Clean exit. No fuss.”
“Ah,” Hermione said. “Fleeing nonsense and ignoring purebloods. Remarkably on brand.”
Theo raised his glass toward her. “To instinct, then.”
Draco’s mouth curved slightly. “To efficiency.”
Theo gasped. “Back to unresolved tension already? Can we skip ahead to the scandalous elopement?”
“Only if you officiate,” Pansy said.
“I’d demand a feathered cloak.”

Neville, quiet all evening, leaned in and murmured just loud enough for her to hear,
“You’d look good in feathers.”
Pansy didn’t answer. She just smirked. And didn’t move when he let his fingers brush lightly along the edge of her sleek bob, tucking an imaginary strand behind her ear.
Hermione looked away.
“Gross,” Ron muttered. “I preferred when they hated each other.”
Pansy turned her head slowly, just enough to meet his eyes.
“Careful, Weasley. Jealousy’s not your shade.
Across the table, Blaise hummed approvingly.

Draco hadn’t looked away.

She felt it. That attention.

It hit her like heat blooming beneath the surface. Slow and spreading, as if her skin had suddenly remembered it was alive.
And when their eyes met again, he didn’t smirk.
He didn’t look away.
He didn’t need to.

He simply watched her. Unblinking, steady. With a gaze that pinned her in place more effectively than any spell could have. There was nothing coy about it. No playfulness. Just a quiet, simmering hunger, meticulously restrained.
As if he was holding back not because he doubted himself…
But because he wanted her to realise he could have her.
If he decided to take that step.

And gods, it worked.

Her pulse kicked. Her throat tightened. Her magic, usually so well-behaved, shifted beneath her skin like it was drawn to his.

She tried to blink it away. Rationalise it.
Bury it under logic.
But her body wasn’t listening.

He wasn’t doing anything. That was the worst part. He was just...looking.
And still it felt like he was touching her.
She hated that he knew what it did to her.
And she hated even more that a part of her, a very loud, very reckless part, wanted to let him.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t give him anything more than stillness.

Because she couldn’t.

Because she’d promised herself not to be alone with him again.
Not until she could trust herself not to get pulled into something she couldn’t control.

And the way he was looking at her now?

She wasn’t even close.

Chapter Text

The night unraveled with the kind of quiet tension that always seemed to cling to them.
Half smiles, unfinished thoughts, and the sense that no one had quite said what they meant.

The fire in The Three Broomsticks had dimmed to embers.
Half-empty glasses cluttered the table.
Draco’s drink had vanished faster than usual, his refills quiet and unremarked.
He wasn’t drunk, not even close...but there was a looseness to him. A blur at the edges.

Laughter still echoed from the far end of the pub, but their corner had grown quieter.
Blaise was leaning far too casually against the bar, talking to Ginny Weasley with that unmistakable tilt of his mouth that meant trouble.
Draco watched her laugh, amused, and just a little dangerous.

Potter noticed too.
Of course he did.

Draco caught the subtle tightening in Harry’s shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly around his glass, his eyes lingering longer than necessary. He didn’t say a word, though.
Just watched.
And Blaise, infuriatingly aware of the effect he had, never broke his rhythm.

Draco leaned back, his voice smooth but just slurred enough to betray the extra drink.
“Careful, Blaise,” he drawled. “Flirting with Ginny in front of Potter? That’s bold. Even for you.”

Blaise didn’t miss a beat. He swirled the liquid in his glass, eyes lingering a moment longer on Ginny, just until she turned away, towel in hand, slipping behind the bar to stack glasses with deliberate focus.
Only then did he shift, angling his body toward Draco with that infuriating calm of his.

“Bold?” he murmured. “No, discerning.”
Then, as if tasting the words:
“She's got that rare kind of fire. The kind you don't tame, only admire. From a safe distance… or not.”
Ginny, who had clearly heard every word, didn’t so much as flinch. She finished lining up the last of the glasses, straightened, and arched a brow over the counter.
“Try that tone on someone who hasn’t hexed a man for less, Zabini.”
Then, pointedly, with the ghost of a smirk:
“I am working.”

Then Theo whistled low. “Brave man, Zabini.”
Ron snorted. “Reckless, more like.”
Blaise raised his glass, entirely unbothered.
“Call it an appreciation of fire.”
Draco let out a breath that was almost a laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Pansy had already Disapparated in a ripple of silk and perfume, leaving behind the faintest curl of a smirk, and a parting murmur to Neville that sounded suspiciously like a dare.
Neville had turned a shade darker, but he didn’t falter. He stood, slung his coat over his shoulder, and with a calm that didn’t quite reach the tips of his ears, said simply:
“She always did have excellent timing.”
Then he nodded to the group and left. Ears pink, but steps steady.

Theo, true to form, stood on a chair to deliver an overly dramatic farewell speech involving owls, the futility of bureaucracy, and pointed remarks aimed at the remaining group -as well as a blonde witch in the corner who clearly just wanted a quiet drink, and now looked torn between amusement and alarm.
He ended it with a flourish, dropped a silver Sickel on the table, and Disapparated mid-bow.

Draco smirked. Predictable bastard.

And then there was Granger. Still seated among the others.

She’d barely touched her second drink, and her eyes had softened just enough to betray how tired she really was.
Though her spine remained straight, her poise intact.

Fuck, she was something.

Sharp mind, sharper tongue, always three steps ahead and still managing to surprise him.
No one disarmed him like she did.

No one ever had.

He hadn’t meant to look at her the way he had earlier. Hadn’t planned it. But then again, when it came to her, his control was beginning to bend.

And she’d felt it.

He knew she had. The way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened around her glass, the flicker in her eyes before she looked away.

That reaction wasn’t indifference. It was restraint.
And restraint could break.

Eventually, she rose, smoothing her coat with deliberate care. She nodded at him. Measured.
“Goodnight, Malfoy.”

He stood as well, slower. “Granger.”

She didn’t linger.

But as she walked past him, he caught the faintest shift in her magic. Like static brushing against his skin.
He watched her go, watched the door close behind her, and didn’t follow.

Not yet.

But one day.

She’d be his.

He tossed a few Galleons onto the table without looking and Disapparated into the night.
The echo of her name still burning just behind his teeth.

The Manor was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled in.

His mother had long since retired to her wing.
And even Pipsey was nowhere to be seen, which was unusual.
The house-elf was always nearby, always ready to appear the moment Draco so much as thought about needing something.
No matter the hour.

The stillness wrapped around him like a warm coat.

Draco moved toward the decanter, his footsteps sounding soft but distinct on the polished hardwood floor.
Not the usual vintage reserved for quiet chats with Mother.
This one had bite. Tucked behind a Notice-Me-Not charm. Easily missed by anyone not meant to find it.
He poured with a grin and a shrug, as if the drink might argue back.
He raised the glass, eyed the dark swirl inside, and muttered to no one in particular,
“This is why people think I’m brooding.”
Then he drank, and didn’t exactly disagree.

He let the glass dangle loosely from his fingers as he wandered down the dim corridor toward his wing, the liquid inside sloshing gently with each step.
The hush of the Manor wrapped around him, broken only by the occasional creak of ancient floorboards underfoot.

Hermione Granger would be here tomorrow.
Not for him.
Of course not.

For tea. With his mother.
As if that made it less complicated.

As if his mother ever invited anyone without a reason.

He had no idea what his mother intended to say. And less idea what Hermione would say back.
He stopped at the threshold of his bedroom, resting his knuckles briefly against the doorframe.
He wouldn’t interrupt. He knew better.
His mother had made that abundantly clear with one raised eyebrow and a deceptively pleasant,
“…Draco, do try not to haunt the hallways. It’s unbecoming.”
Still.
Tomorrow would be a test.
And tonight…
He’d sleep.
Or try to.
And in the morning. Well. He’d find something distracting. Something that didn’t involve hovering near the east parlour, pacing hallways, or accidentally apparating through the tea service.
Draco downed the rest of his drink, the firewhiskey flaring hot in his chest.
Then he pushed open the door, stepped inside, and vanished into the dark.

Chapter Text

Sunlight filtered softly through the tall, arched windows of Malfoy Manor, casting long golden patterns across the marble floor.
Beyond the glass, dappled light fell into the east garden, where carefully tended hedges framed a stone terrace flanked by clipped boxwoods and ornamental witch hazel.

Narcissa had chosen the terrace deliberately.

It offered the illusion of openness: soft light, fresh air, the faint sound of birdsong drifting in from the orchards.
It was picturesque. Civilised.
And yet it remained, unmistakably, under her control.

The east side was shielded from the main gates. The wards were thicker there. Layered and personally bound.
No one could approach unnoticed. No one could overhear.
And the seating was arranged in a half-moon beneath the ivy-covered arch.
It placed her guests precisely where she wanted them: illuminated, visible, and just slightly off balance.

This mattered to Narcissa. Not because she was paranoid.
Because she was prepared.

There was power in choosing the space.
In deciding how the sun would fall across the table, what her guest would see behind her. Roses in bloom, not the house’s looming façade.
She had learned long ago that a conversation could be shaped before a single word was spoken, if the setting was right.

And later today, Hermione Granger would arrive for tea.
Which meant everything had to be exact.

She sat beneath the shade of a silver-laced canopy, a delicate porcelain teacup poised in her fingers. Her posture, as always, was immaculate and composed.
She heard the wards shift before she saw the girl.

Hermione Granger stepped through the ivy-framed archway at precisely three minutes before the hour, her hair pulled back, her shoulders squared. Practical boots, tailored robes, and that expression that seemed to weigh every second.
Punctual. Predictable. And yet, still full of possibility.

Narcissa rose.

“Miss Granger,” she said, lips curving in a measured smile. “Right on time. Shall we?”
She gestured with one pale hand. Then turned without waiting for a reply, her heels barely making a sound on the flagstones.
Hermione followed, shoulders straight, eyes sharp behind her composure. Narcissa saw she hesitated only a breath before returning the smile.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Malfoy.”
“Narcissa, please. There’s no need for titles here.”

They reached the terrace in quiet synchronicity and took their seats beneath the flowering trellis.
A beat later, Pipsey arrived with a soft pop, in her hands a teapot that released a scent both calming and carefully chosen.

"Miss Granger!" the house-elf chirped, her voice bright as morning bells." It is a radiant honour to serve you! Mistress has spoken most highly of your cleverness and politeness."
Hermione blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and alarm.
"Thank you, Pipsey. That’s... very kind."

Narcissa didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow, though she made a mental note to speak with Pipsey about the monologues. Again.
Still, she allowed it. The elf’s theatrics, while undignified, served their purpose. It was useful to disarm a guest before the first pour of tea.

Hermione recovered quickly, of course.
But there had been a flicker, and Narcissa had seen it.

Before the silence could settle too deeply, Pipsey straightened with ceremonial gravity.
“The lady of the house instructed no restraint,” she declared, as if announcing the arrival of a royal procession.
And indeed, the table responded in kind.
Tiered silver trays floated gently into place, laden with delicate pastries, finger sandwiches, candied fruits, and scones that still steamed at their center.

Narcissa allowed herself the faintest curve of a smile.
Let the girl wonder whether this was hospitality or performance. It could, after all, be both.

Hermione’s brows lifted, just slightly. “This is…”
She trailed off, clearly searching for a polite word that wouldn’t quite do it justice. “Extraordinary.”

Narcissa allowed herself a smile. Controlled. But not cold. “Pipsey does tend to overachieve when given creative license.”
Which was true, but also precisely what Narcissa had intended.

She watched as Hermione’s gaze moved across the floating trays. To the fig galettes, then the glinting obsidian platter. The girl was trying not to appear impressed.
She succeeded, mostly. But there was the tell: that quick, appreciative inhale when she caught sight of the marzipan chestnuts.

Of course.

Intelligent women always noticed the smallest things.

“I trust you’ve brought an appetite,” Narcissa said lightly, reaching for the teapot.
She poured with unhurried precision, the golden liquid catching the light.
“Conversation, I find, flows best when the palate is properly entertained.”
Hermione’s lips curved. “A theory I’m quite happy to test.”

Ah. There it was.

Wit without pretension.
Poise without vanity.

Narcissa had known, of course. She didn’t invite dull minds to her table.
But knowing was one thing.
Seeing it. This presence, this careful balance of defiance and grace, was another entirely.
There was steel in Miss Granger, She held her composure like a weapon she had chosen, not one she clung to out of fear.

And perhaps that, Narcissa thought with the faintest hint of amusement, was what made her so compelling.
Not just intelligent, but deliberate.
For someone like Draco… that could be entertaining.
Or inconvenient.
Possibly both.

She studied the young woman for a moment longer, then reached for a porcelain plate edged in ivy and gold.
With a composed smile, she passed it across the linen.
“I suspect we’ll both find the afternoon… illuminating,” she said, her tone mild.
And she meant it.

Chapter Text

Across the table, Narcissa Malfoy poured her own tea with a grace that bordered on choreography.
As if time answered to her, rather than the other way around.

Hermione watched, just for a moment too long.

Pure-bloods moved with a kind of maddening elegance. Not learned through effort, but absorbed like language.
She had, of course, read up on etiquette beforehand. Forks, posture, the correct way to accept tea. But in moments like this, even knowledge felt like mimicry.

Still, she adjusted her grip on the cup. Chin level. No slouch. She would not be the one to blink first.

The garden around them was quiet, the rustle of enchanted leaves and the distant hum of bees the only sounds.

The tea cooled slightly in its cup. A breeze stirred the ivy above the trellis, casting shifting shadows across the tablecloth.

They had spoken, of course. Pleasant nothings.

But now, the polite scaffolding had thinned. There was a subtle shift. A silence that wasn’t empty, but waiting.

It was Narcissa who broke it first.
“Quiete mens fert idearum florem,” she said, voice smooth and deliberate.
Hermione looked up, her breath catching faintly. She knew the line. It was engraved on her bracelet, but so small it should’ve been unreadable to anyone but her.
The quiet mind bears the flower of ideas.
Narcissa translated it a beat later, not as explanation, but as confirmation.
Then, with the slightest tilt of her head, she added,
“I find it… well-placed. Some minds thrive best in stillness. Away from noise. Interference.”

A pause.

Hermione inclined her head, spine straight.
“I’ve always liked that line,” she said evenly.
“So have I,” Narcissa replied. “Though very few earn it.”

Then Narcissa set her cup down with a soft clink.

"He didn’t tell you what happened afterward, did he?"
Hermione’s fingers froze around her saucer. She didn’t answer.
"Mulciber was brought here," Narcissa continued, her voice cooling. "To the Manor. Your friend Nott was theatrical. Draco… less so."
"I let them do it," Narcissa said simply. "The man sold a thing that should never have left our bloodline. And he knew."

Hermione’s stomach turned, though she said nothing. She had known. Of course she had. She’d been there when they took him. Had seen it in Theo’s eyes, in Draco’s posture.
But hearing Narcissa confirm it so casually…I let them do it, shifted something in her.
No more illusions.
This was what it meant to be a Malfoy.
To trust Theo Nott.

She thought of the conservatory.
Of Draco’s hand resting on the back of her chair.
The way his voice softened, just slightly, when he spoke to her.
How her magic leaned toward his without permission.
How her thoughts drifted toward him in the spaces between things.

But this?
This wasn’t nuance.
This was cruelty.
Calculated. Inherited. Cold.
And in that moment, she didn’t long for him.
Not in silence.
Not in confusion.
Not even a little.

“Your bloodline,” Hermione repeated, frowning. “You mean the Black family?”
Narcissa inclined her head, unbothered.
“We sealed the vial,” she said. “I told Potter and Auror Thorne where to take it. Somewhere even memory would struggle to reach.”
Silence fell between them again. Heavier now. The garden air had turned sharper, the filtered light through the trellis colder somehow.
Hermione’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup.

“But there are still things missing,” she said quietly. Not a question. A certainty.
A truth she hadn’t wanted to name until now.
Narcissa didn’t deny it.
Didn’t shift, didn’t blink. Only tilted her head in that precise, assessing way she had.

Hermione leaned forward slightly.
“You said it should never have left your bloodline. That the mirror was only one…”
She hesitated. “Are there more objects like it, just as dangerous?”

A flicker passed through Narcissa’s eyes.

The briefest pause. The kind that said yes without permission.
“Some things were sealed,” she said at last. “Improperly. The mirror, and what was inside it, was only one. Draco doesn’t know the rest. Not yet.”

Hermione’s breath caught. Her voice dropped.
“And what can you tell me about the Black vault?”

Narcissa inclined her head again. This time slower, the weight of generations behind the motion.
“There where… many dangerous things in that vault. Things created, bound, or inherited long before my son was born. Before even I was.”

Hermione leaned forward slightly, her fingers no longer on her teacup but steepled on her knee.
“Why?” she asked, quietly but insistently. “Why did your family have such things to begin with? What were the Blacks doing, exactly?”

For a moment, Narcissa didn’t answer.
“We collected power,” she said at last. “In every form it took. Spells. Objects. Oaths. The vault isn’t simply a treasury. It’s a legacy of belief.”
She met Hermione’s eyes squarely.
“We were never followers, Miss Granger. Not truly. My family didn’t kneel to the Dark Lord. We… aligned. Temporarily. For convenience. Because he knew how to speak our language. Blood, legacy, supremacy. But he was not one of us.”

Hermione blinked.
“So what was he, to your family?”

A pause.

Narcissa’s voice was almost cold.
“An echo. A distortion. A culmination of many things we once whispered but never truly believed should come to pass.”

She lifted her chin. “He used us. And in some ways, we let him. But never mistake that for loyalty.”

Hermione sat very still.
The words settled like ash.

She thought of Draco. Of the cold precision in his magic, the way he held himself slightly apart, even now.
He wasn’t a victim. Not exactly.
But he hadn’t been free either.
No choice, but not innocent.
He had grown up speaking the language of darkness. Had lived in it, breathed it, been shaped by it.
And yet, he had saved Harry, without asking anything in return.

There was something in him.
Not quite goodness, but a line. A limit.
And that… that was enough to keep her uncertain.

There it was. The polished detachment. The way pure-bloods could strip horror down to heritage, reduce allegiance to something almost academic.
Not loyalty. Alignment. As if that changed the cost.
But beneath the careful diction, she heard it. Regret, buried so deep it had calcified into strategy.
And maybe that was what made Narcissa Malfoy so dangerous.
Not her bloodline, not her wards, but her ability to look the past in the eye and reframe it as choice.

She folded her hands in her lap, knuckles pale.
She couldn’t afford to underestimate these people. Not again.

Hermione’s gaze narrowed.

“Then why could the mirror be activated? If it was sealed, How did something still get out?”
Narcissa’s expression sharpened, just slightly.
“Because nothing stays sealed forever,” she said. “Not if someone calls to it. Not if it remembers how to answer.”
Hermione looked up, unsettled now. “Why are you telling me this?”
Narcissa didn’t hesitate.
“Because I trust my son not to be reckless,” she said simply. “But I trust you to be thorough.”

Hermione held her gaze, uncertain if it was a compliment, a warning, or something else entirely.

There was a pause. Then:
“As I said. There are still things unaccounted for,” Narcissa added, her tone quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Artifacts that should never have left the vault. And others… that should never have been made.”

A breath passed between them. Not quite an invitation. But not a denial either.
“You’re asking for my help,” Hermione said quietly.
Narcissa didn’t blink.
“I’m asking for your attention. The rest will follow.”

Then her tone shifted.
She rose, smoothing her robes with practiced grace.
“You know,” she said lightly, as if they’d been discussing nothing more than ancestral quirks, “there’s a text in the eastern library wing that might interest you. Latin. Untranslated. Stubborn, but not impossible. Pipsey will show you the shelf."

Hermione frowned. "Now?"
"I insist."

And before Hermione could protest further, Narcissa turned her gaze toward the garden, her expression unreadable.

Hermione rose.

Before she could take a step, Pipsey popped into view beside her with a flash of magic and a bright, toothy smile.
“Miss Granger!” she chirped, wings of silver hair bobbing as she gave a little bow. “You’re just in time. The books have been murmuring all morning. Something’s ready to be read, they said.”
Hermione blinked. “The books said that?”
“Oh yes,” Pipsey nodded seriously, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “They rustle when they’re impatient. Like old trees in a storm. Come, come! The library’s been humming since dawn.”

She turned with a dramatic sweep of her little arms, her shawl embroidered with moons and runes trailing behind her as she scurried ahead.

Hermione cast one last glance at Narcissa.

The path back to the Manor curved through low golden hedges, the crunch of leaves beneath their feet a steady rhythm. As the doors opened and the warmth of the grand hallway wrapped around them, Pipsey glanced back over her shoulder, eyes bright.
“It’s the high shelf, Miss. The one that glows faint when the light is right. You’ll know it..”

And without waiting for a reply, she disappeared again with a soft crackle of magic and a giggle that echoed faintly down the corridor.

Hermione stood alone.

The library door creaked open.

Something was waiting.

Chapter Text

The library had always been a place of control, order and predictability.

Now, it felt like none of those things.

Draco stood near the arched window, posture straight but restless. A leather-bound volume lay open in one hand, its gilded pages catching the firelight in faint flickersflickers.
He wasn’t reading. Not really. His eyes scanned lines of text, but none of it stuck.
The words felt hollow.
He exhaled slowly, jaw tight.

The fire crackled low behind him. A charcoal cashmere jumper clung to his frame, sleeves pushed to the elbows. His black trousers fit with an intentional ease, tailored to precision. Bare feet moved soundlessly over the antique rug.
His fingers turned another page.

Pointless.

He was no closer to understanding why the mirror reacted as it did. And worse. He was no closer to forgetting the way Granger had looked at him that night at The Three Broomsticks.
He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the door again, though he’d lost count by now.

And then it hit him.
Not sound. Not movement.

Magic.

Subtle as breath, but sharp as a blade. Familiar. Unwelcome only in the way cravings are.

He stilled.
Every muscle tight.

Fuck.

The door creaked.

He turned.

Hermione Granger stepped into the library like she belonged in it.
Hair half-loose, wind-tousled strands escaping their order.
Tailored robes immaculate. Boots with the faintest trace of garden path.
A single line of tension between her brows. Focus.
Like she’d measured every step between his mothers tea table and this moment, and chosen to walk it anyway.

She looked…
Damn it.

She looked like an answer wrapped in a threat.

His pulse gave one traitorous lurch.
She hadn’t even spoken yet.

Eyes fierce. Mouth set. Shoulders squared.

Like she hadn’t quite decided yet if she was here to argue with him or to unravel something they’d both left unsaid.
Maybe both.

She paused. Just for a breath.
Not fear. Granger didn’t do fear. Not in the traditional sense.
But there was a flicker. The kind that came from seeing something you hadn’t planned for.

Her eyes met his, and he saw it…
Tension.

A faint recalibration.
She lifted her chin.
“Of course you’d be here,” she said coolly, as if the silence hadn’t just thickened around them.
Her voice was steady, but something in her posture betrayed the shift. She hadn’t expected him. Not really. Maybe she'd expected books. But not him. Not like this.

Draco stared at her, jaw tightening, fingers still resting on the open page of the book he hadn’t been reading. His eyes remained fixed on her, watching every movement, every slight change in her expression.

He didn’t answer her immediately. He didn’t need to. His silence spoke volumes, sharper than any words he could’ve offered.
Hermione’s gaze slid across his face, lingering just a second too long. Her eyes flicked to his collarbone, then down the length of his arms. She hesitated at his forearms, bare where his sleeves had been pushed back, and the muscles under his skin tensed subtly as he shifted. His breath hitched for a moment, but he didn’t let it show.
Then her eyes fell lower, to where the jumper clung to his waist, the fabric stretched against his body, hinting at the shape beneath.

Heat flickered low in his stomach at the intensity of her focus.

So she wasn’t unaffected.

Good.

She snapped her gaze back to his face, her chin lifting defiantly. But her eyes. Her eyes betrayed her, giving away more than she intended. The distance between them thickened, laden with tension and something else, something neither of them was willing to name just yet.

Draco closed the book with a quiet thud, the sound seeming far too loud in the silence. His voice was low, almost too calm. “Expecting someone else?”

Hermione took a step further into the room, her movements deliberate. “Your mother said there was a text.”
“There might be,” he replied, his tone smooth but undercut with something darker. “Though I suspect that wasn’t really the point.”
She didn’t answer him, not with words, anyway. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. Her eyes never left his, locking onto him in a way that sent a spark through him.
The space between them pulsed with something quieter, sharper, undeniable. And this time, neither of them could pretend it wasn’t there.

Chapter Text

She hadn’t expected him to be there.

The library doors had groaned open on Pipsey’s cue, and Hermione had stepped into the familiar hush of old parchment, firelight, and dust.

And into him. Draco Malfoy. Standing by the window, as if he belonged to the architecture itself.

Shadow-cut, sharp-jawed and dangerously composed.

She stopped, just for the briefest moment. Not from fear. She didn’t fear him.
But something about his presence always demanded a recalibration. Like stepping into stronger gravity, something heavier than what she was used to. The kind of weight that pulled at your chest, the kind that made you remember things you’d rather forget.
He was still the boy shaped by ruthless teachings, his hands stained by things she couldn’t even allow herself to imagine.

There he stood. No less dangerous, no less lethal. Her eyes flickered to the back of his left hand, where the faintest scars still whispered of old loyalties and old magics.
And despite everything, despite the years, there was an undeniable pull in the air when he was near.
A magnetism that seemed to draw in the edges of reality itself, just as his presence seemed to alter everything around him.

She had no illusion about what he was capable of. Draco learned the dark arts in the most intimate of ways, trained in violence and brutality, ready to end lives if necessary.

His jumper. Dark grey and far too well-fitted, drew the eye whether she wanted it to or not. The sleeves were pushed up, revealing forearms lean with quiet strength. Her gaze caught, just for a moment, on the inside of his left arm. The skin there was pale, marked by a shadow of the brand he'd once worn like a curse. Faded now, as if it had been scrubbed raw.
His hand curled still around a closed book, and she watched how his knuckles shifted with the smallest movements. Measured. Controlled.

She felt her breath lodge, shallow.

Get a grip, Granger.

“I believe there’s a text that might interest you,” she said finally, tone even. “Your mother…”
“Told you to come,” he finished. His voice was low, rougher than it had been before. “I know.”

A pause.

She took a step closer. Then another.

The silence wasn’t awkward. Not quite. But it was something. Something denser than before.
He watched her like she was an equation he wanted to solve slowly. Not because he couldn’t, but because the process pleased him.

Hermione folded her arms. Not in defiance, but because otherwise she might fidget. “Did you know she’d send me here?”
“I suspected.”
“Of course you did.”
He smiled at that. Barely.
She hated that it thrilled her.

The fire crackled again, casting warmth that had nothing to do with the hearth.
Hermione moved past him toward the shelves, pretending she was there for the books. She wasn’t.

Not really.

“Any idea which text she meant?” she asked over her shoulder, fingers ghosting across the spines.

“I doubt she meant a book.”
Hermione turned. Slowly. Meeting him fully now.
“I know.”

They stared at each other, the silence stretching.
This time, it was Hermione who broke it.
“Then why are we here?”

His answer wasn’t words.
It was a step forward.
And then another.
She didn’t move.
Not back.
Not an inch.

He stopped in front of her. Close enough for his magic to lap against hers like a tide, but still not touching. A space made of breath and intention. She could smell him now. Pinewood smoke, leather, ink, and something darker beneath it. Something specifically him.

“I think,” he said, voice low, "we’re here because neither of us is finished pretending."

His words curled into her, slow and deliberate, like fingers pressing against places she hadn’t let anyone touch in years.
Hermione swallowed, pulse high in her throat.

He didn’t reach for her, not directly. But his hand rose slowly, deliberately. His fingers lingered just beside her jawline, hovering with a calculated grace that made the space between them burn with quiet anticipation.
The tips of his fingers were a mere whisper away, close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
The sensation was electric, a pulse she could almost taste, as though his proximity alone was enough to make her skin sing. He didn’t need to touch her. He had already left his mark, simply by daring to come this close.

She didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. That same hand dipped lower, tracing the air in front of her throat, the space between collarbones, stopping just above the line of her neckline. Still not touching. The restraint made it worse. Or better.
She couldn’t tell.
Her breathing had gone shallow. Tight. His presence consumed her senses.

Her logic screamed. Her body didn’t care.

Hermione felt like she was unravelling. A single, taut thread being pulled inch by inch from the centre of herself. Fraying, helpless, and aching for the pull to continue.

His voice was just breath now. “Say stop.”

The words ghosted across her mouth.
She didn’t.

Her eyes fluttered half-shut as his lips lowered. Slow, deliberate. Not touching. Hovering like a secret waiting to be broken. All he had to do was lean in. All she had to do was let him.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

But then…

A flash of cold clarity cut through the haze. With a sudden, sharp movement, Hermione jerked her head to the side, pulling away from the unbearable tension between them. Her body twisted instinctively, a desperate attempt to escape the pull, to free herself from the gravity of his presence.

The air seemed to crackle with the unsaid. Her hands, clenched tightly at her sides, trembled ever so slightly. She could feel the sting of her own pulse, racing too fast, too loud, drowning out every thought that screamed for reason.

But the distance she put between them felt like a lie. The ache inside her didn't disappear. It only grew, coiling tighter, more desperate.
She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t allow the space between them to shrink any further.

Her breath hitched in her throat, but her voice remained steady as she forced herself to speak, to put a wall between them that felt like it would crumble the moment he spoke again.

“I can’t.”

And in that single, broken admission, she turned her back on him, fighting the tremor in her limbs as she walked away, feeling the weight of his gaze on her every step.

Chapter Text

Ginny Weasley had never been one for long walks.

Not unless they ended in a duel, or a pitch.
If she was going to cover ground, she preferred it on a broom. Fast, airborne, and with the wind in her teeth.
Walking was for cooling down after a match or stomping away from a bad conversation.

And yet, here she was. Thirty-one, laced into her trainers like a responsible adult, and voluntarily meandering through the woods outside Ottery St Catchpole.
Because Hermione hated flying.
And apparently, this was what adulthood looked like now: meeting your best friend under the pretense of fresh air. When you both knew it was really about feelings.

She spotted Hermione at the edge of the trail, precisely on time, hair wild from the wind and eyes just a bit too focused for someone out for a relaxing stroll. Ginny knew that look. That was the "something just complicated my entire week and I haven’t even told anyone yet" expression.

"Morning," Hermione said, smiling tightly.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Is it? You look like someone who's either committed a felony or thought about it very seriously."
Hermione let out a soft laugh. "Neither. I think."

They started walking. The air was crisp, the scent of moss and distant rain clinging to the leaves. Ginny stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat.
They were halfway through the woods when Hermione cleared her throat.

That tiny, purposeful kind of throat-clear that meant ´I have a thing to say and I’ve overthought every way to say it´.
Ginny didn’t even glance sideways. She knew that sound.

“I meant to tell you something earlier,” Hermione began, voice just a little too even.
Ginny raised a brow. “Is this the kind of ‘meant to tell you’ that comes with paperwork, or with shame?”

Hermione exhaled. “Tea. I had tea. With Narcissa Malfoy.”
Ginny stopped walking. Actually stopped. One trainer scuffed to a halt in the dirt trail, the other planted like she was bracing for impact.

“You what.”

Hermione grimaced. “It wasn’t planned.”

“Oh no?” Ginny turned to face her, arms crossing. “You just tripped and fell into her parlour, did you? Landed in a doily with a sugar cube in each eye?”

Hermione looked faintly sheepish. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I just… didn’t know how to explain it. It wasn’t hostile, Gin. She invited me. She was…Civil.”

Ginny stared.
Then blinked.
Then snorted.

“You absolute menace. You had tea with Narcissa bloody Malfoy and you didn’t tell me? Since when do you take social calls from frosted aristocracy?”

“I meant to tell you,” Hermione muttered.

Ginny gave a long-suffering sigh and started walking again. “Right. Well. Go on, then. Tell me everything. Start with whatever ridiculous sentence she opened with, and if you skip over the biscuits I will hex your kneecaps.”

Hermione finally said it. “She told me about the vault.”

Ginny blinked.

“The vault? As in the Black family vault?”

Hermione gave a tiny nod, already looking like she regretted opening her mouth.
Ginny let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, Hermione. You’ve been having tea and swapping family secrets with Narcissa Malfoy, and I’m only hearing about it now?”

Hermione offered a weak smile. “In my defence, it’s been a long week.”

Ginny arched a brow. “You say that every week. At some point, it stops being an excuse and starts sounding like a lifestyle.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

Ginny nudged her shoulder, voice softening just a little. “Next time, loop me in before the world starts tilting sideways, yeah? I can handle more than teapots and bar gossip.”

She leaned back, squinting as if trying to divine the contents of the vault through sheer sarcasm.
“Let me guess what’s inside. A cursed music box that only plays when someone dies… and a jar labeled ‘Essence of Great-Aunt Morbida’?”

Hermione didn’t laugh.
Didn’t deny it, either.

Just gave that tight-lipped, wide-eyed look that meant: not exactly, but you’re not far off.

Ginny blinked. “You’re joking.”
Hermione shook her head once, slowly.

Ginny groaned. “Merlin’s tits. That woman probably speaks in riddles even when ordering toast.”

Hermione huffed a laugh, shoulders relaxing just slightly. “It did feel like everything had a second meaning. Even the tea.”

Ginny’s grin softened. “Still, you didn’t hex her. That’s something.”

She nudged Hermione’s arm. “Proud of you. You stared down Narcissa Malfoy and lived to tell the tale. Poisoned teacups and all..”
Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“I think she wanted me to see something,” she said. “Not just to tell me things. To... test me, maybe.”

Ginny arched a brow. “You mean besides your composure, your morals, and your ability to sip potentially cursed tea without flinching?”

Hermione huffed. “She sent me to the library. Said there was a text. Latin. Obscure. I found Draco instead.”

Ginny stopped mid-step. “Of course you did.”
Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted, expression tight.
Ginny watched her for a beat, then sighed with theatrical flair.
“Please tell me you didn’t snog him in front of the restricted section.”

Hermione turned sharply. “Ginny…”

Ginny held up both hands. “I’m just saying. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I made a choice I’m not ready to admit out loud but my hormones definitely remember’ look.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “We didn’t kiss.”
Ginny narrowed her eyes. “But you almost did.”

Silence.

Ginny smirked. “Thought so.”

She gave Hermione a sideways glance, lips curling with wicked amusement.
“Well, well. Look at you, toeing the line between repressed longing and questionable life choices. Classic.”

Hermione groaned. “Ginny, stop.”

“I will not,” Ginny said cheerfully. “You nearly kissed Draco bloody Malfoy. That’s not just gossip, Hermione. That’s historical revisionism.”
Hermione covered her face with both hands. “It wasn’t like that.”

Ginny leaned in, mock-conspiratorial. “Sure. Just two adults, alone in a shadow-drenched library, to set off every ward in a three-mile radius. Totally innocent.”

Hermione peeked between her fingers. “He didn’t even touch me.”

“Well, that’s worse, isn’t it?” Ginny said, eyes gleaming. “If he’s that restrained, imagine what happens when he does. That man has main-character brooding energy and a jawline that could cut glass. I’d have let him ruin me in fourth year if he’d asked nicely.”

Hermione dropped her hands. “Ginny.”

“What?” she shrugged. “Listen, if you’re not planning to keep him, I’ll happily self-sacrifice and take one for the team. I’m generous like that.”
Hermione barked a laugh despite herself.

Ginny grinned. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’re not doing this because it’s complicated. You deserve someone who sets your magic on fire and reminds you how to breathe.”

Hermione sobered at that, just a little. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course not,” Ginny said, tossing her hair. “Nothing worthwhile ever is.”
Hermione exhaled slowly, clearly trying to gather her thoughts.

Ginny watched her with narrowed eyes, arms crossed loosely. The forest around them swayed gently in the breeze, but her mind was still reeling from that tiny confession.

Because if Hermione bloody Granger, voice of reason, Minister-in-the-making, walking encyclopaedia of self-restraint, was genuinely contemplating Draco Malfoy of all people… well. The world wasn’t ending, but it was definitely rearranging the furniture.

She knew he was fit. Everyone with eyes did. But Hermione didn’t do hot. She did dependable. She did difficult conversations and five-year plans. Not sharp-jawed, emotionally complicated former Death Eaters.

Ginny cleared her throat. “Alright. Leaving Mr Tall, Dark and Broody aside for a second…”
She glanced sideways. “How’s Harry?”

Hermione blinked, as if the shift caught her off-guard. “Oh, he’s alright. Still sorting through some things. Quiet, lately.”
Ginny nodded slowly. She’d noticed. Harry had that coiled look again, like someone bracing for something that hadn’t quite hit yet. The forest. The Shack. Whatever had marked him the first time, it hadn’t fully let go.

“And Blaise?” Hermione asked carefully.
Now that made Ginny snort.

“Still devastatingly attractive and about as emotionally available as a cursed mirror,” she replied breezily. “Last I heard, he was charming the ever-loving hell out of a translator from Rome and arguing with Theo about the best way to magically preserve vintage wine.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “That sounds… about right.”

Ginny didn’t say what she was thinking. That Blaise, for all his elegant posturing and cultivated aloofness, always seemed to see things. Especially the things people weren’t ready to say out loud. And that she wasn’t entirely sure what he’d seen the last time their eyes met a second too long.

But that was a thought for another walk.

Chapter Text

The club was exactly as Blaise remembered it: hush-quiet elegance wrapped in dark velvet and burnished mahogany.

It wasn’t crowded. Never was. This place curated its patrons like a private collection. Wizards of lineage, wealth, and secrets. The kind who didn’t raise their voices unless it was over politics, or betrayal.

Blaise, Theo, and Draco were welcome not just for their bloodlines, but because they’d each proven themselves useful, dangerous, or indispensable. And preferably all three. Reputation here mattered more than rules. And theirs were the kind whispered about, not recited.

They entered through an archway lined with runes too old to glow, and the air changed the moment the wards admitted them. A silence fell. The kind that hummed against your ribs if you dared to speak too loud.

A floating chandelier shimmered low above the main hall, its crystal arms pulsing gently with light that shifted with the mood: a cool, twilight blue tonight. Quiet shadows danced on the lacquered floor. No fire roared, and yet the room was warm.
Magic shimmered discreetly along the panelling, keeping the dark wood polished, the velvet unsmudged and the glassware sparkling. Each table had its own silent privacy ward. Conversations never echoed. Secrets never lingered.

In the far wall, an enormous panoramic aquarium spanned floor to ceiling and stretched nearly the entire length of the room, bordered in silver-veined obsidian and etched with faint warding runes that shimmered only when glanced at sideways. The water within pulsed with its own ambient magic, alive. It cast a shifting blue-green glow across the mahogany panelling and polished floors,

Inside, kelpies drifted in stately silence, not broken or caged but regal. Manes flowing like ribbons of enchanted silk, their hooves barely disturbing the velvet silt below. They swam with the unhurried grace of creatures that knew they were being watched, and didn’t mind. Pearlescent schools of tiny glassfish shimmered through their paths like scattered starlight. A ruined shipwreck, enchanted to perpetually sink and resettle, sat nestled in a bed of silver coral and starlace anemones. Its hull was half-split, glowing faintly from within.

Ghostly sirens coiled lazily through its shadowed corridors, trailing transparent veils of magic behind them. One paused near the glass, her eyes the colour of storms, and pressed a hand against it, curious. As if taking stock of the room’s mood. Then she smiled. Slow and knowing. Before vanishing in a trail of silver mist.

It was all artfully curated, of course. Not a cage, but a sanctuary. A marvel of magical design, whispered to be connected to the Black Lake itself via a runic portal far beneath the foundation stones. The creatures were well-treated. Fed with enchanted tides, protected by ancient spells, and rotated seasonally by handlers from the Department of Magical Conservation.

The wealthy came not out of pity or conquest, but fascination. This was nature tamed without being diminished. Beauty without danger. Wildness on display, but never threatening. And perhaps, most appealingly to men like them, it was a secret held in silence. No signposts. No public tours. And the subtle knowledge that very few would ever be invited to stand before it.

Their private lounge sat just off the main floor. It was a long, low room with walls of dark tartan, shelves of books that rearranged themselves by preference, and a drinks cabinet that poured to memory.

Theo had already claimed the chaise longue like a poet in mourning. One arm draped dramatically over the backrest, the other toying with his glass of dark wine. He was halfway through a story about a cursed letter opener and a scandalously unlucky cousin.

Draco sat beside the fireplace, though it held no flames, only shifting embers, suspended midair like dying stars.
He hadn't touched his drink in twenty minutes, posture sharp.

Blaise, on the other hand, looked entirely at ease. Legs crossed at the knee, a tumbler of obsidian brandy in hand, his other resting on the armrest like he belonged here more than anywhere else in the world. Because he did.

Still, something tugged at him.

He hadn’t meant to bring her up. And yet...
"She works weekends," he murmured, almost idly.

Theo glanced up. "Sorry, who works weekends?"

Blaise hesitated, then traced the rim of his glass with one finger. "Ginny."

A beat.

Theo gasped like it was the opening act of a scandalous play. “Ah! La flamme rousse.”

Draco groaned. “Please don’t call her that.”

“I knew it,” Theo continued, undeterred. “You’ve been pacing past the Three Broomsticks like a poet in exile.”

“I do not pace,” Blaise said coolly.

“You do. With your hands in your pockets and your collar turned up like you’re auditioning for a doomed romance.” Theo lifted his glass. “To tragic flirtation.”

“It’s not tragic,” Blaise muttered. He swirled the liquid in his glass, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I’m asking her to dinner.”
That earned him two sets of raised eyebrows.

“A date?” Theo said, almost gleeful. “With Ginny Weasley? Blaise Zabini is initiating a real date?”

Draco blinked, finally stirred from his brooding. “You’re serious?”

“I might write her a letter. Ink and parchment, naturally. Maybe even a touch of cologne, if I’m feeling reckless.” Blaise said.

Theo clutched his heart. “Be still, my withered soul. Shall I fetch you a quill dipped in moonlight?”

“It’s tasteful,” Blaise said dryly.

Theo leaned forward, delighted. “Please let her break your heart. I need the material.”

Draco snorted, but said nothing. Not right away.
He took another sip from the drink he’d barely touched all evening, eyes fixed on the kelpies drifting behind the glass of the aquarium. Shadows of movement. Fins and hunger.

Then, low and flat:

“She won’t say yes unless you take her seriously.”

That made both Blaise and Theo pause. They turned in unison, as if the room itself had tilted.

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “Go on, then.”

Draco didn’t look up. Just traced a thumb over the condensation on his glass, as though the answer might form itself there.
“She’s not like the others,” he said finally. “She sees through the polish. Don’t offer charm if you’re not willing to match it with sincerity.”

There was a stillness in the air after that.

Blaise let the words settle, then nodded, slower this time.

“You’re not wrong,” he murmured. “She doesn’t flinch from sharp edges, but she doesn’t pretend they’re pretty, either.”
He glanced down into his drink. The amber light caught against the glass, casting flickers along his wrist.

“I thought I liked the game. The banter. The flirtation. And I do. Damn, I do. But with her...” He exhaled, brow furrowing faintly. “It doesn’t feel like a chase. It feels like being seen.”
He looked up then, directly at Draco. “It’s unsettling.”

Draco met his gaze. “That’s what makes it real.”

Blaise gave a small, humourless laugh and leaned back in the chair. The leather creaked softly beneath him.
“She’s fire,” he said, quieter now. “And I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to get burned before.”

Theo, for once, didn’t interrupt with a flourish or a sigh. He just watched them both with a strange, unreadable calm, the theatre stripped away.

There were things Blaise hadn’t said aloud. Not to them, not even to himself. Like the way he’d started timing his errands in Hogsmeade to the end of Ginny’s shifts. Or how disappointment had crept in on the nights she wasn’t there, as if her absence made the whole village feel colder.

It wasn’t love.
Not yet.

But it was the possibility of it. And that terrified him more than he’d ever admit.
He reached slowly for his glass and took a drink, the silence in the room now thick with something heavier than velvet.

The conversation eased into a hush. The kind born of old habits and older friendships. Beyond their private room, the gentle murmur of the club drifted like smoke: the soft clink of enchanted glassware, the low shuffle of polished shoes, a violin spell weaving something wistful through the walls.

Blaise took another sip of firewhisky. It burned less than it should have. Or maybe he was simply too distracted to care.

Theo had sprawled back into his favored position. Half-recumbent, half-performance, like a man waiting for a curtain to rise that only he could see.
Draco, as ever, remained statuesque and silent in his corner, the firelight catching on the cut of his cheekbones and the edge of his restraint. He looked like a painting someone had forgotten to finish.

Blaise glanced between them, glass balanced in his fingers.

He didn’t have to say it aloud. He’d known Draco long enough to recognize the signs. The slight tension in his jaw, the way he swirled his drink without drinking it, the kind of stillness that wasn’t calm but control.
Draco was thinking about her. Had been, for weeks. Possibly longer.
And Theo, of course, had already seen it too.

Theo pounced. “And speaking of sincere intent… What are you doing about Hermione Granger?”
Draco's jaw tightened.

“You do know she thinks you’ve got the emotional range of a teaspoon?”Blaise said, entirely too smooth.

Theo laughed. “Oh, he knows. He’s just too busy leaning against doorframes looking haunted.”

Draco glared. “I hate you both.”

“And yet,” Blaise said, “we’re your best friends.”

They let the banter fade after that.

Draco turned inward, as he often did. Staring at the empty hearth as if it might offer absolution.
Blaise watched him, quietly. He understood. The weight Draco carried. The guilt. The inheritance. The need to be enough for someone who made you want to be more than what you were born into.

Ginny was different. She flirted with the world the way he did. But hers came from defiance, not detachment. It was fire, not fog.
And if he was honest, he liked that she didn’t need him. That she chose to engage. That she looked at him like a question she wasn’t afraid to answer.

So when the night drew late, and the fire embers dimmed further, Blaise summoned ink and parchment. The scent of bergamot and vetiver clung to the paper.

He penned the letter slowly, with care.

Just a few lines. An invitation. A promise.

Then he sealed it. Not with a family crest.

He smiled, just slightly, and whispered, “Don’t hex me.”
And sent it.

Chapter Text

The back room of The Three Broomsticks smelled like roasted rosemary, burnt sugar, and the beginning of someone else’s headache.

Ginny slipped past a stack of levitating mugs, ducked beneath a swinging ladle that seemed to have declared war on gravity, and dropped onto the old bench near the small, round staff table.
It was late afternoon.
The kitchen behind her hissed and clattered with the chaos of early dinner service. Spells flying and pans clanging. It should’ve been exhausting.

But she liked it.

There was something grounding about this place. The rhythm of familiar spells, the sharp-witted banter, the way regulars knew her name and handed over gossip like payment.
She could move through it without overthinking, without explaining.
No speeches, no strategy. Just people, magic, and good ale.

She rubbed the back of her neck, smiling faintly to herself, and let her thoughts wander to the weather and to her idiot brother who’d recently charmed the teapot to narrate every brew like a Quidditch commentator.
She still needed to restock the cinnamon syrup, hex the frothing tankard that had started insulting customers in Welsh, and write back to Mum before she assumed Ginny had eloped or been eaten by a troll. Maybe both.

She sighed and rolled her shoulders.

Then paused.

There, on the table near the back door, something rustled.
Feathers.

A sharp, elegant hoot broke through the clatter of plates and the hiss of steam from the kitchen. Ginny turned just in time to see a striking tawny owl glide through the open transom window above the pantry, its wings barely brushing the old wooden beams.

It was absurdly composed. Regal, almost. With a pale chest, dark streaked wings, and a look in its eyes that suggested it judged every scuff on the floorboards.
It didn’t flap about like most post owls. No. This one landed delicately on the table with all the bored precision of someone who knew they were above this errand. Its talons clicked once against the grain, then it tilted its head and regarded Ginny as if she were late for an appointment she hadn’t known she’d scheduled.

She raised a brow. “Let me guess. Somebody’s lost their way to Gringotts.”

The owl blinked, unamused. Then extended one leg with theatrical slowness, as if offended by the implication.

Ginny frowned, taking in the fine ribbon, the thick parchment, the subtle shimmer of enchantment across the wax seal.
No crest, but tasteful.
Whoever had sent this had money, manners, and a flair for unnecessary drama.

Not a Weasley, then.

She glanced once more at the owl. It stared back, feathers too perfect, posture too still.
This was no ordinary post owl. This one had an attitude.

“Right,” Ginny murmured, untying the envelope. “Let’s see which posh prat I’ve accidentally impressed.”

“I suppose you’ll want a tip, then?” she murmured.

The owl gave a soft, disdainful hoot and, without waiting for so much as a crumb of crusty bread or polite acknowledgment and swept off in a graceful arc through the same kitchen window it had entered.

Ginny blinked.

“Well then,” she muttered, flexing her fingers as if the owl had just handed her a duel invitation.

She gave a cautious sniff of the envelope.
No obvious enchantments.
A quick tap with her wand.

No curses,
no hexes.
Just... rich paper, confident ink, and a wax seal stamped with elegant initials.

B.Z.

Her lips parted.
Oh.

Of course.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Really. But somehow, the reality of it…Blaise bloody Zabini sending her letters like some silk-robed Regency heartthrob, caught her off guard.

There was a faint thrill somewhere behind her ribs. The same place that always sparked when she caught him watching her just a second too long. When he didn’t try too hard, and still managed to throw her entirely off her rhythm.

Ginny rolled her eyes at herself and cracked the seal.

Ginny,

I won’t insult you with flattery. You’d see right through it.
Instead, I’ll offer this:
A quiet evening.
One where you're not the one behind the bar, and I get to watch you choose the wine instead of serve it.
I’ll take care of the reservations and the wine list.
You just bring that look you get when someone underestimates you, it’s one of my favourites.

- B

She read it twice.
hen once more, just to be sure she hadn’t imagined the entire thing.

Her first reaction was a snort.
Then a muttered, “Of course he did,” paired with an involuntary smile that tugged annoyingly at the corner of her mouth.

Blaise Zabini, suave to the point of satire, asking her to dinner without a single mention of her hair, her laugh, or her bloody eyes.
Thoughtfulness.
A compliment wrapped in steel.

It was unsettling.

She reached for a rag to wipe her hands, then paused.

No one's ever written her a letter quite like that.

Most men flirted like they were still in school. Blaise flirted like he was already winning, but didn’t mind being surprised.
And somehow... she didn’t mind either.

“Well, this is going to be a disaster,” she murmured, folding the letter neatly. “But at least it’ll be a well-dressed one.”

She looked toward the window, where the owl had vanished, and added, under her breath:
“I’ll bring the look. Surprise me, Zabini. I dare you.”

The thing was… she still wasn’t sure what to make of him.

Too polished. Too smooth. Too used to getting exactly what he wanted.

And yet…

There were moments. Sharp, quiet moments.

When he paused. When he looked at her like he wasn’t trying to win, but to understand.

And that…was far more dangerous.

Her fingers drummed lightly on the tabletop.

Chapter Text

The library felt colder this night.

Not because the wards failed. Salazar, no. The Manor’s protections were ancient, etched into the very bones of the stone. But tonight, the chill wasn’t magical. It clung to the air in quieter ways.

A tension.

The kind that entered the room with Narcissa Malfoy and refused to leave.

She hadn’t said much. She rarely needed to. But it was something in the way she moved, careful and a fraction too measured.
And Draco, who had spent a lifetime learning the unspoken language of his mother’s silences, recognised it instantly. Carefully measured distance.

Draco leaned against the frame of the tall window, his breath misting faintly on the enchanted glass.
Behind him, Narcissa stood before one of the older bookcases. She hadn’t touched a volume. Just… stared. Her hands clasped neatly in front of her, motionless as a statue, yet the tension around her shoulders told him otherwise.

“She came here,” he said quietly. “To find the text you told her about.”
A long silence stretched between them. Only the crackle of the hearth answered.

Draco turned. “And yet you didn’t give it to her.”

Narcissa didn’t look at him. “She wasn’t ready.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Her chin lifted slightly. “Isn’t het?”

He hated when she did that. The way she said so much while pretending to say nothing at all.

“There are markings above the library door,” he said, voice low. “They’ve always been there. I thought they were decorative. Just part of the Manor’s ancient pretence at grandeur.”

He hesitated.

“Until Mulciber mentioned them. Offhand, like they meant something obvious. Like I should’ve known.”

He still didn’t know what his father had known.
Or chosen to ignore.

His jaw tightened. “And now I’m wondering what else I’ve been living under without seeing it.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned. A small shift. Barely a movement, but enough to betray her.

Draco caught it. “What is it you’re so afraid she’ll find?”

That did it. A flicker of something passed behind her eyes.

“She’s clever,” he added. “And tenacious. You know that.”

“She is also dangerous,” Narcissa said, barely above a whisper.

“To whom?” he asked. “You? Or the darkness we’ve inherited?”

Narcissa turned then, finally meeting his gaze. Her expression was inscrutable, but her voice held something older. Worn.
“Some truths don’t free you,” she said. “Some truths trap you exactly where they found you, and make you kneel.”

Draco swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “She deserves to know what you sent her there for.”

“I was trying to protect-”
“Yourself?” he cut in. “Or me?”

That silence was answer enough.

He let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sending it to her.”

Narcissa said nothing.

“She’ll figure it out anyway. And when she does, I’d rather she know we’re not all still playing ghosts in someone else’s war.”
There was a pause, the kind that held weight.

Then:
“She won’t trust you,” his mother said quietly.
“I don’t need her trust,” he murmured. “Just her attention.”

A rustle of silk. The faintest movement as Narcissa turned back toward the fire.

“You’ll have it,” she said.
No elaboration. No agreement. Just the quiet acknowledgment of a door she had already unlocked and the unspoken truth that she would not open it herself.
But she would let him.

Later that evening, back in his own study, Draco stood over his desk, parchment rolled out before him. The text was brief. A fragment, really. Written in formal Latin, its strokes etched into the parchment like teeth.

The same page Narcissa had chosen not to show her, not yet. Buried in the third drawer beneath the old Pureblood genealogies.

Draco had found it hours ago. Not truly concealed. But carefully withheld.

He read it again, lips moving silently over the ancient phrasing:
"In obscura hereditate, lucem ex fide nascitur."
From a dark inheritance, light is born through trust.

It was the only part not crossed out or water-stained. And it wasn’t just a family motto.
It was a warning.

He rolled the parchment, sealed it with wax, and summoned Pipsey.
A letter by owl might be ignored. Or worse, returned unopened.
But Pipsey… Pipsey had a way of talking her way through wards and stubbornness alike. And if Granger truly wanted nothing to do with him, at least he wouldn’t have to watch an owl come back empty-clawed.

“Deliver this to Hermione Granger,” he said, tone brisk. “No message. Just the text and this…”

He paused, then added a short note in his own handwriting, attached beneath the seal:
I believe this is what my mother meant to share with you. She won’t say more.
If you’re still willing to look into this,I have contacts who know where the old blood magic runs thickest in Knockturn Alley.
It’s dangerous. But so is silence.

D.M.

He pressed the seal firmly into the wax and held the parchment out.
Pipsey tilted her head, eyeing it like a crow inspecting something suspiciously shiny.

“Master is certain he wants me to deliver this?” she asked, voice tinged with disbelief. “Not one of your sleek, purebred owls? The ones that look like they judge common birds for sport?”
Draco didn’t blink. “She might ignore an owl. She won’t ignore you.”

Pipsey placed a hand over her small chest as if accepting a divine calling. “Ah. So it is me who must carry the ember of truth through uncertain winds. A task not for wings, but for will.”

Draco gave her a look. “Don’t make it poetic.”

She ignored him completely. “I can feel it,” she said, lifting her chin. “The magic has teeth tonight. The parchment hums. Threads twist. Fates align.”

He sighed. “Pipsey-”

She turned, eyes glittering, already bracing herself like a tiny soldier. “If Miss Granger throws a Stunning Spell, I shall collapse gracefully. With flair. Perhaps a little gasp.”
“She won’t stun you.”

“Then perhaps just a cutting glare. Those are worse, sometimes.”
“If she glares, tell her it was my idea.”
“I always do.”

She took the scroll delicately, like she was accepting a sacred relic, and gave a deep, overly solemn nod.
“For truth unspoken. And doors unopened.”

And with a dramatic pop, she vanished. Leaving behind a shimmer of displaced air and the faint scent of whatever incense she’d recently taken a liking to.

Draco leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him, gaze distant.

“She’s going to turn this into prophecy,” he muttered.

And for a moment, just a flicker, his mouth curved into something dangerously close to fondness.

Silence settled around him, thick and expectant.
He stared at the place where Pipsey had vanished, then let his eyes drift to the darkened window. Somewhere out there, Granger would read his words. Maybe she’d come. Maybe not.

He told himself it was strategy. That if she agreed to work with him, they could finally get ahead of the thing clawing through the shadows. That they’d be stronger together. That her mind, paired with his knowledge, would make them unstoppable.

But that wasn’t why he’d sent the letter. Not really.

He just wanted to see her again.

To feel what he’d felt in the library, when her magic had trembled against his, like it didn’t know whether to resist or surrender. And he hadn’t decided which one he wanted more.

He missed that.

The heat of it. The power of it.

The way she made him feel alive in all the ways he’d spent years learning how to suppress.
Even if it was foolish.
Even if it burned.

Even if she hadn’t meant to give it.

Chapter Text

It began with a soft pop and the faint scent of lavender and silver polish.

Hermione looked up from her desk just in time to see a pair of crooked eyes peering down at her, almost literally.
Pipsey hovered for a moment mid-air, skirts flaring, before landing on the carpet with a gentle thump.

“Pipsey,” Hermione said slowly, one brow already lifting. “May I ask what-”
“A message from the Young Lord,” the elf declared with ceremonial flair, as though announcing the arrival of royalty at a ball only she had been invited to.

She held up a rolled parchment between two fingers like it was some fragile heirloom, though her eyes sparkled far too much to be neutral.

Hermione accepted it, but Pipsey remained where she was. Observing.

“I assume you’ll be leaving now?” Hermione asked, inspecting the seal.

Pipsey’s ears didn’t twitch. Only her eyes did. They nodded toward the scroll. “You’re going to read it, yes?”
Hermione sighed and broke the seal. “You do realize you’re not-”
“Oooh,” Pipsey said, already leaning half over her shoulder before Hermione had even finished the first line. “His handwriting has grown more dramatic since the incident with the cellar walls. I find it charming. Matches his temperament.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “Would you like me to read it aloud?”

Pipsey clasped her hands as if she were in a velvet theatre seat. “If you offer, Pipsey would be your most attentive audience.”

Hermione read silently, deliberately ignoring the elf’s satisfied humming, and bit the inside of her cheek when she reached the last line. Short. Formal. But laced with a kind of quiet intensity that made her pulse stumble for half a second.

Pipsey, utterly shameless, was studying her face the entire time.

“He means it,” the elf murmured. “How terribly thrilling.”

Hermione glanced at her. “Are you done spying now?”

Pipsey bowed low. “Pipsey is but a humble messenger. Exceptionally good at reading expressions. Pipsey will now depart. Unless… you have a reply?”

Hermione hesitated. Her eyes drifted back to the parchment, to the precise, careful lettering. To the weight of what he’d written, and everything he hadn’t.
“I think I’ll go tell him in person.”

Pipsey clapped her hands in delight. “Ooooh! You are not cowardly at all! Pipsey shall prepare the Manor..”

Before Hermione could ask what on earth that meant, the elf vanished.
The moment Pipsey vanished in a puff of magic and smug satisfaction, Hermione stood. She didn’t change clothes. Didn’t freshen up. Didn’t even bother brushing the ink smudge from the side of her hand. She simply grabbed her wand, folded the parchment into her coat pocket, and Disapparated.

She apparated just beyond the iron gates of Malfoy Manor, the night air thick with the scent of old stone and something faintly sweet, hyacinth, maybe.

The wards shimmered faintly in the corners of her vision. And of course he was already coming down the path.

Draco Malfoy.

Clearly, Pipsey hadn’t waited a second to inform him.

He looked…Well. Annoyingly good, actually.

Black trousers, tailored sharp enough to cut. A high-collared shirt, ink-black and just slightly undone at the throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows with clinical precision. His coat, unmistakably expensive, hung around him like a shadow. Its edges threaded with barely-there hints of darker black, so subtle they caught the light only when they chose to. Every detail spoke of legacy, of choices curated not by trend but tradition.

His hair was slicked back with practiced care. Except for one rebellious strand that had slipped free, falling forward like a challenge no one dared name.

He moved with quiet purpose, like someone who knew exactly how many steps it took to reach her, and what silence cost between each one.

“You came,” he said, voice even. But his eyes were anything but. Watching. Calculating. Waiting for her to make this real.

“I did,” Hermione replied, lifting her chin. She folded her arms across the front of her tailored blazer. Deep navy, sharp-shouldered, with a single silver clasp at the waist. Her trousers matched, and a slim wand holster peeked just beneath the cuff. A soft glow of enchanted pearl studs blinked faintly at her ears, Discreet yet unmistakable.

He didn’t comment on her appearance. He didn’t need to. His gaze flicked once, discreetly, to the ink on her sleeve. She knew he saw everything.

“You were working,” he said, more a statement than a question.

She nodded. “I usually do. Late hours suit me.”

“Same,” he said. Then, after a pause: “You didn’t write back.”

“I thought I’d come tell you in person.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so.”

She didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, she didn’t entirely know why. Not yet. The scroll had been brief. Factual, even. But something in the way he’d written it… or perhaps something in her had simply shifted.
Narcissa’s secrets clung to her skin like static. And Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever the woman was holding back, it mattered deeply. It wasn’t just old pureblood drama or family shame. It was something tangled in the war, in Voldemort’s legacy, in the very magic that still pulsed beneath the floors of this house.

And Draco was at the center of it.

Not just because he lived here. But because he carried it. She could feel it. Like weight behind his words, behind his silences.

She crossed her arms, suddenly cold. “I want to know what she’s hiding.”

Draco’s mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. Not quite a smile.
“She’s always hiding something.”

Hermione looked at him. And for a moment, the impulse to reach for her wand and cast Legilimens rose like a whisper in her blood.
But she didn’t. Because that wasn’t how you handled fragile things.
And something about him felt fragile. Not weak. Never that.

“I want to help,” she said. “If you’re still planning to investigate the black secrets.

Draco tilted his head, studying her. “Are you offering to work with me, Granger?”

“I’m offering to work on this,” she corrected. “With or without your theatrics.”

He snorted. “You say that now.”

Hermione ignored the flutter in her chest. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He stepped back, just enough to gesture toward the Manor.
“You know what this means, don’t you?”

She lifted a brow. “You mean full access to centuries of buried magic, veiled history, and the kind of secrets that usually come with a body count?”

His eyes flicked to hers, something unreadable shifting behind them.
“And you’re still offering to help,” he said softly. “Even knowing exactly what kind of things we might find.”

A pause.

“That’s either brave… or very foolish.”
His mouth curved slightly, eyes glinting. “...among other things.”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice stayed level.
“Just so we’re clear, Malfoy. This is research. That’s all.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Strictly academic.”

She didn’t believe him.
Worse, she didn’t fully believe herself.

But she followed him through the gates anyway.

Hermione stood beside Draco at the long reading table, the parchment between them weighed down by a pair of silver runic weights shaped like serpents. The ink was dense, the handwriting immaculate, and the language, well. That was the problem.

“This part,” she murmured, tapping the top line with a carefully filed nail, “is in Archaic Formal Script. But not just any variant. I think it’s Black family cipherwork layered over old Latin.”

Draco leaned in, one hand braced on the table, the other resting lightly on the back of her chair. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him behind her shoulder.

“I thought so,” he said, a little too pleased with himself. “She used to write letters to Father that way when she didn’t want the elves reading them.”

Hermione muttered something unflattering and drew her wand. With a flick, she conjured a translation grid above the parchment, its columns adjusting as the symbols began to shift and reconfigure. Draco watched her work with open interest.

“Efficient,” he said. “I always forget how annoyingly satisfying it is to watch you solve things.”

“That sounds dangerously close to a compliment,” she said without looking up.

He grinned. Actually grinned. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

They worked in a rhythm that shouldn’t have come so easily. Trading notes. Parsing roots. Arguing over the proper interpretation of a charm sequence that referred either to magical containment… or resurrection.

“It’s deliberately ambiguous,” Hermione said, frowning at a line that twisted halfway down the page like it was trying to slip away.

“It’s Black,” Draco said with a shrug. “Ambiguity is practically a birthright.”

She glanced at him again, and for a moment their eyes locked.

Something passed between them.

A flicker of tension. Not quite flirtatious. Just… awareness.

Draco was the first to look away, though the edge of his mouth curved like he’d won something.

He stepped around the table and pulled a massive leather-bound volume from one of the side shelves. "Here. This might help. She mentioned this sigil once. Said it had ties to pre-Merlinian wardcraft.”

He dropped the book beside her with a dramatic thud, then leaned casually on the table as she opened it.

“You’re enjoying this,” Hermione said, flipping pages.

“Terribly,” he admitted. “It’s not every day I get to witness the great Hermione Granger willingly trapped in Malfoy Manor.”

Finally, Hermione exhaled sharply. “There. This rune-here, nested between the ward symbols. It doesn’t mean containment or preservation, not exactly.”

Draco straightened, moving closer. “What, then?”

She tapped the faded marking with the tip of her wand, her voice quieter now.

“It’s a binding mark. Symbolic... but magically reinforced. It refers to an ancient pact. Voluntary. Powerful. And permanent.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “A pact with what?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her eyes scanned the next few lines, her expression tightening.

“With someone,” she said at last. “Or something. The runes shift context depending on who initiated it. This wasn’t about sealing a curse. It was about agreeing to hold something. Protect it. Possibly at great cost.”

There was a silence, thick and immediate. Even the magical lights above them seemed to dim.

Draco’s voice was low when he spoke. “And she signed it?”

Hermione looked up at him. “It’s written in her blood script. So yes. She didn’t just hide something. She bound herself to it.”

Draco stepped back half a pace, jaw tight. “Bloody hell.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Exactly.”

She turned the parchment slightly, and the runes shimmered as if they resented being seen.

“This wasn’t some protective family charm. This was a contract. And I think...” she hesitated, meeting his gaze again, “I think she wants you to decide whether to honour it or break it.”

Draco was very still.

Then, quietly: “And if I break it?”

Her answer was almost a whisper. “Then whatever she held back… it won’t stay buried. It’s not containment. It’s preservation. Something sealed, not suppressed. Which means…”
“…She wasn’t warning us,” Draco finished, his tone lower now. “She was inviting us to look.”

Their eyes met again. No teasing this time.

Something quieter.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

Chapter Text

They worked through the night.

By the time the candles guttered low and the wards around the Manor shifted into dawn-readiness, Draco had lost track of how many translation grids they'd burned through.
The text refused to settle. One line rearranged itself every time they looked away. Another dissolved completely under magical scrutiny, only to reappear hours later in mirrored script.

The pact was more than a binding. That much was clear.

It was alive and watchful.

As if the pact itself resented being examined after so many years left untouched. And the deeper they dug, the clearer one thing became: someone else had been there when it was sealed.

Another witness.

One whose blood had anchored the spell alongside Narcissa’s.

At first, Draco hadn’t wanted to believe it. His father had always played the role of distant strategist, not blood-magic participant. But the phrasing in the central clause was unmistakable.“By the line, the oath, and the willing hand.”Hermione had circled it three times, lips pressed into a line so thin it almost vanished.

The hours between dusk and dawn had passed in clipped remarks, precise wandwork, and the scratch of parchment. Their tone had remained professional. All business.
And he hadn’t pushed it.
Not when her magic hummed near his, not when her eyes avoided his name like it was dangerous to say.
She moved with that same tight-laced focus she used when cornered. Sharp, deliberate and untouchable.
It shouldn’t have gotten to him. But it did.

He watched her gather her things. Watched the way her fingers lingered on the edge of a parchment, like she didn’t quite want to let go of what they'd uncovered. Of the proximity.

And still, he said nothing.

Until she reached the door.

Then:

“You could stay.”
Even tone. Measured. “The east wing’s quiet. You’d sleep better than wherever you’re going.”

She turned halfway. No smile, no frown. Just that calm, analytical stillness she wore like armour.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. Already withdrawing. Always retreating on her own terms.

His gaze didn’t follow her as the door clicked shut. He remained at the desk, one hand still resting on the half-translated parchment.
Let her think it was his idea to let her go.
Let her wonder whether he would’ve insisted, if she’d lingered just a moment longer.

He was a Malfoy.
He didn’t chase.

But Salazar help him. He almost had.

Morning came far too quickly.

And now he stood at the end of a Ministry-regulated apparition corridor, side by side with the same woman who’d kept her distance last night. Ready to face the place he least wanted to return to.
Let alone with her.

Azkaban.

He hadn’t been a prisoner. Not officially. The post-war tribunal had deemed him redeemable, useful, manageable.
But he’d been sent there all the same.

Not to rot.
To be… corrected.
A programme, they called it.

Months of silence cloaked in magic: mind-stilling draughts, truth-binding spells, auric re-alignment rituals that scraped away resistance thought by thought.

They hadn’t taken his wand.

Just made damn sure he was no longer tempted to use it the wrong way.

Or so they believed.

Theo had helped him find a workaround. A layering charm disguised as innocuous shielding, paired with a spell-masking glyph embedded in the wand’s handle. It blurred the magical intent just enough to confuse most Ministry monitoring wards.

Blaise had arched one brow and offered, smooth as silk, “Let them believe you’ve been neutered. The real power is in knowing you haven’t.”

It wasn’t the same as before. There were limits. Risks. But it was enough.
Enough to interrogate. To compel. To defend what still needed defending, even when justice had to be done in the shadows.

A soft shift beside him.
Hermione hadn’t spoken since they’d entered the corridor. But he felt it. The way her gaze flicked toward him.

And Salazar, he hated how instinctively he responded to it.
How some part of him… braced. Like the echo of those months tightened in his chest.

She adjusted the sleeve of her coat with a flick of her wand. Jaw tight. Eyes forward. He understood the instinct. He mirrored it.
She held herself like a soldier.
He moved like someone raised to command them.

They passed the final checkpoint in silence, escorted by a grim-faced Auror who clearly recognized both of them and wisely said nothing.
When the man hesitated at the junction, it was Draco who spoke first. "Cell 12A. South wing." Calm. Precise. The kind of voice that didn’t expect to be questioned.

Then he turned to the Auror, gaze cool and measured. Not hostile. Just enough to remind him that some names still carried weight. Even here.
The Auror fell into step without another word.

Draco didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Of course Hermione followed.

The corridor narrowed.
The walls shimmered faintly with embedded runes and the salt-touched breath of the sea.
The deeper they went, the more it pressed against his skin.
The sense that the past was about to rise and look him in the eye.

Azkaban was quieter than he remembered. No screams. No howling wind. The Dementors were long gone. But the magic still knew how to starve people of warmth.

Hermione walked half a step behind him. Wand hand near her coat. Eyes narrowed. She hadn’t said a word since the checkpoint. She didn’t need to. He could feel it too.
Something was humming. Not in the walls. Not in the guards. But between them.

A string pulled taut.

The closer they got to Cell 12A, the worse it became. Draco’s pulse quickened. With recognition.

He stopped at the checkpoint, nodded to the ward officer, and gave his name. The man checked the ledger and stepped aside.

Cell 12A waited behind a reinforced iron grid, etched with containment runes. A viewing bench. A floating glass wall. And behind it, seated in a stiff-backed chair, was Lucius Malfoy.
He looked older. Paler. But not broken. Lucius Malfoy didn’t break. He cracked in silence and rearranged himself around the fracture.

His posture was perfect. His gaze sharper than it had any right to be.

Draco stepped forward. The glass shimmered and hissed. A warning. Just enough to block a spell. Not enough to stop what needed to be said.

"Father," he said.
Lucius raised one brow. "Draco. Miss Granger." Calm. Controlled. Barely a glance at her.
"I suppose this is not a social call."
"No," Draco said. "It’s about Mother."

Something flickered in Lucius’ eyes. Not alarm. Something deeper. Defensive.
Draco didn’t wait.
“We uncovered the concordium. Hidden under layers of cipher and Black family wards. You witnessed it, didn’t you?”

Lucius tilted his head.
“If she kept it hidden, it was for a reason. And if I was there… then trust me when I say it was necessary.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“And yet it’s the only answer you’ll receive.”

Hermione stepped closer, her magic brushing his. Cool. Controlled. Measured like her gaze.
She stared at Lucius like he was a file she meant to dismantle.

“You’re wearing it,” she said.

Lucius blinked. “Pardon?”

She nodded toward his chest. “The chain. That watch. It’s humming.”

Lucius followed her gaze. At first amused, then confused.
Then very still.

Draco’s pulse struck once, sharp.

Lucius reached into his vest and drew the chain free. Thick silver, twisted in an old Black knot, a flat etched timepiece at its centre.

The moment it passed the edge of his robes, the air shifted.
Runes along the viewing glass flared. The containment ward pulsed like something exhaling.

Draco felt it in his spine. Deep. Ancient. Familiar.

“There’s a tether,” Hermione whispered. “Only visible at close range. It’s responding to your magical signature. It’s keyed to you.”

“How did they let you keep it?” Draco asked, eyes narrowing.

Lucius gave a faint smile. “Because no Ministry ward recognises it as anything more than a keepsake. Your mother’s enchantments were... sophisticated.”

Lucius stared at the watch like it had grown teeth. "She gave it to me… the night before the trial."

"Before the verdict," Hermione said, voice low.

Lucius nodded, slowly. "She said I would need it. That time had to be protected."

Draco stepped closer. "You were there."

A long pause. Then , quieter now, with a weight that landed hard between them:
"She didn’t trust him. Not truly. But she believed in leverage. And Black magic was leverage."

"You helped her bind the forfeit," Hermione said. "The pact couldn’t seal without blood."

Lucius's fingers tightened on the chain. "She wanted to keep you out of it."

"She failed," Draco said. Cold. And meant it.

Lucius met his eyes. Something raw behind the polish. “Do you know what she gave away?”

Draco didn’t blink. “I know what’s left of it. And it wants something back.”

Hermione frowned. “What did she give?”

Something cold curled in Draco’s chest. Lucius looked down at the watch again, voice distant. “Something old. Bound through Black rites. She traded it… in return for time.”

A silence stretched. Then Draco spoke, slower now. “Time for what?”

Lucius exhaled, a single breath. “For you.”

Hermione’s voice was quiet. “Who was the trade with?”

Lucius didn’t answer. Not at first.
A glance between them.
“The Dark Lord.”

The name hit like a dropped stone.

Draco froze.

Hermione reeled back half a step. “You mean Voldemort.”

Lucius’s gaze didn’t waver. “I mean the man who thought himself a god and demanded a price to match.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “She made a pact with him?”

Lucius didn’t flinch. "She bound herself to him. Not in loyalty. In strategy. She gave him access to something old. Forbidden. Through Black rites."

"For what?" Draco’s voice was hoarse.

Lucius finally looked at him again. "Protection...for you."

Silence stretched between them.

Draco stepped back, just slightly. Enough to breathe.

"She was already planning the break," he whispered.

Lucius’s gaze softened, barely. "She knew the cost. But she knew the stakes better."

He looked back to Hermione. "If she trusted you with this, Miss Granger, then perhaps… my doubts are due for refinement."

Hermione, still pale, lifted her chin. "I’ll take that as a start."

Lucius nodded once. "Good."

Then, after a pause, his tone shifted. More deliberate.
"If you're set on understanding what she traded… then you’ll need to speak to the one who helped her hide the cost."

Draco stilled. "Who?"

Lucius didn’t answer immediately. He glanced toward the wall. A gesture, or perhaps just avoidance.

"There’s a man who deals in artefacts even the Unspeakables pretend not to see," he said eventually. "Name’s Rhodric Mulciber. Younger brother of the one you…"
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. "Well. Blood remembers."

Draco’s jaw clenched.

"He used to run acquisition routes through the old vaults beneath Knockturn. Last I heard, he nested somewhere behind the Rue d’Argent. The place that reeks of alkali and regret."

A pause. Their eyes locked.

"He won’t talk freely. He doesn’t remember how. You’ll have to… persuade him."

Another beat.

"And if he lies, he’ll do it like it’s prayer. So listen closely."

After Lucius looked away, Draco stepped forward casually. Almost lazily.
But his gaze was sharp, directed at the ward officer lingering at the edge of the observation space.

Draco kept his tone even. “We’ll need the watch. It’s a family piece.”

The guard blinked. “Sir?”

Hermione didn’t miss a beat. “It’s of personal significance. He wore it through the trial. Through sentencing. Removing it now could be... unsettling.”

Draco nodded, gaze steady. “It belonged to my grandfather. It’s not listed as contraband, and if it’s sent to storage, it’ll disappear into Ministry red tape for months. I’d prefer to keep it safe.”

The guard hesitated. “I’m not really supposed to-”

“My father gave it to me,” Draco interrupted, calm but final. “Deliberately. In front of a witness. You can log that if you like.”

A pause. The guard shifted, clearly torn between protocol and pragmatism. Then, with a resigned breath, he stepped aside.

“You didn’t get it from me.”

Hermione slipped the watch into a magically shielded pouch and tucked it into her coat.

Draco didn’t look at it.

Not yet.

Not here.

Chapter Text

The sea wind hit her first.

Sharp, salt-bitten, and strangely clean after the stillness of Azkaban’s corridors.
Hermione inhaled deeply, then released the breath in a slow stream, watching it vanish beyond the ward-line like smoke in windless air.

Draco didn’t speak as they stepped past the final checkpoint.
He hadn’t said a word since Lucius gave him the watch.

And yet, she could feel it.
He walked beside her like nothing had changed. Coat collar turned up, shoulders squared, expression composed to the point of disdain. But she’d seen the flicker. The tell. That pulse in his jaw when Lucius had said, you know what to do with it. And she’d felt the ripple of it, too, when she slipped the watch into her coat, still warded, still sealed.
The air had thinned. The magic had prickled.

His magic hadn’t turned darker. Not quite. But it had shifted.
Like something remembering its depth.

She didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Draco’s jaw was set, his gaze straight ahead, but the current beneath his control ran hotter than usual.
He knew something had changed. She was certain of it.
He just hadn’t named it yet.

“Draco,” she said quietly.
He turned toward her. No sharpness. Just the arch of a brow, like he already knew she was about to complicate his morning.

She hesitated. Then:
“Come with me to the Three Broomsticks. Just for a moment. We should… talk.”

He studied her for a breath too long. Measured.

She met his gaze, refusing to look away.

“For strategy,” she added.

A pause. Then the barest tilt of his head. “Fine. But only if you ward the table.”

She almost smiled. “Of course.”

Ten minutes later, they were seated at a quiet corner table, steam curling from a pot of black coffee between them. Her silencing wards shimmered faintly in the air. Discrete , but unmistakable.
The pub was half-empty. Just the clatter of dishes behind the bar and the low hum of early patrons.

Ginny wasn’t working today. A small, unexpected relief. No raised brows. No side-glances.
Just space.
Draco didn’t touch the coffee.
He leaned back, arms folded.

Hermione focused. “We’ll need to see Pansy first,” she said. “Before anything else. The protections in the Shack weren’t enough. And that was just one artefact. One shadow.”
“Agreed,” Draco said. Crisp. “Whatever Mother forged... the Shack was a side effect. Not the source.” His voice was steady. Too steady.

“Pansy might be able to reinforce the talismans,” she continued. “Yours, mine. Maybe enough to cover the others.”
We’ll need Theo,” Draco said. “Not to ask questions. Just to make sure Mulciber doesn’t lie when I do. And we’ll need Blaise,” Draco said. “He has a way of knowing where people hide. Especially the ones who don’t want to be found.”

Her fingers tensed around her cup.
Mulciber.
Not the dead one. The other. Rhodric. The one they needed.
The one Draco intended to break open like a locked drawer.

“You’re sure you want to be the one to question him?”
Draco’s eyes met hers. Calm. Detached. Unapologetic. “He won’t talk to you.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean I want to watch what it takes.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Then wait outside,” he said, tone mild, almost casual. “I won’t be long.”

The words weren’t cruel. Just typical Malfoy: dry, detached, and impossible to argue with.
And somehow, that stung worse.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” she murmured. “I just wouldn’t make the same choices.”

“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”

Not judgment. Not distance. Just the difference stated cleanly.

She steadied herself. “But I’m still going with you.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then his mouth curved. Almost a smirk.
“Of course you are.”

She looked at him fully now.
At the way the morning light hit the line of his cheek. The subtle set of his shoulders.
The way he occupied space. Not asking for it, simply claiming it.
And something in her pulled.
Toward and away. At once.

“You’ve changed,” she said, quiet.

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Is that a compliment?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered honestly. “But I think the watch is affecting you.”

His eyes didn’t shift, but his magic did. A flicker. Quick and tight. Defensive.

“It’s not dangerous,” he said. “Not to me.”

Hermione hesitated. She could have said more. That she’d felt the wards respond. That the air had changed when it came near him. That it wasn’t just resonance. It was integration.

But she didn’t.

Instead she said: “If Narcissa gave it willingly… then it was part of the exchange. That makes it-”
“Anchored,” he said. Voice low. “I know.”

They sat in silence.Hermione cleared her throat. “Pansy first,” she repeated. “Then… Mulciber.”

Draco rose smoothly. “Then let’s get on with it.”

But when she reached for the coffee, his hand brushed hers.
Not accidental. Not hesitation. Just a touch. Brief, but deliberate.
His fingers curled, lightly, over hers. Not enough to hold. Just enough to remind her he could.

“Careful, Granger,” he murmured, voice low and maddeningly calm. “You keep reaching for things that burn.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

Just leaned back in his chair like he hadn’t just said the most intimate threat she’d ever heard at a breakfast table.

And she hated that her pulse stuttered.

Because his magic didn’t lie.
And neither did hers.

Chapter Text

The library didn’t sleep. It lingered. Like something waiting to be let in.

A slow, discordant violin hummed from the enchanted gramophone in the corner, warped just enough to make the skin itch.

Theo stood in front of the mirror like a maestro before an audience of ghosts.
A glass of deep red wine in one hand, and in the other, a polished cane of obsidian wood. Its silver handle curled into the shape of a clawed hand. Dramatic, impractical, and precisely the point.

Not a wand. He wouldn’t sully this performance with practicality.

“Rhodric Mulciber,” he drawled, lips curling around the name like a caress turned blade.
“Your silence is almost charming. Really. As if you think it protects you. As if I haven’t cracked open prettier men than you, with softer voices and more symmetry, using nothing but patience and a dulled spoon.”

He paused to swirl the wine. It caught the firelight like arterial blood.

“I’ve been studying,” he murmured. “The old ways. The... forgotten ways. Iron combs. Hot coals. The pear of anguish -Merlin, that one’s just beautifully metaphorical. Did you know it was used for liars and sodomites alike? There’s poetry in that, I think.”

He took a sip. Licked a drop from the corner of his mouth like it was holy.

“Of course, I won’t use all of it,” he said lightly, almost offended by the thought. “Some instruments are just… vulgar. The flaying wheel, for instance…far too messy. No contrast. No line work. And I do prefer a workspace where the blood lands cleanly, like brushstrokes on stretched canvas.”

He twirled the cane once, slow and deliberate.
“But the thumbscrews... ah. Now those are intimate. Controlled. Every crack, every fracture, perfectly timed. It’s like tuning an instrument, if the instrument screamed.”

He exhaled like a man recalling a lover.
“They’re understated. Intimate. A good way to start.”

He took a step back from the mirror, turned on his heel with a flourish, and gestured as though presenting to an invisible crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the tragedy of Rhodric Mulciber. One night only, unless he screams early. In which case, we’ll extend the engagement.”

He let the cane strike the floor with a satisfying crack.
“You see,” he continued, eyes gleaming, “Cruelty isn’t a shout in the dark. It’s the creak of the floorboard before it. The knowledge that someone could hurt you, and chooses to take their time.”

His smile widened.

“And the best part? He thinks Draco is the one to fear.”

Theo turned back to the mirror and dipped into a theatrical bow.
“But we all play our roles, don’t we?”

The violin reached its discordant crescendo, and then stopped.

A knock echoed against the heavy library doors. Not urgent. Just... present.

Theo didn’t flinch.
He straightened slowly, like a curtain rising, and turned toward the sound.

“Ah,” he said, gaze gleaming with something far too sharp to be called joy.
“Well. If it isn’t the conscience delegation. How tiring. I was almost enjoying myself.”

Hermione stood in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. Blaise leaned against the frame beside her, perfectly unbothered, one brow arched with quiet amusement.

“What exactly are we watching?” Blaise asked.

Theo lifted his glass with exaggerated grace. “Interrogation rehearsal,” he said. “Or perhaps preparing for my one-man show: ‘Cruelty, with Commentary.’ Still workshopping the title.”

Silence followed. Heavy.
Theo smiled into it like it was applause.

Hermione exhaled. “We’re meeting in half an hour at the Three Broomsticks. Just... try not to traumatise the wallpaper.”
She didn’t wait for a reply.

Blaise had taken the booth already; Draco sat beside him, all sharp lines and quiet arrogance.

Theo and Hermione followed minutes later. Not quite together, not quite apart. Their footsteps didn’t sync, but their silence did.

Ginny moved behind the bar with practiced ease, sleeves rolled, hair pinned back with a stubborn quill.
She didn’t acknowledge their arrival, not directly. But Theo caught the tail end of a look she’d already given Blaise.
Brief. Controlled. Far too calm to be nothing.

Blaise, for his part, hadn’t moved. Hadn’t blinked.
Which, in Theo’s experience, usually meant everything had just happened.

He smiled to himself. Well, he thought, that’s going to be interesting.

Theo dropped into the seat opposite them with a sigh so pointed it could’ve been scripted.
“Tell me this isn't another intervention disguised as a conversation,” he said, reaching for the nearest glass. “I’ve already promised not to kill anyone unless absolutely necessary.”

Blaise didn’t look up from his drink. “Not yet,” he murmured.

Hermione, a step behind, didn’t sit. She lingered with her arms folded, expression somewhere between composed and coiled.
“I’m not sure your definition of necessary aligns with anyone else’s.”

Theo gave her a slow, serene smile. “That’s because everyone else lacks imagination.”

Hermione ignored him.

“Pansy’s ready to begin the fittings,” she said, tone clipped. “The protective gear needs to be tailored individually. Enchantments, runes, magical compatibility. She’ll probably want blood samples. Don’t argue.”

“That’s fine,” Theo said, lifting his glass in mock salute. “Always happy to bleed for fashion.”

Blaise arched a brow. “Just don’t get it on the rug this time.”

Theo smirked, unbothered. He let the silence stretch just long enough to border on theatrical, then turned to Draco.
“And Rhodric?” he asked, voice light as silk. “I assume I’m permitted to prepare my metaphors?”

Draco didn’t blink. Didn’t shift.
“I’ll handle it.”

Silence.

Theo’s smile faltered. Only slightly. “Sorry?”

“I’ll interrogate him,” Draco said, voice steady. “My responsibility. My mess.”

Theo tilted his head slightly. Noted the edge in Draco’s tone.
He didn’t say it, of course. Merlin forbid.
But he didn’t miss it either.

Theo laughed. Once, sharp and mirthless. “Ah. Of course. How efficient of you. And here I thought delegation was the foundation of any stable operation.”

Hermione shifted, but didn’t speak.

Theo turned back to his drink, swirling it slowly.

“So let me get this straight. I’m apparently useful enough to reinforce protections, charm the uncharmable, and walk into cursed artefacts. But not allowed to interrogate the man whose entire psychological profile I could draft in a haiku?”

Draco’s jaw tensed. “This isn’t about skill. It’s about control.”

Theo’s smile returned. Thinner now, all edge.
“Yes,” he said softly. “That much is obvious.”

His eyes flicked toward the bar. Just briefly. Blaise followed the glance, and didn’t quite look away.

A moment later, Ginny appeared beside them. Smooth as a spell, all rolled sleeves and the scent of roasted juniper.
She set a fresh bottle down with deliberate grace, met Theo’s gaze without flinching, and said,
“Relax, Theo. If you’re feeling underutilised, I’ve got a few obnoxious regulars you can take out back and terrify. No questions asked.”

Theo blinked once.
Well. Finally, a little appreciation.

She didn’t look at Blaise. Didn’t need to.
But that knife-edged curve at the corner of her mouth?
Delicious. Weaponised. Almost enough to make Theo forgive her for ruining his dramatic tension.

Blaise tracked her retreat like a man trying not to stare.

“She keeps looking at me like she’s already undressed me and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Theo tilted his head. “That’s because she has.”

“And I still want her.”

“That’s because you’re a fool.”

From behind the bar, Ginny didn’t miss a beat.

“You can keep looking, Zabini. But I decide what’s worth wanting.”

Theo’s grin widened. Almost genuine. Almost.
“Magnificent,” he murmured, swirling the last of his drink. “Honestly, we should bring her to the interrogation. I’ve seen possessed daggers with less bite.”

Draco said nothing. Not out of dismissal. But calculation.

His fingers curled once around his glass, knuckles whitening for just a moment.
And there it was. That tension. That grip.
The need to stay in control, no matter how much the room shifted around him.

Theo leaned back, letting the booth press into his spine.
His voice turned flat. Quiet. Razor-clean.
“Keep your secrets if you want,” he said. “But don’t expect the rest of us to bleed for blind orders.”

No one answered. Not right away.

Theo let the silence stretch, then exhaled like a man dismissing an opera he hadn’t auditioned for.

He stood with a flourish, downed the last of his drink, and straightened his collar with deliberate flair.

“Right. Since I’m apparently not allowed to peel information from Rhodric, I’ll settle for peeling the ego off some entitled drunk in the back.”

He glanced toward the bar, already moving. “Wish me restraint.”

As he passed Ginny, he gave her a subtle nod.
“Anyone giving you trouble tonight, darling?”

She didn’t blink.
“Table seven,” she said. “He thinks manners are optional and my arse is public property.”

He didn’t go straight for table seven. That would be vulgar.
He strolled. All nonchalance and effortless charm. A slow adjustment of his cuff. Let the man see him coming and not know whether to feel threatened or flattered.
He stopped beside the table and leaned in, voice silk and promise.

“You look like a man who’s been misunderstood.”

A pause. A smile. One that didn’t touch his eyes.

“Would you like the chance to explain yourself… privately?”

The man blinked, wary, then puffed up. Pride, lust, stupidity, hard to tell. He smiled back willingly.

Theo offered a hand. Not to shake.

To lead.

The man took it.
Of course he did.

And with the slow, sinuous grace of a predator who enjoyed the wait almost as much as the catch, Theo guided him toward the back.
Not rushing. Just walking.
Like laughter in a locked room. Lovely. Until the air runs out.

Chapter Text

Pansy Parkinson, playing house.
They’d snickered when they said it.

Placed bets behind her back. How long before she’d curse the curtains?
Turn the neighbours into something more manageable?

But the jokes had quieted lately.
Because absurdly, it suited her.

This house.
This life.

The cottage sat low and grounded, its bones sunk into soil and stubbornness.
Nothing like the echoing marble and haunted mirrors she’d grown up with.
No velvet-draped ghosts judging her posture and no ancestral portraits whispering bloodline expectations.

Just quiet.
And air.
And Neville’s ridiculous greenhouse.

And Merlin help her… she liked it.

Maybe it was the sharp-angled windows.
Or the stone walls, solid enough to argue with.
Maybe it was the fact that they’d picked it out together.
Her and Neville, both pretending it wasn’t romantic.
Until it absolutely was.

From the outside, it still played sweet country manor.
Inside, it was Pansy’s.
Thoroughly. Unapologetically. Dangerously hers.

Repurposed furniture wore lush fabrics.
The bookshelves were filled with curated curiosities: a basilisk fang beside a pearl comb, a preserved corsage with a faint trace of poison.
But her true kingdom lay upstairs.
The atelier.
Once three miserable guest rooms and a hallway that smelled of mildew.
Now?
Now it pulsed.

The floors gleamed black. The ceiling glowed faintly gold. Cupboards whispered when opened.
Spools of thread hovered mid-air, waiting for her hands.
A long mirror reflected dresses not yet made.
The mannequin adjusted its stance depending on the wearer’s mood.
And in the corner, under a dome of warded velvet, floated one unfinished piece. Black, sleek, and not to be touched without warding charms and a firm will to live.

It wasn’t a workspace.
It was a sanctum.
An altar.
And Pansy was its high priestess.

Downstairs, somewhere behind ivy-laced windows, stood Neville’s greenhouse.
Messy, alive, half-sentient.
The plants practically sang for him.
It was wild where she was precise. Gentle where she was sharp.

But somehow, they’d made it work.
Rooted and reckless
Lace and leaf.

He was her anchor.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t need to be cruel to feel safe anymore.

She had friends now. Real ones.
Blaise, Theo, and Draco had always lingered at the edge of her world. Too familiar to lose, too complicated to cling to.

But since the Shrieking Shack, since the taste of death, something had shifted.
She saw the others differently now.
The three snakes, but also Hermione, Ron, even bloody Potter. And even odd, luminous Luna.
Still frustrating. Still so Gryffindor at times. Even the ones who technically weren’t.”
But also… loyal. Sharp when it counted.
They had stood their ground when it mattered. Fought for her when she hadn’t asked.
And they’d stayed.

Maybe at school they’d all been too young. Too busy with house lines and bruised pride to look past the uniforms.
But now?
Now they met at the pub on Fridays.
They drank. Argued. Laughed.
They were strange and fierce and utterly their own.
They let her be difficult without demanding apologies.
They saw her prickliness and didn't confuse it for poison.

And when the shadows came too close, someone always noticed. Someone always sat a little nearer.
It wasn’t what she’d asked for. But it might be exactly what she’d needed.

She stepped closer to the window as the group came into view. All four of them. Draco, sharp as ever, even half-sulking. Blaise, too smooth to bother with sulking at all. Theo, practically vibrating with mischief.
And Granger.
Pansy sighed through her nose.
Brilliant witch. Tragic wardrobe.
Maybe one day she’d let Pansy fix both.
Or at least the second.

The front door swung open on cue. A little enchantment she’d added for moments just like this: high on theatrics, low on patience.
She waited at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, one brow high.
Her silhouette backlit like a villainess.

“Well, don’t you all look like foreplay for a disaster.”
She leaned against the bannister, perfectly poised in silk and scorn, and let the door swing wider with a lazy flick of her wrist.
“Welcome. Just don’t touch anything that looks more valuable than you.”

Theo moved first, placing a hand over his heart, the other reaching toward her like she’d just whispered sweet obscenities in his ear.
“Tell me more about my worth, I beg you. Slowly.”

Blaise stepped over the threshold, gaze sweeping the space like it was something he hadn’t quite expected, or maybe hadn’t let himself expect.
He let out a soft whistle, low and appreciative.
Well,” he said, voice smooth but quiet, “you’ve certainly outdone yourself.”
His fingers brushed the curtains as he passed.
“From the outside, I thought I knew what to expect. But this…” He glanced toward her, eyes catching briefly. “This is something else.”
A pause. Then, almost like an afterthought:
"Elegant. Dangerous. Very you.”

She smiled sharp and satisfied.

Draco stepped inside, shoulders squared like he expected the room to pick a fight.
His gaze swept over the space. The velvet, the dark woods, the meticulous disorder that still managed to look curated.

He didn’t compliment her. Of course not.

But he nodded once, slow.
“Defensible layout,” he murmured, as if it were a battlefield.

“Of course it is,” Hermione said, tone dry.
“All that taste, and still room for a greenhouse somewhere, I assume?”
Pansy didn’t miss a beat.
“Outside. Where it belongs. I don’t let the dirt cross the threshold.”

Hermione snorted. A short, amused sound, and stepped inside like she’d done it before.

A door creaked open farther down the hall, followed by the unmistakable scuff of boots on stone.
Neville appeared, sleeves rolled, hair tousled, a stubborn vine draped over one shoulder like an afterthought.

“Is this the part where I pretend I didn’t hear you threatening the guests again?”
His voice was warm, easy, threaded with amusement.
Pansy didn’t look over her shoulder, just tilted her head slightly, as if posing for an unseen portrait.
“Darling,” she said, tone smooth as silk with a blade beneath,
“Don’t be silly. I save my real threats for dinner parties and family reunions.”
Then she turned, smile precise, eyes gleaming just a little too bright.
“But no. Today, I’m feeling civilised.”
A beat.
“For now.”
Neville appeared at her side, hands in his pockets, eyes twinkling.
“Tea’s hot, pie’s edible, and Pansy hasn’t hexed anyone all morning.”
He nodded toward the hallway.
“Make yourselves at home. Just don’t touch anything that hums.”
Pansy didn’t miss a beat.
“Unless it hums in E minor,” she said sweetly. “Those are the friendly ones.”

Blaise offered a polite nod.
“Good to know.”

Theo gave a slow once-over, then winked.
“No wonder she’s keeping you.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but it was more ritual than rebuke.
“He keeps the house from imploding.”
A beat.
“And me, occasionally.”

Across the room, Neville looked up and caught her eye.
He didn’t say a word. Just gave her a slow, deliberate wink. The kind that said yes, dear. Without needing to say it out loud.

Then he straightened, brushing his hands on his trousers.
“I’ll be in the greenhouse,” he said, already heading toward the back door. “If anyone needs anything. Well. You lot aren’t exactly quiet.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room somehow felt a fraction more serious.

Draco cleared his throat. Sharp and deliberate, and the room stilled like it knew to listen.
“We found the next artefact,” he said. His voice carried easily, low and precise, every syllable trimmed of excess. “Lucius had it.”

Pansy arched a brow, arms folding with practiced poise. “Had?”

He nodded once. “We retrieved it from Azkaban. Hidden in plain sight. A pocket watch. Silver. Old. Black family craftsmanship.”

She frowned. “And it’s significant because...?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Because my mother gave it to him. During the war. She said it was for protection. A gesture. But nothing with Narcissa is ever just a gesture.”

A pause. The silence wasn’t empty. It pressed.

“We think it’s part of something larger. A pact she made with Voldemort. Blood-bound, meant to shield the family. Temporarily.”

He glanced at the others.

“We don’t know how many objects were involved. But whatever was sealed in that vault… it’s not all there anymore.”

Pansy didn’t speak. Her expression didn’t shift. But the air around her did.

“And you’re just… figuring this out now?” she asked, voice smooth but cool.

“It took time to trace,” Draco said. “And interference. Someone else accessed the vault. We suspect Rhodric Mulciber. He’s the one who sold me the mirror.”

That landed. Even Theo stopped fidgeting.

Pansy’s brows lifted, sharp with calculation. “So let me get this straight. Your mother made a pact with Voldemort, tied it to a handful of heirlooms that have now conveniently disappeared…”

A Pause. Her tone shifted. Curious now, but still edged.
“And he’s dead, Draco. So how are you even getting anything from it? How do you chase the remnants of a deal with a corpse?”

Draco met her gaze evenly. “Because the magic didn’t die with him.”

A beat.

“It’s old. Bound in blood. It lingers. And if it’s still active… it wants something.”

No one spoke. And then, wordlessly, they moved.

The stairs creaked beneath too many boots and too much tension. Hermione stayed near the centre, fingertips brushing the banister, eyes cataloguing every detail as if she could out-think whatever lay ahead.

Theo gave a low whistle as they reached the landing. “Charming. In that mildly cursed, heirloom-hoarder sort of way.”

Draco said nothing.

And Blaise looked around like he’d lived here in a former life. Or maybe just wanted to.

Pansy shut the atelier door behind them with a soft click, then turned, hands on her hips.
“This isn’t just about locking a cursed heirloom in a pretty box,” she said coolly.
“Whatever it is you’re planning to collect and control. It’s not stable.
You wouldn’t all be this twitchy if it were.”

Draco nodded once. “We don’t know what it might attract. Or repel.”

Theo dropped into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “Worst case scenario?”

“Possession,” Hermione said flatly. “Fragmentation. Something sentient attaching itself. We've already seen early signs.”

Pansy’s gaze narrowed.
“If this really came from him. From your side of the war, I’d expect more than silence and missing heirlooms.
Voldemort didn’t do subtle. So either it’s dormant… or it’s already watching.”

She turned to her central worktable, already reaching for protective inks, silken thread, and the coiled spells sleeping in carved drawers. Her voice was calm, but her hands moved too quickly to match.
“Whatever you’re dealing with,” she said, not looking up,
“it won’t be stopped by standard protections.
It’ll need something that adapts. Something that breathes.
Something that bites back. Before it’s even touched.”

She lifted her chin, eyes locking on Draco now.
“Which means I’ll need time. Materials. And the rest of you out of my atelier unless you plan to be useful.”

Theo raised a hand. “I can fetch wine.”

Pansy didn’t blink. “Or leave.”

Hermione stepped forward. “I’ll stay. I can reinforce the boundary charms while you work.”

Pansy considered her for a long second. Then nodded. A rare, honest nod. “Fine. But stay out of my threads. They bite harder than I do.”

Draco lingered near the table, his posture still, almost too still. Pansy looked at him again, head tilting slightly.

“You’re humming too,” she said.

His brows lifted. “Excuse me?”

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Your magic. It's changed. Whatever that thing is. Iit’s not just responding to you. It’s feeding you.”

Draco didn’t deny it.

Which, of course, was worse.

Blaise shifted from where he sat on the edge of the desk, legs crossed at the ankle, arms still folded.
“Well. That explains the extra brooding. And the late-night glow.”

No one laughed. Not even Theo.

Blaise’s voice dropped a fraction.
“Just make sure it doesn’t start eating you back.”

Chapter Text

The atelier wasn’t quiet.

Spools of enchanted thread floated overhead. Runes glowed faintly on strips of fabric. One of the needles had started vibrating aggressively, and Pansy silenced it with a flick and a hissed “Don’t test me.”

She was building protection. Something more than just armour. Something the group could wear. That would sense danger before it struck, respond rather than simply defend. Something, as she’d put it, “less passive, more personal, and preferably not ugly.”

Draco let her work.

He sat across the room, Hermione at his side, the two of them surrounded by silence that had settled after their last exchange, full of things unsaid.

Theo had left with a theatrical bow and a warning about flammable tempers. Blaise had vanished more quietly, leaving behind only the faint scent of cologne and the sense that he'd gone in search of secrets too dangerous to record.

That left the three of them.
Pansy. Focused.
Hermione. Watching.
And him.

The pouch lay between them on the table, untouched since that morning.
Draco glanced at it, then at her. “I want to look at it properly. See if I missed something.”

Hermione gave a single nod and slid it toward him. “Be careful,” she said, quiet but clear. “It’s been… inconsistent.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached out and untied the cord.

The watch slid into his palm with a muted clink. Colder than he expected, heavier too. Silver, elegant, and deceptively plain.
He turned it over in his hand, brow furrowing. “It’s not reacting.”

Hermione looked up from her notes. “Maybe it doesn’t need to. Maybe you do.”
No judgment. Just observation.

Draco exhaled slowly and closed his fingers around the watch.

The room vanished.
A flash of stone walls.
A voice hissing something ancient and wrong.
A hand, his hand? But the skin too pale, the fingers too long.
And eyes. Not his. Watching. Choosing.

His breath caught.

Across the room, Pansy looked up from her sketches, her brow furrowing. “What the-”

Hermione moved fast. “Draco?”

His jaw was clenched.
Eyes open but unfocused.
Magic rising around him like steam off boiling water.
The candlelight flickered, then pulled back. Retreating from him as if afraid.

Another flash. His mother, pale and frozen. Lucius beside her, face crumbling around pride.

Voldemort’s voice: “It must be him.”

Narcissa’s whisper: “No.”

“Draco!” Hermione was already on her feet, reaching for her wand.
Pansy stood too, wards flaring at her fingertips. “What did he touch?”

He didn’t hear them.
Not really.
Just the echo of footsteps circling him from within.

A cold laugh. A question left hanging. A truth he was never meant to hear.

And then…
The vision shattered.

Draco gasped, wrenching his hand open as if burned. The watch clattered to the floor.

He was back. But not entirely.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath and wrenched his hand open, the watch falling from his grip with a sharp metallic clink.
He doubled over, elbows on the table, head buried in his hands.

Hermione was beside him in two strides. “Draco, what did you see?”
Pansy didn’t wait. She knelt, snatched up the watch with a conjured cloth, and held it at arm’s length. “Did it do something to you?”

He didn’t answer.
Just breathed. Shallow.
Fingers tight in his hair.
Palms pressed against his temples like he could trap the pieces before they scattered.

Hermione crouched slightly, voice softer now. “Draco. Talk to me. What did it show you?”

He slowly lifted his head.
Eyes bloodshot. Lips parted. Voice raw.

“…He chose me.”

Hermione’s hand found his arm. “We need to write this down. Before it fades.”

“No.”
His voice cracked but steadied. “Not here.”

Pansy was already upright, the watch sealed inside a rune-inscribed case. Her expression sharp, professional. “Then leave. Both of you. You’re not helping me like this.”

Hermione frowned. “We were helping-”

“You were,” Pansy cut in. “But now he’s rattled and you’re hovering, and I can’t concentrate with two emotionally unstable prodigies disrupting the air.”

She wiped her hands on her skirt and turned back to her spellwork, summoning a floating grid of magical schematics. “I’ll stabilise the protective layer, rebind the artifact, and try to pin down what it’s reacting to. You-” she pointed vaguely at both of them without looking “go be dramatic elsewhere.”

Hermione hesitated. She knew Pansy well enough to recognise that tone: no nonsense, no room for debate.

She exhaled and touched Draco’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He nodded slowly. Still pale, but more present.

They walked to the door in silence, the space between them tense but charged. Just before they stepped into the hallway, Pansy called out:

“Oh, and Hermione?”

She turned halfway back.

Pansy didn’t glance up from her diagrams. Her voice was dry but pointed.

“Don’t let him touch anything else without gloves. Or sedation.”

Chapter Text

She still wasn’t sure what she’d seen.
Not entirely.
It hadn’t felt like the usual magical backlash. It had reached through Draco, not from him.
Something ancient.

Hermione tightened her grip on the strap of her bag as they stepped through the outer wards of Malfoy Manor. The air shifted around them with a hum. Recognising its heir, tolerating its guest.

Draco walked ahead, composed as ever. Too composed.

“You’re not fine,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t say I was,” he replied, not breaking stride.
“You implied it.”
“That’s not illegal.”
“No,” she muttered. “Just insufferable.”
He didn’t smile, but something flickered. A crack in the mask.

They crossed the threshold. The Manor was silent, polished, Hermione had once thought it sterile. But now she knew better. It was control.
A soft pop interrupted her thoughts.

Pipsey appeared mid-air, skirts flaring, and landed with a soft thump on the floor in front of them.
“Master Draco,” she sniffed. “You smell of burnt magic.”
Draco sighed. “Lovely to see you too, Pipsey.”
The elf turned sharply to Hermione. “And you, Miss Granger, are either very brave or very foolish. Possibly both.”
Hermione raised a brow, but Pipsey didn’t wait for a response.
“Sit. Now. Your aura’s crackling and he looks like he just walked out of someone else’s nightmare.” She turned, already marching toward the drawing room. “No one is allowed to collapse in the foyer. It’s undignified. Pipsey will fetch grounding draught and something brown.”
“Brown?” Draco echoed, following.
“Comforting. Stabilising. Earthy. Chocolate, mushrooms, maybe roasted parsnip if the kitchen hasn’t rebelled again.”

Before he could answer, the air shifted again.
Hermione felt it. That pressure, subtle and soft, like the house straightened its spine.
Narcissa Malfoy appeared at the top of the stairs. Graceful, collected, as if she'd been summoned not by noise, but by instinct.
She descended without sound, her robes trailing behind her like spilled ink. Eyes sharp as ever.
Her gaze moved from Draco, to Hermione, and finally to the small space between them.
She said nothing until she reached the landing.

“What happened,” she asked calmly, “and why is Pipsey muttering about exorcisms in the pantry?”
Draco didn’t speak right away.
He stood in the middle of the entry hall, posture composed but vibrating with the kind of tension that didn’t show in the limbs. Only in the air.
Hermione stayed close but silent, watching him calculate the weight of what to say.
At last, he looked at his mother.
“I touched the watch.”

Narcissa stilled. No dramatic reaction. Just a soft inhalation, barely there.
“And?” she asked, voice quiet.
“It did something,” Draco said. “I saw... something I shouldn’t have. Him. You. Father. And something in your eyes I’ve never seen before.”
He paused.
“Fear.”

Hermione expected deflection. A graceful sidestep. But Narcissa met her son’s gaze without looking away.
“And now?” she asked.

“I want answers.”

A heartbeat passed.
Then Narcissa turned her gaze to Hermione, not dismissively, but with something close to acknowledgement. “You should hear this as well.”
She walked into the drawing room and gestured for them to follow. No one argued.
The room smelled faintly of cedar and sage. A fire had been lit, but more for form than warmth.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Narcissa said, once they were seated. “There are things your father and I did during the war that were… quiet. Deliberate. And not easily undone.”
Draco’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”
“There were artefacts,” Narcissa began, quiet and measured, as if the words themselves could wake something best left sleeping. “Six of them. Though for years I believed it were only five.”
She didn’t look at him at first. Her gaze traced the rim of her teacup, her fingers unmoving, as if she were afraid any shift might break the air.
“They were tied to the pact. Chosen not just for what they were, but for what they meant. Anchors. Carriers. Containers for blood and intention.”

A breath.

“One was a silver bracelet,” she said, her voice steady but far away. “Passed down through the Black line for generations. No one wore it anymore. Too old-fashioned, too heavy. But it carried our blood, and our name. I used it during the pact. The metal accepted its purpose without protest.”
Her voice remained calm, but her eyes had gone distant, like she was speaking down a long corridor.
“Another was the book. The one that vanishes when opened. It doesn’t reveal its pages unless you speak the pact aloud. Even then, it answers only to those bound to it.”
She exhaled softly, as though the weight of it pressed against her ribs.
A flicker of something crossed her face. Not quite grief. Something colder.
“The needle was from the old tapestry. The Black family tree. It had threaded bloodlines long before me. It knew what to pierce, and what to remember.”
She looked up then. Briefly.
“The velvet box. Lined with green. It held the sigils, the sealing stones. We used it to complete the first casting. It hums sometimes, if you listen close enough.”
A pause.
“And the key. Forged from blood and tempered with silence. It was never meant to leave the vault, but Mulciber found it. Used it. That was the breach.”
Her fingers twitched, almost reaching toward the edge of the table.

“That made five,” she said softly. “Five objects I knew of. Five I grieved over when they vanished. I thought that was all.”
Then her eyes shifted. Not to him, but to the pouch at his side. To the thing he carried without thought.
“But the sixth… that was the watch. Your father wore it during the negotiation. I thought it was lost after the war. But somehow, it found its way back...to you.”
She exhaled slowly, as if the memory scraped her from the inside.
“I didn’t see it for what it was. Not then. But it stayed dormant. Waiting. And now… it’s close again. Too close.”

She fell silent for several seconds. Then her gaze shifted. Not to Draco, but to the watch resting near Hermione’s wand hand, wrapped in protective charms.
“I gave that to Lucius,” she said at last. Her voice was measured. Controlled. “The night before the trial. Not before the war. Not during the pact. After.”
She looked down.
“It wasn’t part of the original binding. Not then. But I had the silver reforged. The runes were already in place. Dormant, until proximity woke them.”
A pause.
“I told myself it was a gesture of loyalty. But it wasn’t. It was an anchor. I made it one.”

Hermione leaned in, voice quiet but sharp. “You think they’re loose?”
Narcissa didn’t look at her. “I know they’re missing,” she said instead. “And if the watch is reacting to you now, then the rest may have awakened. Or been awakened.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. “Reacting to what, exactly?”
For a moment, Narcissa’s expression didn’t move. “I don’t know. Not fully.”
But Hermione felt the lie. Not in the tone. That was as crisp and elegant as ever. But in the way Narcissa’s hands folded just a fraction too carefully in her lap. As if steadying herself against something already unraveling.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Draco’s voice cut through the silence. Not angry, but colder than it had been moments ago. Controlled.
Narcissa held his gaze. “Because you weren’t supposed to go looking for them.”
Another lie. But not out of malice. Hermione saw it now. The careful edges, the controlled pause before speaking.
“You still aren’t,” Narcissa continued. “Whatever they’re connected to, it was never meant to involve you.”
Draco tilted his head. “That’s not true. You knew I’d get involved.”
Silence.
Then, a slow exhale. The barest shift in her posture. Less armour, more admission.
“I hoped you wouldn’t have to,” Narcissa said. “But I’ve always known… if anyone was going to find them, it would be you.”
Hermione felt the tension ripple between them.
“Not because I wanted it,” Narcissa added. “But because the magic always did.”

Pipsey appeared then, as if on cue, carrying a delicate cup of tea and a small covered plate. She placed them carefully in front of Draco, then adjusted the corner of his sleeve like he might unravel otherwise.
“You should eat,” she said softly. “Before the magic eats you.”
Then, to Narcissa, with a meaningful glance: “And Madam should drink before she decides to say too much.”
She vanished with a soft pop before anyone could reply.

Draco didn’t touch the cup. His eyes were still locked on his mother.
“You’re not telling me everything.”
“No,” Narcissa said. “I’m not.”

The fire crackled faintly behind them. No one moved.

Then, in the kind of silence that demanded listening, Narcissa rose.
“But I will tell you this,” she said, smoothing her sleeves as if restoring her shape. “If you insist on continuing, both of you, then listen carefully.”
Hermione sat straighter. Draco didn’t blink.
“There’s an old binding spell hidden in the west wing’s silverwork archive,” Narcissa continued, gaze flicking briefly to Hermione. “It was meant to stabilise volatile heirlooms. Designed to respond only to blood and intention. Use it.”
Hermione frowned. “It’s a ritual?”
“A contingency,” Narcissa replied. “Painful. Temporary. But it will keep you tethered to yourselves. And each other.”
She looked at her son one last time. Her eyes didn’t soften, but her voice did. Just slightly.
“I can’t stop what’s begun. But I can try to ensure you don’t lose yourselves to it.”
With that, she turned and walked toward the doors, her steps slow, but not hesitant.
Just before she disappeared from view, Pipsey reappeared at her side with a folded shawl. A gesture so careful it felt like routine.
Neither of them looked back.

Hermione finally let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
Draco reached for the cup, but didn’t drink. Just held it between his palms, letting the warmth bleed into his fingers like an anchor.
He looked exhausted.
Not physically, though there were dark shadows under his eyes and his posture sagged ever so slightly, but deeper. As if some part of him had been stretched too thin and hadn’t quite snapped back.
She watched him a moment longer.

Then, without thinking, without planning she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
It wasn’t graceful. Or rehearsed.
It was quick and fierce and completely unexpected. For both of them.
She felt him tense immediately, the muscles in his back going rigid, like his body didn’t quite know how to register the contact.
Hermione’s breath caught. For a split second she almost pulled away.
But then slowly, he exhaled.
His shoulders dropped. Just a little.
One of his hands shifted, hesitating midair before settling lightly against her back. Barely there, but real.
They stood like that in silence. No words. No explanations. Just shared weight.
Hermione was the first to move. She stepped back quickly, clearing her throat, eyes darting anywhere but his.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t- That was…”
“Unexpected?” he said, voice rough but not unkind.
She nodded, awkwardly brushing hair behind her ear. “I just… needed to check you were still here.”

Draco looked at her then and something in his expression softened. Not a smile. But close.
“I am.”
And for the first time all day, Hermione believed it.

Chapter Text

He’d been hugged exactly three times in his adult life.
Once by Pansy. Drunk and dramatic, after a successful hex auction.
Once by Theo, who got too close and got a death threat for his trouble.
And once by Hermione Granger…
He’d been trying not to think about it ever since. And failing, spectacularly.

The women he’d been intimate with didn’t hug him.
They were beautiful, sharp and carefully chosen.
But they weren’t held.
And they didn’t hold him.
Those encounters had served a purpose.
Need, distraction, control.
But not comfort.
Never that.

Hermione’s embrace hadn’t asked permission.
Hadn’t offered anything but warmth and honesty.
And maybe that was what unsettled him most.
It had been real.
Draco hadn’t known what to do with that kind of honesty.
He still didn’t.

He shifted his grip on the leather-bound journal in his hands and glanced toward the double doors of the west wing archive.
The wards stirred gently as footsteps approached.

Right on time.

The doors opened.

She stepped inside, dressed in practical robes, a satchel slung across her shoulder, curls pinned back in a way that suggested she hadn’t meant to try, but had ended up entirely too capable of undoing his focus.

He looked away first.
A breath.
Control. Always control.
He couldn't afford anything less. Not now, not with what was waking beneath his skin.

“Sorry,” she said, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Had to talk my way past your front gate. Pipsey insisted on asking what my intentions were.”
Draco arched a brow. “And what were they?”
“None of her business,” she said, lips twitching. “She accepted that.”
He fought the urge to smile. Barely won.

He considered stepping forward. Closing the distance. Saying something clever, something charged.
But the last time he’d misread her timing, she’d vanished for three days.

So instead, he tilted his head, studied her like a puzzle he wasn’t quite ready to solve.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Not what he meant. Not even close.
He’d meant to ask something far less appropriate. Something closer to the truth.
Do you want to see my bed? Let me touch you? Stop pretending you haven’t thought about what it would feel like between us?
The questions sat at the edge of his tongue, hot and reckless, daring him to speak.
But those weren’t words he trusted himself to say.
Not yet.
So instead, he let the safer version slip out, softer than intended, edged with something dangerously close to care.

She blinked, as if surprised by the softness in his voice.
Then she nodded, the movement small but real. “I’m fine. Just… tired of pretending I’m not thinking about all of this. About what’s coming.”
Her gaze met his, steady. “And maybe about you.”

She said it like a throwaway.
Maybe about you.
As if the words weren’t already echoing through his spine, sharp as static and twice as dangerous.

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer.
But the corner of his mouth betrayed him. A flicker, nothing more. The ghost of a smirk he hadn’t given permission to exist.

Hermione saw it. Of course she did.
And for just a second, her mouth curved too. Small, involuntary, like she'd surprised even herself.

The moment stretched like something rare that would bruise if touched.

She looked away first, fingers adjusting the sleeve of her coat like it had misbehaved.
He stepped back half a pace.

They crossed the archive together.
Tucked behind a false panel in the west wing, the room was small by Manor standards. Windowless, silent, carved straight into the stone. No ornamentation. Just shelves, packed with ledgers in cracked leather, scrolls sealed with the Black family crest, and ancient files. Records that had swayed verdicts, silenced scandals, and secured legacies.

Draco’s pulse quickened.
Not from fear. Not adrenaline.
Something else. Something heavier, rising beneath his skin.
He stilled. Just for a second.
What the fuck is happening to me?

He stepped further in, and the air shifted. Subtly. As if the room had registered his presence and was adjusting itself around him.
A warmth spread through his fingertips.
Like magic wanted a path through him. Like it had been waiting.
One of the ledgers vibrated faintly on its shelf. Another lit softly along the spine, a dull, silvery glow that faded as quickly as it came.
He hadn’t touched a thing. Hadn’t cast a spell.
And yet the archive responded.
He curled his hands behind his back, jaw tightening. But his magic pulsed again, hungry and alert.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Hermione watching him. Not alarmed.
Just still. Measuring. And maybe, just maybe, impressed.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Because for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, he felt… aligned.
Not powerful in the way spells feel when they hit.
Powerful in the way gravity feels when it suddenly works for you.
As if the room, the archives, the blood-soaked legacy written into every line of ink had claimed him.
And he’d claimed it back.

Somewhere, low and quiet, a thought stirred:
This is part of the pact.
He didn’t know how. Not yet.
But he felt it like he felt the wards shift around him:
Obedient. Old. And his.
The ledgers didn’t just hum. They bowed.
The power didn’t settle.
It was only just beginning to wake.
.
Draco kept walking and led Hermione to the far end, where the walls narrowed into a single alcove lined with warded scrollwork and etched storage drawers.
Hermione stepped closer, eyes scanning the drawers with practiced focus.
Then she turned to him, voice quiet but clear.
“Your magic feels… different here.”
A beat.
“Stronger. More focused. Like it’s pulling things toward you, not the other way around.”
She hesitated, then offered the words with a kind of professional gentleness.
“I’d like to test it. Later. If you’re okay with that.”
No pressure. No demand. Just genuine curiosity. And something more private behind her eyes.
Draco nodded and pulled his wand, brushing it along the runic seams until one flickered faintly. Recognition magic. Old and selective.
He glanced at her, lips curling just slightly.
“Careful, Granger. You test this, you might not want it to stop.”
He tapped it once. The drawer slid open with a sigh.
Inside lay a mirrored cylinder, barely thicker than a wand, engraved with tiny runes that shifted when touched by light.

Hermione leaned in. “It’s beautiful. And completely unnerving.”
“Like most things in this house,” Draco said dryly.

He took the tube and handed it to her. “You’ll want to read it.”
She unrolled the scroll inside with careful fingers. The parchment shimmered faintly, runes rising and rearranging themselves as if adjusting to her presence.

“A binding tether,” she read aloud. “Anchored by blood. Stabilised through will. Two subjects, one circle. Magic held in place by shared intent and personal sacrifice.”
She paused. “That last part worries me.”

Draco stepped beside her, gaze skimming the page.
“It’s more than a contingency,” he said. “It links two magical cores. Not just to stabilise, but to amplify. Strengthens both subjects inside the circle. Especially against volatile objects.”
He hesitated.
“It also means their protection wards double in strength. One shield, two sources.”

Hermione frowned, but not at him , but at the runes. “So we become... extensions of each other. Temporarily.”

He nodded. “Blood-bound. Intention-bound. You take damage, I feel it. I draw power, you have access to it.”

She swallowed, the realisation settling between them like a held breath.
“And if something goes wrong…”
“We’re tethered,” he said.
“To each other.”
Her voice was quieter now. Not afraid. Just aware.

Their eyes met.
“Do you trust me?” she asked softly.

He didn’t look away.
“I’ve been claimed by worse things. If it’s going to be anyone… I’d rather it be you.”

He watched her read, fingers moving delicately over the aged script. Her brow furrowed. Not in confusion, but in calculation. Granger didn’t get confused. She measured.
He appreciated that.

She paused, then glanced sideways at him. Not quite meeting his eyes.

“And you’re... you’re sure you want my blood in this?”
Her voice was quiet. Almost too quiet.
“I know you don’t believe in that anymore, I know...but still. You once-”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

Draco straightened, tone even.

“I once parroted what I was raised to think. That doesn’t make it mine.”
He let that hang for a moment, then added lower but clear:
“If anything, Granger... it would be a fucking honour.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“You’re the most brilliant witch of our age,” he continued. “And I’m not mixing blood with you because I have to.”
His mouth twisted, half a smirk, half something else.
“I’m doing it because I’d be a fool not to.”

Hermione hesitated. Then nodded once. “If it can keep us from losing control around the artefacts… we have to.”
Draco stepped closer to the scroll, his shadow falling alongside hers. The runes glowed faintly under their combined presence. Just for a moment, as if acknowledging the potential.

She noticed it too. “It responds to proximity.”
“Or resonance,” Draco murmured. “Same idea.”
Hermione met his eyes. “Then we need to plan this properly. No improvising.”
His mouth twitched. “You say that like it’s happened before.”
“It has.”
He didn’t press. Just watched her hands still over the scroll.
“Granger,” he said, voice low, “have you ever considered the terrifying possibility that you might actually enjoy this?”
She looked up, deadpan. “Planning how not to die?”
He smirked. “Exactly.”
She didn’t smile. Not quite. But the corner of her mouth twitched.
And for a moment the heaviness between them shifted. Not gone. But lighter. More bearable.

Hermione reached for the scroll again, brows drawing together in thought.
“We’ll need a few rare components. And containment charms keyed to both of us. I can get the glyph powder from the Department vault.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, then looked down again. The candlelight played across her features, softening the line between focus and fatigue.

“The instructions are… specific,” she murmured, tracing a line of old runes with her fingertip. “Two signatures. Blood-bound. Mixed. Intention-sealed.”

Draco stilled. Just for a second.
“Leave it to the Blacks to turn a spell into a blood-soaked ceremony.”
“It is one. She said
Old magic, not easily undone.
And it only works if both participants are willing...in blood, in will, and in intent.”

He leaned back against the side table, arms crossed again.
“Romantic,” he said dryly.
But something in his voice betrayed him. Like he wasn’t quite joking.

Hermione gave him a dry look. “Messy. And old magic. Don’t romanticise it.”

He smirked. “Maybe I like the sound of it.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
Didn’t deny it, either.

He watched her in silence for a beat longer.

Then, more quietly:
“I’ll take care of the circle. There’s a set of etched silver channels in the vault below the old study. Black-crafted. Still potent.”
She nodded. “And the blood?”

“The mixing… the cutting. We’ll handle it ourselves.” He said
Her brows lifted slightly. “You’re confident in your precision?”
He gave a slow smile. “I’m confident in my control.”

A beat passed between them. Quiet, weighted.
No assistants. No interruptions. Just the two of them, bound by blood and intent.

Draco watched her for a moment too long.
He didn’t mean to speak.
But the words slipped out before he could stop them.
“That hug,” he said. “Back in the drawing room.”
Hermione blinked. “What about it?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Just saying… I wouldn’t object if that happened again.”
Her mouth parted. Halfway between surprise and some sharp retort that didn’t quite land.
Instead, she looked at him, and something unreadable flickered in her gaze.
“Well,” she said, turning back to the parchment with deliberate care, “try not to almost unravel next time and we’ll see.”
Draco smiled, slow and private.
“I make no promises.”

Chapter Text

The parchment curled slightly under her fingers as the ink dried. Her reply to Draco’s owl was precise, efficient, and a little too quick to write.

Understood. I have what I need as well.
Flooing in shortly. Tell Pipsey not to interrogate me this time.
-H.

She stared at the sealed letter for a moment before tying it to the owl’s leg.
It wasn’t nerves. Not really.

No, it was that awful, inconvenient flutter just under her ribs. The one that came when something dangerous was about to happen. The one she hated admitting felt suspiciously like anticipation.

He’d said it would be an honour. Said it without hesitation, like he meant it.
Did he?

She wasn’t sure what unnerved her more,  the idea that he might…
Or the idea that she wanted him to.

***

The Manor

The room felt carved from silence.
Stone floor, worn smooth by age.  A circular inlay of etched silver ran across its centre. Deep enough to carry blood, but narrow enough not to waste a drop. Every line shimmered faintly with latent magic, the kind that didn’t show off, but waited . Patient. Demanding.

The walls were bare but heavy with power. Seamless granite, inscribed in places with protective runes she recognised only from the deepest levels of the Department archives. They hummed low in her bones. Not threatening. Just watchful. Like the room itself was sentient.

No furniture. No excess. Nothing soft.

This space wasn’t built for comfort.
It was built for consequence.

Candles floated at equal intervals above them. Twenty-four, she counted, spaced to mirror the lunar clock. Their flames flickered pale gold, casting sharp-edged shadows that curved along the stone like a second, quieter circle. No magical ignition, no dramatic flare. Draco had lit them by hand.

There was something deliberate in that.
No wand. No shortcuts.

Everything had been prepared with care, and it showed. A low stone table stood just outside the circle, holding the tools they would need: the vial, the scroll, two cloth-wrapped bundles containing the powder and charms. And in the very centre of the circle, between where they would sit, the scalpel.

It gleamed under the candlelight.
Just sharp. Waiting.

Hermione had arrived only minutes earlier.
The Floo had deposited her into a dimly lit corridor just off the east gallery, the air thick with lavender ash and polished stone. Pipsey had been waiting, barefoot and beaming, her voice pitched somewhere between reverence and mild prophecy.

“This way, Miss,” the elf had chirped, floating rather than walking. “The room has been humming since sunrise. It remembers things that haven’t happened yet. Mind your third step. It likes to bite.”

Hermione hadn’t asked. She’d simply followed.

And now, standing at the threshold of the ritual chamber, she understood what Pipsey meant.

The room did feel like it was waiting.

And then she saw him.

Draco stood near the circle, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms. His stance was casual, but not careless. All the sharp precision of a man who understood exactly what he was doing, and what it might cost. The candlelight caught in his hair, grazed the curve of his cheekbone, and glinted off the signet ring on his finger. Old silver, unmistakably Malfoy. It cast his expression into half-shadow.He didn’t move when she entered.
Just watched her.

Hermione felt the shift low in her stomach.

Unfairly composed. Completely in control.
And somehow, even more dangerous like this than when his wand was drawn.

She cleared her throat lightly.

“You really lit all of them by hand?”

Draco’s mouth curled, not quite a smile.
“Would’ve felt wrong not to.”

She crossed the room in slow steps and lowered herself to the floor, just outside the etched lines. Her knees met cold stone. She resettled the fabric around her shoulders. Then placed her components before her with care: glyph powder in its sealed pouch, a containment crystal wrapped in velvet, and the thread soaked in moonstone elixir, still faintly iridescent.

When she looked up, Draco was already seated across from her. Knees bent, spine straight. His posture echoed hers almost exactly.

Between them: the scalpel. The circle. The line.

Their knees were close. Not touching, but closer than they’d been in days. If she reached her hand forward, she could have placed it over his.

He didn’t speak. 
Just met her eyes.

Hermione did not look at the tension in his jaw or at the elegant control in his hands as he unwrapped the phial and set it down with ritualistic precision. But at the way his magic pressed outward now. As if something inside him was unfolding.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Whatever was waking in Draco Malfoy… she could feel it. Like heat. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Because this wasn’t a spell you cast.
This was a pact you entered.

And both of them had already stepped over the threshold.

“Are you sure?” Draco’s voice was low, but clear.
His gaze didn’t waver. “We only get one go at this. It’s temporary, but it leaves a mark.”

Hermione swallowed.

Was she sure?

Yes.

Because what was the alternative. Do nothing? Walk away? Let the whole thing unravel because she was afraid?

She straightened her shoulders.
“Narcissa suggested this. And she doesn’t deal in weak solutions.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “That’s the truth.”

She spoke the first part of the incantation. Steady, measured Latin. He answered, the echo of his voice vibrating through the runes beneath their feet. A low pulse of magic stirred in the space between them.

Then the scalpel.

Hermione picked up the scalpel with professional precision. No hesitation. She stepped closer to him and met his gaze, asking one last time without words.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.
She reached for his wrist. Turned it gently in her hand. The skin there was pale, the veins just visible beneath the surface.

"This won’t take long," she murmured.

And then she made the cut. Clean. Deliberate.
The blood welled instantly, dark and vivid. She angled his wrist above the phial, letting it catch the first three drops. One. Two. Three.

The room felt impossibly still.

She released him slowly, her fingers trailing just a moment too long against his skin.

Her breath caught from the weight of it. The choice. The pact.
She passed him the scalpel wordlessly.

Draco didn’t take it immediately.

First, he stepped closer. Slow and controlled.

Then he took the scalpel from her hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers, deliberate and firm, and held them a moment longer than necessary.

He didn’t look away as he picked up the scalpel.
“I think I’ll enjoy this,” he murmured.
His voice was low, edged with something darker. Something that curled around her spine like heat.

He stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. Close enough to feel the air shift.

“Give me your hand,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.

She extended it. Slowly. Because something about the way he was watching her made her breath hitch.
He took her wrist in his hand. Turned it just slightly, exposing the soft skin along the inner side.

“I’ll be precise,” he said. “But not gentle.”

And then, without looking away, he brought the blade to her skin.
Not fast. Not clinical.
Slow. Measured. Intimate.
The silver edge pressed into her with perfect control, and her blood bloomed warm and steady, like it wanted to be touched.
Her breath caught. The sting came second.

He lifted her wrist above the vial and tilted it. One, two, three drops, dark and gleaming. The liquid turned rich and red and alive.

But he didn’t let go.
Didn’t step back.

Instead, he brought her wrist to his mouth.
She froze.
And then-

His lips brushed her skin.
His tongue flicked across the cut, slow and searing.

Hermione's knees nearly buckled.
A spark flared low in her belly.

He dragged it slowly across the edge of the cut, lapping up the last trace of her blood as if it belonged to him. As if this wasn’t ritual. It was something else . Hungrier.

Her breath stuttered.
It was the most erotic thing she’d ever felt, and he knew it.
When he pulled back, he didn’t say a word.
Just held her gaze. Steady.

Possessive.

Like he’d tasted something he hadn’t known he craved…and now that he had, he wasn’t about to forget it.

There was heat in his eyes.
but worse, there was certainty.
He knew what it had done to her.
And he liked knowing.

Somehow, she remembered what came next.

She lifted the phial, whispered the final binding words, and poured the blood mixture into the silver channel at their feet.
The circle lit instantly. Runes flaring gold, then white, then steady blue.
The tether locked into place with a hum.

Their magic intertwined.
Joined.

The runes along the circle flared again.
The moment it happened, Hermione felt it:
A shift from within.

It started in her chest.
A flutter 

Her breath hitched.
Then it spread.

Warmth first. Then pressure.
Like someone had reached into her ribcage and lit a second heartbeat just beneath her own.

And then-
the magic twisted.

Not painfully. Not cruel.
But undeniably, intimately, hers now.
The blood in the vial, their blood, didn’t just sit in the silver groove.
It echoed.  Reached for her.
Entered her.

She didn’t know how to explain it. Not even to herself.
But she felt it seep into her bones.
Curl down her spine.

Her knees nearly gave out.
She staggered a step and braced herself against the wall. Not from pain, but from too much.
Her body wasn’t hurting. It was buzzing. Alive in places she hadn’t realised had gone quiet.

Draco’s eyes snapped to hers instantly.
He hadn’t moved.
He didn’t need to.
She felt him.

Not near her.
In her.

She could feel the heat of his magic pooling beneath her skin, circling like smoke. But there was more. 

Her eyes widened slightly.
“What is that?” she whispered. “That… pressure. That’s not just you.”

Draco didn’t answer right away.
His jaw flexed.

Then, calmly:
“I know,” he said softly.
“I feel it too.”

Hermione’s heart thundered in her ears. Or maybe it wasn’t hers.
Maybe it was his.
Because it felt doubled. Not in speed, but in presence.
Like two rhythms learning each other.

She couldn’t look away from him.
Not with the way his eyes held hers. Steady, dark, hungry.
But not just for touch.
For understanding. For the truth of this thing they’d just created.

“Draco,” she whispered. She wasn’t even sure why.
Except that saying his name made it real.

He stepped into the circle fully now, until they were close enough for her to see the pulse at his throat.
Close enough that the magic between them felt almost solid.
It brushed against her skin like heat.

“If we’d known it would feel like this,” he murmured, “we might’ve done it sooner.”

She gave a quiet laugh. Unsteady, breathless.
“And risk exploding the Manor?”

His smirk curled, slow and dangerous.
“Worth it.”

Hermione’s hand lingered on the rune beside her, still tingling from what they’d just unleashed.
Draco watched her. Just there. Steady.

“I don’t know what this changes,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to the glowing silver between them, then back to her.

“Everything,” he said.

And somehow… it didn’t feel like a warning.
It felt like a promise.

Something shifted in her then.
Not quite peace. Not certainty.
But something bright.
Something reckless and real that burned low in her chest and refused to be ignored.

It didn’t feel safe.
But it did feel alive.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Rue d’Argent. A side-street not on any official map. Tucked just behind Knockturn Alley, down where the gaslamps flickered.

The street wasn’t paved, not really. More like scarred stone and potion runoff, etched with chalk marks and dried something Draco didn’t want to name. It reeked of warped spells.

Theo muttered something obscene about liver and ghost piss. Hermione ignored him.
Blaise didn’t speak, but Draco heard how his boots avoided every trace of residue.

They stopped in front of a door that wasn’t marked, but hummed faintly under the wards. A twisted rune blinked sideways above the lintel, as if unsure whether to admit them or combust.

The door creaked open on its own. 

Inside, the room was cramped, lit by a hovering flame the colour of spoiled brandy. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with decaying artefacts, half-dead wards and bottled memories. 

At the far end sat Rhodric Mulciber, hunched over a desk inlaid with something bone-white and unpleasantly curved. His skin had the colour and texture of parchment left in a fireplace too long. One of his eyes glimmered faintly gold. Not natural. 

He looked up. And smiled. “Well, well. Didn't think the Malfoy brat would come sniffing after mummy’s little secrets.”

Draco said nothing. He didn’t flinch. But his jaw tightened, just once. “You were in possession of something from the Black vault,” he said evenly. “I want to know what it was.”

Mulciber chuckled. A hollow sound that scraped against the air like dry parchment. “Possession. That's a delicate word, boy. Some things… don’t like to be owned.”
I know, Draco thought.

Mulciber's smile twitched with calculation. “How did you find me?” he asked, head cocked. “I left no trail.”
He said it like a challenge. 

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Beside him, Blaise shifted just enough to be noticed. One brow lifted, calm as ever. 

Mulciber’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he muttered. “Not you.” His gaze lingered on Blaise. Too long. A flicker of recognition. “Your mother had a better instinct for hidden things. When she wasn't too busy poisoning dinner guests.”

Blaise didn’t react. Not even a breath.
But Draco saw the muscle twitch in his jaw.

The silence that followed was dense. “You handled something from the Black vault,” Draco said. “You moved them. I want to know where.”

Mulciber’s grin cracked wider. “You think this is how it works? You think one pretty demand from a spoiled heir-”

Draco’s wand was out before the sentence finished.
No flourish. No words.

Just a movement. Sharp and final.

The spell struck without visible light, but the air shuddered.
Mulciber's chair slammed back against the wall with a sickening crack, ribs crunching audibly as his body locked in place.

Not a typical hex. Not something you'd learn at Hogwarts.

Mulciber’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened. No sound. 

Theo blinked. Then grinned. “Oh. That kind of evening.” He stepped forward eagerly. “I can take it from here.”

Draco didn’t move. He didn’t look at Theo.
“No.”

One word. Flat. Controlled.
Theo frowned. “Come on, just a bit of-”

"I said no."

Draco stepped toward Mulciber, calm as ever. His wand hand steady. The other behind his back, ike a professor giving a demonstration, not a man dismantling someone’s resistance.

The next spell was silent. Deep-cut. Old.

It didn’t explode. It entered. Mulciber jerked once, then gasped. Coughed. Eyes flaring wide as if something had been ripped out and rearranged behind them.Draco didn’t give him time.

“Where’s the bracelet?”
“Marseille,” Mulciber croaked. “Private buyer. Docks.”

“The needle?”
“Taken by… family contact. Belgium. Still hidden.”

“The book?”
“Eastern trade route. Sold three years ago. Some wizard out of Durmstrang.”

“The box?”
“Antwerp. Collector. Keeps it in a sealed room. He doesn’t even know how to open it.”

“The key.”
Mulciber hesitated. His breath caught.
“Lost… stolen. Last tracked to a cursed lot in Venice. Blood-bound. Dangerous to touch.”

The room was silent, thick with the heat of residual magic.

Behind him, Hermione said nothing. But Draco could feel the tension in her. Tight, coiled, unwilling to interrupt.
Blaise stood stiller than the walls, arms crossed, unreadable. Only his eyes moved. Following Draco, not Mulciber.
Theo was leaning against a cracked pillar, half-interested, wand spinning between two fingers. He hadn’t moved since Draco shut him down.

Draco lowered his wand.

Mulciber sagged in the chair. Pale, shaking, breath stuttering. Not broken, but close. Close enough to understand.
“The list,” Draco said.

Mulciber didn’t argue. Just pulled a folded parchment from inside his coat and dropped it onto the floor. His hand didn’t stop shaking.
Draco didn’t thank him.
He bent, picked up the parchment, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat without unfolding it.

Then he looked at Hermione.
She met his gaze. Jaw tight. Shoulders rigid.

Draco’s voice was quiet. Devoid of threat. Almost... procedural.
“Does he need to die?”

Hermione flinched. Just slightly. Not enough for the others to notice, but Draco saw it.

“He sold anchors that could destroy people,” he said. “He’ll sell again.”

Her lips parted. No words came. Not yet.
She looked at Mulciber. Pale, broken, shaking from a pain spell most Healers had never even read about.

She hated him.

But that wasn’t the question.

The question was whether his death would save more lives than his silence.
And she knew it would.

Her voice was rough, quiet.
“Let Theo do it.”

Theo’s head snapped up, delighted.
“Oh, thank Merlin. I was getting so bored.”

Draco didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. He just stepped back, giving Theo space.

Blaise didn’t move. Still watching Draco. 

Draco felt it. The cold in his chest that hadn’t left since the mirror. The pulse in his wand hand, steady as ever.
He hadn’t enjoyed it.
But he hadn’t hesitated either.

Mulciber didn’t beg.
He just looked up at Draco one last time. Something bitter and afraid behind his eyes, and rasped out:
“You won’t come back the same.”

Draco didn’t look away. “That’s the point.”
Then he turned and walked out.

Behind him, Theo’s wand flared to life with an audible snap, and he actually clapped once. Like a child unwrapping something sharp.

Chapter Text

She didn’t cry.
Not fully. But the sting was there. Behind her eyes, sharp as acid and just as hard to swallow.

They had left the alley minutes ago. The sounds of Knockturn had swallowed the scene behind them, and Theo had stayed behind. Humming, wand in hand, the way only Theo could.

Hermione walked fast. Not because she wanted to run, but because slowing down meant feeling everything too clearly.

The cold in her throat wasn’t from the air.

A hand touched her shoulder. Light. Intentional.

Then an arm curled around her. 

Draco.

He didn’t speak. But when she looked up at him, his expression was unreadable and his eyes… steady. Sharp.
Alive.
Not cruel.
Just certain.

She felt it again. That pulse of his magic brushing against hers, like a soft current slipping under her skin. It didn’t numb her grief. But it steadied it. 

You’re not supposed to feel safe after deciding someone should die. 

She exhaled, one breath at a time. His hand stayed where it was, a quiet weight at her back until she stepped away on her own.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting at a cracked little table behind a boarded-up café three streets off Knockturn Alley.
It had once been a speakeasy, Blaise had said. Now it served bitter coffee and stronger firewhisky.

Theo was delicately swirling a glass of something radioactive-looking, like he was hoping it might bite back.

Blaise had vanished the moment they arrived.

“I take it back,” Theo said, inspecting his drink like a rare potion.
“Execution and elixirs? This is better than sex.”

Hermione didn’t even look up. “Then you’re doing sex wrong.”

Theo grinned. Draco just shook his head. Half amused, half exhausted.
Theo grinned, delighted.
Draco didn’t.
He shook his head, yes, but slower this time.  More calculation. His eyes flicked to Hermione, just once, and stayed a second too long.

“Don’t give him ideas,” he said, voice dry. “He’s unbearable enough.”

But Hermione caught it. The shift in his tone. The way he hadn’t denied the comparison. The way he looked at her.
And the worst part? She didn’t hate it.
Not even a little.

Hermione adjusted the collar of the coat Pansy had made her. It was… gorgeous. 
But also tight in ways that made her feel like she belonged in a nightclub, not a cursed artefact chase.
The neckline dipped in a way that wasn’t technically indecent. Just distracting.
She'd caught Draco looking earlier. Just for a second. She hadn’t called him out on it. Still, when she shifted in the chair and the coat settled tighter across her chest, she considered doing up the clasp.

Or maybe not.

An hour later, Blaise returned. He didn’t sit. Just leaned in and dropped a folded scrap of paper onto the table between them. “Marseille,” he said. “Port district. Buyer’s name is Delacroix. He’s pureblood, old money, imports cursed antiquities through shell firms.” 

“We move tonight,” Draco said immediately.

Theo sat up straighter, eyes gleaming. “Oh good. I was getting twitchy.”

Chapter Text

They had left the alley minutes ago. The sounds of Knockturn had swallowed the scene behind them, and Theo had stayed behind. Humming, wand in hand, the way only Theo could.

Hermione walked fast. Not because she wanted to run. She hated running from things. But walking slowly meant feeling everything. Every footstep on the wet cobblestone sounded louder than it should.

Her boots clicked in a rhythm that matched the pulse in her jaw.

You made the call.
You said yes.
You let him die.

The cold in her throat wasn’t from the air. Her breath hitched, sharp and dry. It caught somewhere behind her ribs, as if her body had forgotten how to exhale.
She didn’t look back.

She turned a corner too quickly. Her shoulder clipped a lamp post. She muttered something, didn’t register what. Just kept moving.
Behind her, she could hear their footsteps .
Quieter now. 

A hand touched her shoulder. 
Then an arm curled around her slowly.

Draco.

He didn’t say anything. But when she glanced sideways, his gaze was steady. 

Resolved.

His magic reached her before she realised it. A pressure, steady and warm.
She hadn’t known she was shaking until it stopped.

You chose this, she told herself. You knew what it would cost.
Still. Her eyes burned.

She let herself breathe, once, twice, and then stepped out of his hold.
His arm dropped immediately.

No questions. No comment.

About ten minutes later, they sat in a forgotten café three streets off Knockturn Alley. The kind of place that didn’t need a name to be known. The windows were boarded up from the inside, the door creaked like it hadn’t been opened willingly in decades, and the air inside smelled faintly of burnt spices.

Dust coated the corners. The bar was crooked, and the two figures slumped along it didn’t look conscious. Or interested. In a booth near the back, a gaunt man in a ragged plum cloak rolled a coin between his knuckles, staring blankly at the flame of a single candle.

Perfect.
Quiet. Ugly. And forgettable.

They took the farthest table in the corner, away from the door and with sightlines to every exit. Blaise had muttered a ward before slipping off into the shadows again, off to work his charm on whatever network of pureblood smuggling contacts he’d cultivated over the years.

Now, it was just the three of them.

Hermione, still trembling faintly, sat with her hands around a cup she hadn’t touched. The mug was chipped, the contents bitter, and the handle sticky. She didn’t care. She didn’t want it.

Across from her, Theo lounged like the scene had been arranged just for him. His jacket was open, shirt slightly undone, wand resting on the table like a misplaced dessert fork. He sipped from a tall, violet-glowing glass with the theatrical detachment of a man who would happily toast at a funeral.

“I’ve had worse afternoons,” he said cheerfully. “Usually without glowing cocktails and morally questionable victories.”

Hermione didn’t look at him.
“Morally questionable doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Theo raised his glass.
“And yet, here we are. Alive, victorious, and drinking things that probably violate several international potions regulations.”

Draco, on the other hand, hadn’t moved since they sat. One hand around a mug of black coffee, the other resting lightly on his wand under the table. His coat was still buttoned. His jaw tight. 

Hermione caught herself watching him too long. Again. Something about the way he held still. And she felt it: a faint hum at the edge of her skin when he looked at her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” Draco answered, without looking up. “I did.”

She inhaled, shallow. “He was afraid of you.”

“Good.”

That should’ve unsettled her. Maybe it did. But not in the way she expected.
“You think it’ll be like that again?” she asked. “Every time?”

Draco looked at her then. Fully. The silver in his eyes was still alive, but quieter now.
“No,” he said. “Next time, it’ll be worse.”

Theo let out a pleased sound. “Merlin’s balls, that was almost poetic.”

Draco didn’t react. Hermione wrapped her fingers tighter around the mug and stared at the dust-motes in the air like they might answer something.

She was tired. She didn’t regret what they’d done, but part of her still trembled with the weight of it.
And somehow, she felt safe here. With this group. With him.

She tugged at the collar of her coat, the one Pansy had made her. Midnight black, subtly runed, lined with spell-absorption mesh. Also: entirely too fitted. Pansy declared it a public service to save Hermione from dying in beige.

Draco had definitely noticed.

Hermione sighed, leaned back in her chair, and let the silence settle again.

Blaise would be back soon. Hopefully with a name.

And then they’d go to Marseille.
Because the next piece was waiting.
And there was no turning back.

An hour later, Blaise returned.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned in and dropped a folded slip of parchment onto the table.
“Delacroix,” he said. “Old pureblood family. Portside property in Marseille. Imports cursed artefacts through shell firms. He’s our buyer.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. “We move tonight.”

Theo sat up straighter, eyes gleaming. “Oh good. I was getting twitchy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. But didn’t argue.
They were already rising from their chairs when Draco’s hand brushed hers again. The kind of contact that says I’m here without saying it aloud.

She didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

They landed with a lurch.

Portkey travel was never elegant, but Marseille at twilight made up for it...almost. The moment Draco’s boots touched the cobbled stone, the scent of the sea hit him first: briny and sharp, laced with lavender and heat. A breeze curled through the narrow alleys, tugging at loose shirt cuffs and cloaks.
Marseille was heat and shadow.
Not the dry, scorched heat of southern wind, but a soft, sun-slicked warmth that clung to the stones. The streets shimmered faintly, still radiating the sun’s farewell, and everything: the rooftops, the sea-glimpses between alleys, even the air...felt like it had been steeped in gold.

Draco adjusted his coat as he stepped off the portkey landing circle, the last pull of magic still humming in his bones. His boots clicked against weather-worn stone. Wooden shutters hung half-open, catching the last light.

The magic here was subtle. Old.  Granger had noticed it immediately. She moved half a step ahead of him, gaze scanning the walls with that sharp, assessing look. Her fingers trailed close to the plaster, not touching, but nearly.

“A layering ward,” she murmured.

Draco said nothing. He didn’t need to. He felt it too. The weight of spellwork nestled into the architecture, coiled and waiting, clever and concealed. It was almost… elegant.

Then she scoffed, low and dry. “Sloppy layering. I could unravel it in an hour.”

Draco glanced sideways, studying the line of her jaw, the way her fingers flexed like they wanted to do something.

He smirked. “But would you?”

Her eyes flicked to his. Sharp, unreadable. That war-mind always ticking, always measuring. And something else underneath it now. Something she didn’t name.

“Depends,” she said after a beat, voice even. “Is it worth the effort?”

She turned away before he could answer, already moving through the archway into the main square. Like she hadn’t just sent a challenge humming through his bloodstream.

He watched the way her coat moved around her hips, the fabric Pansy had insisted on. Darker, sleeker, cinched just enough to command attention. He’d noticed it. 

Theo caught up, muttering something about the Mediterranean making his curls rebellious and the injustice of salt in the air.

Draco didn’t listen.

There was something about this city. About her in this city, that made his focus sharpen, his blood run warmer. Marseille was charming. Old money and old magic. 

Blaise led the way.

Delacroix’s gallery was tucked behind a perfumery on Rue des Sorciers, obscured from Muggle eyes with a glamour. Inside, the room was a curation of generational wealth and secrets. Gilded frames lined the walls. Artefacts floated gently in enchanted glass displays. The air smelled of old polish and expensive wards.

They were met with practiced charm.

"Monsieur Delacroix," Blaise said, his voice like velvet draped over a dagger. "Thank you for receiving us."

Delacroix was exactly what Draco expected. Perfectly groomed. Pureblood elegance pressed into every seam. 

Draco stayed silent, watching.

Blaise handled the introductions, the preamble, the polite dance of power and curiosity. Theo, for once, managed to stand still. Hermione stood near the floating display case that housed the bracelet.

It was hideous. Thick silver links, tarnished with time. Black runes twisted like veins across its surface. Heavy. Uninviting. Cold.
Just as Narcissa had described.

Draco approached it slowly, wand steady at his side. He waited for the pull. The humming tug beneath his ribs he’d felt with the pocketwatch. But this time, nothing. No hum. No voice. No weight shifting in his blood.

Fake.

He didn’t blink. Just stepped back. Said, calmly: "That’s not it."

Delacroix’s smile didn’t falter. "I assure you, this is the piece acquired from the collection you mentioned."

"It’s not," Draco said. "And if you know what it is, then you know why pretending otherwise is dangerous."

Theo cracked his knuckles.

Hermione crossed her arms. Blaise stepped forward.

“We know where it came from,” Blaise said, his voice dipping into that calm, lethal register he reserved for high-stakes persuasion. “We know who it used to belong to. And more importantly. We know it wasn’t yours to buy.”

Delacroix shifted slightly, but didn’t speak.

Blaise went on, smooth as silk. “The artefact was taken from the Black family vault. Which makes it Malfoy property. Stolen Malfoy property. Now, imagine what would happen if your name got formally attached to that in Ministry records. To a theft from Narcissa Malfoy.”

He let the name hang.

“Your reputation’s charming, I’m sure. But I doubt even you want that kind of attention. Especially not post-war. Especially not tied to that vault.”

Delacroix's eyes flickered. Just once. Enough.

The glamour fell.

The real bracelet was brought out by a silent assistant. A young man in tailored robes, face expressionless, movements rehearsed. The box he carried was made of wood so dark it drank the light. Delacroix said nothing. Just opened it, like unveiling a rare dish at a dinner party he no longer cared about.

Hermione took a half-step back.

Draco didn't move.

The moment it left the box, the room changed. The air thickened. The edges of the world pressed in. And in his chest, the tether pulled tight.

He reached for it.

And the world shifted.

***

They didn’t make it two streets from the gallery.

It began with a flicker. A subtle warp in the air above them. Draco’s instincts screamed before his wand was even halfway raised.

The first curse struck like a thunderclap.

A bolt of green tore through the twilight, close enough that the ozone burned in his lungs. It hit the cobblestones ahead of them with a sound like a cracked skull. Stone split, smoke surged, and all at once the street erupted into chaos.

Shouts. Boots. A curse screamed in an accent thick with old vendetta.

Draco spun, shielding Hermione without thinking, just as a second bolt shot past. Blaise was already ducking into the shadows, wand out, cool and efficient. Theo...

Theo took the third hit full in the shoulder.

The sound it made was horrible. Not bone snapping. Though it should have been. But a dull, vibrating thud that reverberated in Draco’s ribs. He saw it, clear as day: the force of it slamming Theo sideways against a low stone wall, his body folding unnaturally before hitting the ground in a heap.

Hermione cried out, but Draco’s hand caught her wrist before she could run to him.

“Wait.”

Theo groaned.

It was a miracle he groaned.

Pansy’s coat. Merlin bless her neurotic precision, shimmered faintly where the spell had struck. The fabric burned at the edges, the ward lines flickering, but it had held. Mostly.

He was alive.

Draco dropped into a crouch, wand moving fast. A crack of light burst from his wandtip as smoke flared around them. Protective layering. The kind that snapped into place like a trap.

Hermione was already working beside him, murmuring warding charms through clenched teeth. Her hair had come loose, her eyes wide but steady.

Blaise’s voice cut through the din. “Three attackers. Roofline. East side.”

Of course he’d counted.

Draco swore under his breath. He could feel the bracelet burning under his sleeve, pulsing like a second heartbeat against his skin. He didn’t know if it was warning or hunger. But it was awake.

Another curse struck the cobbles, and bits of gravel peppered his shoulder.

He turned to Hermione. “Get to Theo. Shield him.”

“I’m not leaving-”

“You’re not,” he snapped. “You’re protecting.”

That got her moving.

She crawled low, lips already forming incantations as she slid toward Theo. The air shimmered where she passed, layers of protection laced into every movement. She hadn’t noticed, but he had, the way her magic was starting to mirror his. 

He stood then. Fully.

And the rooftop screamed back to life.

Hermione cast a solid shield. catching the splintering curse midair. Blaise moved next, disarming one of the rooftop attackers with a flick that looked lazy but wasn’t; his wandwork always had a kind of aristocratic disdain to it, as if violence was just another boring obligation.

But it was Draco who shifted the balance.

Without a word, he dragged Theo back into the alley's shallow cover, his wand already carving runes into the air. One, two, three hexes. Silent, precise, vicious. Three figures dropped before they even had time to scream. One hit the pavement and didn’t move. Another spasmed, writhing in a spell laced with paralysis and nausea. The third fled, clutching his face.

The street trembled beneath the magic.

Draco rose from behind the low wall, unhurried. Controlled. He turned just in time to see Hermione snarl something vicious in Latin. A curse older than most of the continent, and the cobblestones beneath the attackers' boots exploded into fire.

But it was his presence that made them hesitate.

The attackers looked at him and knew, even through the wards, through the smoke,  that he was the one to fear. Not because he raised his voice. Not because he roared.

But because he didn’t.

His wand never wavered. His breathing never changed. His expression never cracked.

Draco Malfoy moved like someone who had studied violence in theory, in history, in silence. Who had dissected it and memorized it. 

And every spell he cast landed with the weight of someone who would do anything to protect what was his.

Anything.

Then it was over.

Bodies stunned. Smoke rising. Theo groaning. "I think I tasted my own spleen."

They didn’t wait around.

The safehouse was cramped and dust-covered, but it held.

Theo took the couch.

Hermione stopped pacing. Her eyes locked on the box, dark enough to drink the light around it. It sat untouched on the low table, but the room felt full of it.

“You haven’t secured it yet.”

Draco didn’t look up. “Not yet.”

Her tone sharpened. “It’s unstable. We don’t know how it behaves. It shouldn’t just be sitting here. Not unprotected.”

“It’s not unprotected,” he said, calm as ever.

“Not the way you think it is.” Her arms crossed, holding herself together. “You’ve kept it close since Delacroix handed it over. Like you want to feel it.”

He looked up now. Quietly. Unapologetically.

“Maybe I do.”

Her breath caught. Just enough for him to notice. She hated how he could read her like that. Hated more that he was right.

“It’s affecting you. You know that’s what it does.”

“You’re not wearing it,” Hermione said, voice low.

“Not yet.”

Her arms were folded, but her fingers twitched slightly, barely visible unless you knew her. “It should be locked away. We don’t know how it behaves. What it’s capable of.”

Draco didn’t disagree. But he didn’t step back either.

Instead, he moved toward the table, slow and measured, like something in him already knew what waited inside. He rested one hand on the dark wood of the box. The air around it felt colder. Hungrier.

“I want to see if it responds.”

Hermione stared at him. “You want to wear it?”

“It’s not about want,” he said quietly. “It’s about knowing.”

“Knowing what? Whether it turns you into a puppet? Whether it burrows into your skin?”

He didn’t flinch. “If it’s meant to be worn, it will do something. And I’d rather it do it here, with you watching, than in the middle of a fight.”

She took a step forward, voice sharp. “Draco, this thing was buried. Hidden. Even Delacroix didn’t want to touch it. You think it's normal to be curious about something that literally sucks light out of the room?”

His fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the box.

“No,” he said. “I think it's dangerous. But I also think it wants me. And if that's true, then pretending otherwise makes us stupid.”

Hermione didn’t answer at first.

Then: “That’s exactly what scares me.”

“If it tries something,” he said, voice low, “I’ll feel it first.”

“And if it gets into you before you even realise it?” Her voice had softened, but the weight in it hadn’t.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the box, the wood pulsing faintly with runes now that it had been near him too long.

When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“Then I want you to use the spell.”

She stiffened.

“You know which one.”

Her throat worked. “Draco-”

“No one else,” he said. “Only you.”

He looked at her.

"Maybe."

She stepped closer. Her fingers brushed his wrist, grounding. She wasn’t trying to stop him. She wanted to understand.
Their eyes met. Her lips parted. Something unsaid pressed against the air between them.

Theo coughed from the couch. "Merlin, just kiss already. It’s exhausting."

Hermione flushed. Draco almost smiled.

Later, when the others were asleep, Draco sat alone with the bracelet. Except he wasn’t alone.

Hermione stood in the doorway, arms folded over the midnight-blue coat Pansy had made her, bare feet silent on the stone floor. Watching.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly.

“I didn’t think you would,” Draco replied, not looking up.

She didn’t speak again, just crossed the room and sat beside him. The box sat between them, still open.

“No one in their right mind would want to wear it,” Hermione said, voice low. “Not until we know more.”

“That’s the point,” Draco said. “I want to see what it does.”

He reached for it.

Hermione didn’t stop him.

He slipped the bracelet onto his wrist.

The world shuddered.

A slow, pulsing force climbed up his arm. Cold. Familiar. Wrong.

And then-

The vision took him.

His mother. Bent over a book of old magic. Her spine curved like it carried centuries. Her wand trembled in her hand. The spell she tried to speak wouldn’t come. Her voice cracked. Her lips moved again. Nothing.

The book pulsed against her. Rejected her.

Her wand sparked once. Then died.

She slumped into the chair, grey and ghostlike. Her breath barely moved her chest.

“You gave everything,” Draco whispered. “And it’s still not done.”

He could feel her grief like a physical weight. Her magic leaking. Unravelling. Threads of it snapping silently around her, tugging at things she hadn’t meant to give.

And beside him Hermione gasped.
Her hand was on his wrist. Her fingers tightened.

“I saw it,” she breathed. “Draco, I felt it.”

Chapter Text

He dreamed of swans in opera gloves.

They danced in spirals around a theatre carved from bone and parchment, warbling arias in Parseltongue while the sky above wept blue ink.
Theo stood centre stage, shirtless but inexplicably wearing dragonhide boots. His wand was a goose feather.
His audience was made of exes.

Two of them stood out from the shifting crowd of flings and one-night stands, their faces flickering in and out like faulty projections.
The first, Celestine Fairwater. All glossy hair and honeyed cruelty. She’d been his Hogwarts experiment. A girl who could make you feel special and disposable in the same sentence.
In the dream her eyes were the shade of lakewater before a storm, and her smile stretched too wide, lined with little silver teeth. She applauded in slow motion, every clap echoing like a lock clicking shut.

The second was Raphael Crane. A post-war miscalculation with cheekbones like scripture and morals like quicksand.
They’d burned bright for three months, until Raphael’s affection soured into obsession.
In the dream, he lounged in the front row, hands folded over a silver-tipped cane, watching Theo.
His eyes leaked thin trails of ink down his cheeks, running slow as oil, dripping onto his gloves until his fingers were black.

Around them swirled the rest: flings, mistakes, nights that had been all heat and no light…exaggerated into the grotesque.

A redhead who wept rose petals instead of tears. A man whose laughter peeled off his skin like paint. Someone Theo only remembered for their cologne, which here poured from their pockets like smoke.

Blaise sat in the front row, impeccably dressed and entirely uninvited, legs crossed, expression unimpressed.

“This,” he said, gesturing lazily to the parade of past disasters, “is the most Theo thing I’ve ever seen. Tragic. Needs editing.”

Theo laughed. The deep, unguarded kind that bubbles up when you forget to be composed, and the sound turned into the sharp crack of waking.

And then-

Pain.
Real.
Ugly.
Mortal.

Like someone had poured hot vinegar into his shoulder.

Theo gasped and sat up.

The dream shattered into darkness.

He was on the couch.

The safehouse.

His shoulder throbbed.

“Well,” he muttered. “That was dramatic. Even for me.”

he coat, Pansy's masterpiece, shifted against his skin. The fabric at his shoulder had split slightly where the spell had struck, but the lining still held its shape.

Faint healing runes glowed under the tear, like tired eyelids fluttering.
He touched it. The coat sighed. Not loudly. Just a small, judgmental exhale.
Theo grinned.

“Love you too.”

He rummaged in the deep inner pocket.
Pansy had, of course, charmed the lining to carry an entire miniature apothecary.
He pulled out three vials: one golden, one grey-blue, and one an unsettling shade of fuchsia that probably wasn’t Ministry-approved. “Which one of you bastards tastes like peppermint and poor choices?”

He uncorked the gold one. Sniffed. Definitely poor choices.
Downed it in one go.
His bones sang. His shoulder twinged, then buzzed, then began to cool. The pain dulled to a background hum.

He drank the grey one next. Just to be sure.
And the pink one? Well. “You only live once,” he whispered, and tipped it back.
It tasted like bubblegum. His left eyelid twitched. Possibly forever.

From the corner, Blaise shifted in his sleep. Impossibly composed. One hand tucked behind his head like a Renaissance painting.
“Uselessly handsome even unconscious,” Theo muttered, glaring.

He leaned back against the cushions, breath slowing.

He was here.
Hurt, yes. But alive.

Still the wildcard in the deck. The chorus in the tragedy.

Not the hero.

Never the hero.

“And if that bracelet eats him,” Theo murmured, half-smiling, “I want his library.”

Chapter Text

The bracelet had been moved. Only a few feet, no more, but enough for Draco to feel it before he saw it.
It sat on the blackwood table where he’d left it, runes dulled to a faint, oily shimmer.
Yet the air between them felt thinner, as though the space had been hollowed out, leaving nothing but a taut, invisible thread.

The thread pulled.

Magic slid in his veins, quick and supple, like it did after hours of duelling, except there was no exhaustion.
Only strength.
Too much strength.

His fingers flexed of their own accord, and the spark that answered was almost eager.
It wanted him.
He kept his gaze on the bracelet, forcing himself not to move closer.
Still, his pulse climbed, each beat a heavy drum under his ribs.
The faintest hum reached him... low, resonant, like someone breathing just behind his ear.
The magic in the room shifted toward him, and memory rose unbidden: a tremor in an elegant hand, his mother’s spine bowing under an invisible weight. He didn’t need to touch it to know she was slipping.

Jaw tight, he turned on his heel, crossing the room in precise strides.
One knee hit the hearthrug, the familiar ritual grounding him: ward the grate, jar of Floo powder, no hesitation.
The bracelet’s hum followed him into the green flare of the fire.

“Malfoy Manor, west wing study.”

Her face appeared, perfect as always. Hair immaculate, eyes clear, voice poised. And yet… he caught the lag before her words, the too-tight press of her lips between sentences, the drift of her gaze to something just out of view.

“Mother,” he said evenly, though his magic was still running too hot, “tell me the truth. How bad is it?”

Her smile was exact. “Worse, my dear, when you look at me like that.”

She kept her composure, but her eyes had that faint glaze he’d learned to read long ago.

“You’ve been busy,” she said smoothly. “I can see it in your eyes. What have you been meddling with this time?”

He ignored the deflection. “I asked you a question.”

“And I gave you an answer.” Her head tilted, all elegance, but he saw the tremor in her jaw’s shadow.
“I’m fine, Draco.”

“You’re not fine.” The words were soft, almost bored. The tone he used when preparing to dismantle something. “Your voice is weaker. You’re delaying your words. You keep glancing left. There’s a book there, isn’t there?”

Her lips curved slightly, not in amusement but in acknowledgment. “Always the keen observer.”

“Always the son you raised,” he returned, leaning closer to the green firelight. “If the magic’s pulling from you, I need to know.”

“Need?” she repeated, sharp under the softness. “Or want?”

He didn’t answer. The silence between them thickened.

Finally, she exhaled. “Some things are inevitable. And some threads… once tied, cannot be cut without fraying the entire weave.”

He felt his jaw lock. “You think I’m going to let you talk to me in riddles while you burn yourself out?”

“And you think,” her voice now stripped of gentleness, “that you can stop this by sheer will.” Her hidden hand appeared briefly, unsteady against the thick, leather-bound book.

The runes on its spine pulsed. The same rhythm as the bracelet.

“Mother,” he said, low, dangerous.

Her gaze sharpened to diamond clarity. “Do what you must, Draco. Just… be certain it is truly yours to do.”

The Floo flared; she was gone before he could speak.

The hearth went dark.

***

The safehouse kitchen was a blur of toasted bread and spiced tea. Blaise slouched by the window, Theo carving elaborate swirls into the table. Hermione cradled her mug, hair mussed from sleep, fingers curved in the ceramic’s steam.

Draco barely looked at them. The bracelet was upstairs, but its pulse still beat in him. Faster, hotter, like it had seeded itself into his bloodstream.

He aimed his wand at the half-empty coffee pot. “Reple-”

The magic surged before the word was finished. A deep hum rippled through the air, orchestral and inevitable. The pot shot upright, hovering over the table, pouring rich, steaming coffee in perfect spirals around the room. Droplets condensed midair into sugar cubes, each one diving into cups with a precise plink.

When it stopped, three identical silver carafes steamed before them, lazy curls of vapour spelling out his name.

Theo’s knife stilled. “Remind me never to ask you to light a candle. You’ll probably set the moon on fire.”

Blaise sipped. “Show-off.”

Hermione’s eyes stayed locked on him. “That… wasn’t normal, Draco.”

“I noticed.” The pot clattered harder than necessary onto the table. “I spoke to my mother this morning.”
Theo’s head tilted; Blaise’s smirk faltered.

“She said she’s fine.” His grip on the table’s edge tightened. “She isn’t. And the longer this drags on, the less time I have to be sure.”

The air cooled.

“So,” Theo said, “you’re in a hurry to tie up our little problem.”

“I want it done,” Draco corrected, “before there’s nothing left to fix.”

Hermione studied him for a moment, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. “Then we’d better make sure we get it right.”

Her mug clicked softly against the table. “Finish your coffee, Malfoy. I want to see exactly what that surge of yours can do.”

His brow rose. “Surge?”

“That coffee display wasn’t control. It was power spilling over.” She stood. “We’re going outside.”

Blaise leaned back with a lazy grin. “Testing his limits? Bold of you. I’d have started with dinner.”

Hermione fastened her cloak. “I’m testing his control, not his charm.”

Theo whistled low. “This I’ve got to see.”

Draco rose slowly, coat settling over his shoulders like armour. “And what exactly do you think you’ll prove, Granger?”

“That you can rein it in.” She opened the door, cold air rushing in. “Or that we have a problem.”

***

They crossed into the wooded perimeter, damp leaves slick underfoot, pine heavy in the still air. Bare branches clawed at a pale sky.

Hermione stopped in a mossy clearing, her breath clouding. “Simple spells first. On my mark. Don’t overthink it. Cast like you normally would.”

His mouth curved. “Careful what you wish for, Granger.”

Behind them, Theo carved lazy loops into a fallen branch, wood curls pooling at his boots. Blaise sat on the log, polishing the silver clasp of his cloak, eyes darting up between strokes.

“Lumos,” Draco said, letting the word drawl as if it cost him nothing.

The magic surged like it had been waiting for him. A white-gold spear shot upward, bursting into a thousand motes that drifted down like slow stars. The moss beneath them shimmered silver, and so did her skin in the glow.

She tilted her face toward the light, and he felt a pull in his chest that had nothing to do with the bracelet. There was that expression again. Focus sharpened to a blade, wonder blunting the edge.

“Overcompensating?” she asked, but her voice was softer than her words.

He stepped closer until the glow lit every line of her face, catching in the warm brown of her eyes. His shoulder almost brushed hers. If only you knew, Granger, how much of this is for you.

“Only when it’s worth the effort.”

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

The branch lifted, weightless, but he coaxed it further, magic curling around it like silk threads. It bent into an intricate spiral, each curve deliberate. He imagined her fingers following them, and then made sure she could.

She caught it without thinking, her fingertips brushing the smooth grain.

“Not bad?” he murmured, his voice low enough to stay between them. “That was just to keep you from getting bored.”

Her lips almost curved. He leaned in just slightly, close enough that her hair brushed his coat sleeve. “Tell me when you want something made just for you.”

“Accio stone.”

The rock zipped toward him, and he caught it in a loop of magic instead of his hand. It circled them, slow and deliberate, brushing the air just beside her temple.

When it settled in his palm, he stepped forward, closing the space until he could see the faint flush in her cheeks. He let the stone rest against her fingers before letting go, his thumb grazing the inside of her wrist.

“Steady there, Granger,” he said, eyes locked on hers, “you’re making it hard to believe you’re here for the magic.”

She inhaled, quiet but sharp, and he felt the hitch of her pulse under his touch.

“Incendio.”

A flame curled up in a perfect ring around their feet, its warmth wrapping around her legs, her waist, sliding over her skin like a second set of hands.

Her eyes flicked down, then back to him. “Show-off.”

His mouth curved, but he didn’t look away. “That was for you, not for them.”

She stepped in just enough that the edge of her cloak brushed against his, her breath curling in the narrow space between them.

He didn’t give her time to prepare . “Orchideous.”

The blooms erupted in a storm of deep crimson petals, spinning in the air before settling in her hair, against her shoulders, in her open palms. She froze, eyes locked on him. And he felt it, the shift.

When she kissed him, his hand found her waist instantly, fingers curling in the fabric of her cloak to pull her flush against him. Her mouth was warm, urgent, and when her magic leapt to meet his, it was like standing in the heart of a storm.

The ring of fire flared white. The lights above exploded outward, trails of gold and silver tearing through the air. His magic poured into her and came back doubled, crashing against his ribs until it was almost too much to hold. He tightened his grip on her, the other hand cupping the back of her neck as if he could anchor both of them.

Theo swore low. Blaise’s breath caught in a sharp inhale.

The surge ebbed into a steady, living hum between them. She pulled back first, eyes dark, breath uneven. Her fingers were still curled in his coat, and he realised his own hand hadn’t left her waist.

“That,” she said softly, “is exactly what I’m talking about.”

He let his thumb trace a slow arc over her hip before he stepped back. Then you’ve felt it too.
“Then we should do it again. For research.”

Theo let out a low whistle, flipping his knife closed with a snap. “Can I try that next, or is this a strictly private experiment?”

Blaise didn’t look away from them, still polishing the silver clasp of his cloak in slow, unhurried circles. “You wouldn’t survive it.”

Theo’s grin widened. “Probably not. But what a way to go.”

The moss underfoot still glimmered faintly, the scent of char and flowers curling together in the cold air. Draco could feel Hermione’s magic humming through him, reluctant to settle. As if it recognised something in his own.

Upstairs, locked in its case, the bracelet pulsed once. Slow. Certain.

It didn’t matter that the fire had died or the petals had fallen.
The connection was still there.

And it wasn’t going away.

Chapter Text

As they stepped back into the safehouse, Draco felt the bracelet moving in him.

It threaded through his veins in quicksilver lines, cool and sharp, winding up his spine until every nerve felt honed to a blade. Every sound came in clearer, every colour bled richer. Even the air felt thinner, as if he could cut it with a thought.

Theo was the first to notice. “You’ve got that look,” he said, dropping into a chair. “The one that usually ends with someone swearing at you. Or bleeding.”

Draco didn’t answer. His gaze had already slid to Hermione, who was brushing ash from her cloak, cheeks still flushed from the cold outside.
Something in the magic stirred.

She reached for her wand. “We should test-”

The bracelets hum slammed through him like a struck bell. Before the thought even formed, his magic surged outward, winding through hers like a living thing.

The spell on her lips died in a sharp gasp as the force caught her. A pull so sudden and violent it tore her balance away. In less than a heartbeat, she was thrown across the room, her back hitting the wall with a muffled thud.

The sound was followed by silence.

Theo shot to his feet. “What the hell, Malfoy?”

Draco’s pulse pounded, hot and steady. The sensation was intoxicating. Her magic still clung to his, thrumming like a live wire. It took effort to let it go.

“I didn’t-” His voice came out low, almost amused despite himself. “She cast. I answered.”

Hermione pushed herself upright, breath quick, eyes locked on him with a mixture of fury and something else she clearly didn’t want to name. “You didn’t answer. You hijacked it.”

Blaise’s smirk had flattened to something unreadable. “If that’s what your ‘control’ looks like, I’d hate to see you lose it entirely.”

The phantom weight of the bracelet pressed against Draco’s wrist, even though it wasn’t there. He could almost feel the cool metal under his skin, calling him back. He already knew it would be worse...and better, once he put it on again.

Hermione’s gaze didn’t waver. “That surge, if it happens near one of the other artefacts, it could set off a chain reaction. We can’t afford that.”

Draco leaned against the edge of the table, deliberately calm. “Then we don’t give it the chance. We find the next one. Fast.”

Theo glanced between them. “Which is…?”

“The box,” Hermione said.

Theo blinked. “The what now?”

“Small,” Hermione explained, “flocked velvet inside, locking mechanism tied to blood magic. We think it’s a secondary tether in the pact.”

Theo’s brows rose. “And you know where this charming little death-trap is?”

“The box,” Hermione said, glancing at Draco. “Delacroix mentioned it. Antwerp. Collector.”

Draco straightened. “Then we don’t waste time.”

Blaise’s smirk returned faintly. “You know who it is.”

Draco’s mouth curved. “I do. And unlike most of you, I understand the language he speaks best.”

Theo grinned. “Gold?”

Draco’s smile sharpened. “Precisely.”

***

They didn’t waste another hour. No owl, no slow Ministry channels.
Theo argued for the Floo, but Draco waved him off. Antwerp’s network was riddled with monitoring spells. He preferred discretion.

Instead, they Apparated in stages, leapfrogging from warded waypoint to warded waypoint until the frost-edged rooftops of Antwerp spread beneath them. The collector’s townhouse was discreet from the outside, all muted brick and heavy shutters, but Draco knew better. The man dealt in things far older and far more dangerous than his unassuming facade suggested.

Inside, the scent of polished wood wrapped around them. The collector himself appeared from behind a glass case, eyes narrowing until recognition dawned.

“Malfoy.”

“Jans Veyrac,” Draco returned smoothly. “It’s been… what, six years?”

“Seven.” The man’s voice was wary. “And last time, you walked away with half my auction table.”

“Paid in full,” Draco said lightly. “Speaking of payment-” He reached into his coat, producing a pouch so heavy it made a dull thud on the glass. “I want the box in your sealed room.”

Veyrac froze. “It’s not for sale.”

“It is now,” Draco countered, sliding the pouch forward. The weight made the glass creak. “And you’ll take this without asking why, because you don’t want to know. We both remember what happens to those who get curious.”

Veyrac hesitated only a second longer before disappearing into the back. When he returned, the velvet box sat in his gloved hands.

Draco took it without ceremony, tucking it into a reinforced satchel. The moment it was in his grasp, he felt the faintest vibration. An echo of the bracelet’s hum,  and his grip tightened involuntarily.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to him, reading more than he wanted her to.

“Done,” Draco said simply, turning for the door. “Let’s get it back before it decides to open itself.”

The winter air outside was knife-sharp. Their breath curled white in the dim light, the muted hum of the city muffled under a skin of frost.

They walked in silence toward the hotel, Hermione keeping pace at his side, Blaise and Theo a few steps behind. The weight of the satchel was steady against his hip, but the hum inside it had begun to thread up his arm, quick and invasive, until it was indistinguishable from the echo of the bracelet.

He blinked-
And the street was gone.

The air was hot, stifling, thick with the scent of damp stone. Shadows stretched long over the marble floor of Malfoy Manor’s master bedroom.

Voldemort stood at the foot of the bed, pale skin gleaming like polished bone, his eyes fixed on Draco’s sleeping form. The boy he had been then, thinner, unguarded.

“I could have hollowed you out,” the Dark Lord murmured, the words low and almost fond. “Left nothing but a vessel. My will in your skin… your life spent in silence.”

The voice curled through Draco’s dreams like smoke, sinking deep.

He stumbled against the slick edge of the curb, the cold snapping back in with a rush. Hermione’s hand brushed his sleeve, steadying him, but he barely registered it.

The echo of the memory clung, vivid enough to taste. The satchel’s hum crawled higher into his chest, and for a moment he wanted to let it in. Wanted to see how far it could carry him.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tight, forcing the pull back down until it settled to a manageable throb. The city’s lights sharpened again. He was still himself.

For now.

And for now, he would tell the others nothing.

Chapter Text

The hotel lobby was warm and quiet, the hush broken only by the soft click of her boots on marble. The air smelled faintly of citrus polish, a civilized veneer after the raw chill of Antwerp’s streets.

They’d each been handed their own key. Practical, she’d insisted, telling herself rest would be the smartest choice. But as she followed the others toward the lift, the steady vibration from the satchel at Draco’s side whispered against the edges of her magic.

The box was reacting to him. Or maybe to both of them.

She told herself to keep walking when they reached the top floor. She even unlocked her own door, stepping into the quiet dimness of the room. The hum from the box was faint here, dulled by distance, but it still lingered in her bones. She was halfway through unbuttoning her coat when a knock sounded.

When she opened the door, Draco stood there, coat still on. His eyes caught the hallway light, pale and unreadable. But there was something coiled in him, sharp and restless, like a held breath.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low. Not a question.

She stepped into his room without a word, the warmth closing over her like water. The curtains were drawn, the only light a low amber glow from the lamp by the bed. The satchel lay on the table, its presence almost physical.

The hum here was different. Heavier. It pressed against her skin in slow, insistent waves, like something testing the edges of her magic, searching for a seam.

Her gaze flicked to his hands, before returning to his face. He’d left more distance between them than the room required, yet the air felt narrow, charged. And under it all, a faint, alien pull, as if the hum in the air wasn’t just reacting but reaching back.

“It’s not going to stop, is it?” she asked.

“No,” he said simply. No explanation. 

The silence stretched. She became acutely aware of the space between them, how each breath seemed to draw them half a step closer. He didn’t move, but his magic did. Curling, testing, brushing against hers like a hand at the small of her back.

She let out a slow breath. 
One step.
Another.

By the time she was close enough to see the muscle flicker beneath his cheekbone, there was no question left in either of their minds.

When his hand came up, fingers ghosting along her waist, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t think.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. If anything, it felt deliberate, inevitable. His mouth was warm and unyielding, coaxing and claiming in the same breath. The hum deepened, resonating in her teeth. Her fingers found the first button of his shirt and lingered there, brushing the edge of his skin as the curtains swayed without wind and the lamp flickered once.

She should have stepped back.

She didn’t.

They moved toward the bed in uneven, impatient pieces. Her coat slipping from her shoulders, his shirt hanging open, her hair tumbling loose.

The box pulsed once, sharp at the base of her spine, the invisible thread between them tightening until it stole her breath.

When his palm slid along her bare back, the magic abandoned all pretence of subtlety. It didn’t just tangle with hers, it hooked in, twisting as though it knew exactly where to settle. 

By the time his mouth traced the line of her collarbone, her knees had given up the pretense of holding her. She sank onto the bed, pulling him with her, his weight and heat pressing her into the mattress in a way that felt like surrender and victory at once.

The moment he entered her, the energy in the room surged like a breached dam. The bedframe rattled, a glass cracked on the table, and the pulse from the artefacts matched the rhythm of their bodies. She gasped into his neck, but he didn’t slow.

His magic tangled with hers so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Each thrust sent another ripple through the room, the lamp above flaring white before it shattered into darkness.

She clung to him, nails scoring light crescents into his skin, feeling the hard flex of muscle beneath her palms. His shoulders moved with deliberate, relentless force, the tendons in his neck taut as though holding back something volatile. One hand gripped her hip, fingers digging in with possessive certainty, the other braced beside her head, veins standing out along his forearm.

In the dark, his eyes caught what little light was left. Pale and sharp as cut glass, the kind of gaze that stripped past skin and bone. There was heat there, yes, but also something coiled and watchful, as if part of him was measuring her even in this closeness. They seemed almost luminescent, holding her in place like a spell.

When they reached the edge together, the magic went with them. Flaring hot, blinding, before collapsing into a heavy, breathless quiet.

They lay tangled in darkness, the hum quieter now but still there, stitched into her bones.

“This changes things,” she whispered, voice barely more than air.

His answer was low, steady. “It was always going to change things.”

***

Later, drifting in the quiet after, she could tell by the rise and fall of his breathing that he was still awake. Her body was heavy, pleasantly so, every muscle slack in a way she hadn’t felt in months. The taste of him still lingered on her lips; the echo of his magic moved lazily through her like warm water.

It hadn’t just been sex. She knew the difference. She’d had sex before. This had been something else. Something dangerous and electric, threaded through every touch and breath until she couldn’t tell whose heat was whose.

Even now, their magic lingered, curling together as if unwilling to let go. She could feel it at the edges of her thoughts, slow and stubborn, like a knot that wouldn’t loosen.

Part of her wanted to pull away, to test if she could. But she didn’t.
Not tonight.

She opened her eyes to find him propped on one elbow, gaze fixed on the window as though looking far beyond it. Moonlight caught the stark lines of his face.

“Draco?” she murmured.

He blinked, focus snapping back to her. “Get some sleep, Granger.”

His tone was calm, almost casual, but she heard the faint strain under it.

The moment might have lingered, if the door hadn’t swung open without so much as a knock.

Theo strolled in like he owned the place, hair tousled, pyjama-top half-buttoned, and an expression that managed to be both smug and faux-concerned. Blaise followed at a more leisurely pace, hands in his pockets, eyebrow arched.

“No need to thank us for checking if you were still alive,” Theo said cheerfully. “Half the hotel thought it was an earthquake. We thought… alternative explanation. Took us a few minutes to get here. Blaise and I had to, you know, discuss whether we actually wanted to walk in on it.”

Blaise’s gaze flicked around the room. Taking in the flicker of shattered glass on the table, the slightly crooked bedframe, the state of discarded clothes, before settling on Draco. “I see our guess was correct.”

Theo tilted his head at Hermione. “You alright? Not concussed? Need water? Oxygen?”

She gave him a flat look. “Get out.”

“Fine, fine,” Theo said, already backing toward the door. “Just know we’re charging you for structural repairs.”

Blaise gave a faint, infuriating smile. “And I’m charging for emotional distress. Seeing Malfoy like that… unforgettable.”

The door closed behind them, their muffled laughter trailing down the hall.

Hermione exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. Draco’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

And for tonight, she let him keep it.

Chapter Text

The morning came slow.

Light pooled thinly through the curtains, softening the edges of the room, but the air still felt thick, like the night hadn’t quite let go.

Hermione slept on her side beside him, hair a tangle against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near her mouth.
He’d thought sleep would come easily after what they’d done.
It hadn’t.

Not because of her. Though her presence beside him was more unsettling than he cared to admit, but because of what had happened when they’d crossed that line.

He’d known it would be different. Knew, from the way the artefact had responded to their proximity before, that their magic would find a way to tangle.
But he hadn’t anticipated that.

Not the way it was spilling through every nerve.

Not the way it had answered him.

He could still feel it now, curled low in his spine, in the ache of his muscles, in the faint hum between them.
A part of him wanted to shield her from it. To pretend last night had been just theirs, untouched by anything else.
But another part… Another part wanted to know what else that connection could do. How far it could be pushed. What it might make of him if he let it.

She shifted in her sleep, and he almost reached out before stopping himself. Instead, he let his gaze linger.
Not just on her, but on the small marks his hands had left, the curve of her hip under the sheet.
Possessiveness sat low and heavy in his chest. She was too clever not to see what last night had awakened, but he’d be damned if anyone else would touch it.

The door swung open.

Theo sauntered in, already smirking, a cup of coffee in one hand like he’d just come to deliver room service.
“Morning, lover boy. Just checking the magical radiation levels. Don’t worry, nothing’s glowing. Yet.”

Blaise followed at an unhurried pace, immaculate as always despite the hour. His gaze swept the room. The bed, the curtains, the general state of disarray, before the corner of his mouth curved.
“If you’re planning an encore, do send a note. I’d like to be out of the blast radius.”

Draco sat up, dragging the sheet with him more out of defiance than modesty. “If you’re here to gawk, at least bring breakfast.”

Theo’s grin sharpened. “We considered it. But then Blaise pointed out you might still be… occupied. Didn’t want to interrupt the magic.”

The emphasis on magic was deliberate, and smug enough to make Draco want to hex him. “Get out,” he said flatly.

Theo gave a lazy salute and strolled to the door.
Blaise lingered just long enough to send a final look at Hermione. Still half-asleep, frowning faintly at the noise. “Try not to cause another structural incident before lunch,” he murmured, and followed Theo out.

Silence settled again, heavier than before. Hermione’s eyes opened fully now, finding his. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, quiet but certain, she said, “We’re going to have to talk about it.”

“Yes,” he agreed, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “But not here. Not now.” Because the truth was, he needed to think. To decide whether what had happened last night was a weapon, a risk, or both. And how to ensure that, whatever it was, it stayed firmly in his hands. The next artefact would bring answers. And when they went after it, he intended to be ready . For the magic, for her, and for whatever it made of him.

Chapter Text

The wizarding city of Antwerp didn’t appear so much as close over them, the modern streets folding away until only the older, sharper bones of the city remained. One turn off a tourist-bright street and the light cooled, as if the sun had been politely excused. The air took on the faint tang of canal water.
Windows narrowed into tall, watchful panes; doors grew heavier, their brass studs glinting like small, well-kept teeth.

They hadn’t come to Antwerp blind.
Two nights of listening in the right bars, half a dozen names quietly crossed off Narcissa’s old contact list, and a scrap of ledger parchment Blaise had lifted from a shipping clerk’s desk had all pointed to the same place: an estate once owned by a cousin-branch of the Black family, sold after the war to a family with deeper pockets and fewer scruples.

No one had said the word Needle. They didn’t have to. In circles like this, certain artefacts were never named, only referred to in careful euphemisms. The item, the deposit, the piece that hasn’t moved in years. Each whisper had led them closer to the same conclusion: if the Needle was anywhere in this city, it would be in the vaults beneath that house.

And someone clearly wanted them nowhere near it.

They moved through the city in a formation that looked casual to anyone who didn’t know better. Draco took the lead, not fast, not slow, just certain, his stride drawing a line toward the estate like ink on parchment. Theo drifted slightly left, hands in his pockets, every so often tilting his head to study an upper window. Blaise took the rear, posture impeccable, eyes moving without his head following, cataloguing doorways, alleys, vantage points.
Hermione kept half a pace to Draco’s right, feeling his magic like banked heat. Contained, but ready.

No one stared. That would have been vulgar. But shutters paused mid-close, a maid’s bucket floated in midair a moment too long before lowering, and somewhere above them a latch clicked in the quiet. The quarter noticed them. And it did not approve.

The first ward rolled under the street like something sleeping, turning over in its dreams…

A shiver moved through the cobbles. Not an obvious trigger, just a fraction-too-smooth ripple that her brain wanted to call a trick of the eye. Hermione’s fingers were already up.

“Stop.”

Draco’s wand slid into his hand the way a thought turns into speech. One precise diagonal cut and the ripple kinked, exposed. Under the skin of the street, rune-work showed itself—narrow strokes, tight bindings, the old Low Countries script that wrote edges into everything it touched.

“Old guild wards,” Hermione said, keeping her voice low. “They’re supposed to test legitimacy.”

Theo tipped his head, amused. “Do we look illegitimate?”

“Here? Among people who’d hex you for breathing too loudly?” She said.

He smiled without teeth. “Fair enough.”

They stepped across the place where the ripple had been. The stone was perfectly ordinary beneath her soles, but the back of her neck prickled as if she’d walked through cold breath.

They were permitted to continue. 

***

The second hindrance tried to be a courtesy.

It began with music. So soft she could almost believe it came from her own blood. Two notes, then a third, the suggestion of a melody that felt like remembering a door you’d meant to lock. Her focus slid sideways. The alley to their right looked… safer. Not friendly; safety and friendliness never lived in the same house here. But less observed. Cool. Private.

Theo’s head tilted. “Oh, that’s pretty,” he murmured, already matching his stride to the rhythm. A half-step lighter, almost a skip, as though the street had turned into a ballroom floor only he could see.

“Theo,” Blaise said without looking at him, “if you hum along, I’m leaving you here.”

“You wouldn’t,” Theo replied, still listening with a faint, pleased smile. “It’s in a minor key. Minor keys are seductive.”

“That’s the point,” Hermione cut in, catching the shimmer of glamour magic curling out of the alley.

Draco’s shoulder brushed hers, deliberate as a hand at the small of her back, and the pull broke cleanly, like a string cut mid-note. He murmured a counter-curse, the last of the melody collapsing into silence.

Theo sighed. “You’ve just murdered the only beauty we’ve had all morning.”

“Compulsion weave,” Draco said under his breath. “Layered on ambient noise.”

Hermione swallowed. She knew better than to believe in coincidence in a place that loved etiquette more than truth. Offer a guest a ‘quiet’ side street, then pick their pockets at your leisure. Or mark them and pass the mark to someone hungry.

“Popular already,” Theo murmured, eyes on a set of lace curtains that didn’t flutter with the draft like the others did.

Blaise didn’t turn his head. “We’re being escorted.”

Hermione glanced at him. “Escorted to what?”

He arched a brow. “To someone with opinions on needles.”

Her mouth twitched despite itself. The humor didn’t dent the tension so much as make it gleam.

They kept moving. A witch in a dove-grey cape stepped from a doorway and stood with her back to them, blocking a gutter the way one might shield a spill. By the time Hermione registered the posture, the witch had resumed walking, slow and unhurried.

Two streets later, a faint charcoal symbol had appeared low on the brick too near Draco’s knee to be an accident: a vertical line with three short cross-strokes. She didn’t know it, but she didn’t like it. Theo erased it with a fingertip. The soot clung to his skin like oil.

“Tracker,” Hermione said.

“Or a record,” Blaise returned.

“Of?”

“How many steps they’ll let us take.”

***

The third was not clever. It was not elegant. It was a hand shoved into the elegant coat of Antwerp’s oldest streets with the intention of tearing the lining out in front of witnesses.

They were three blocks from the estate. She could feel its wards humming.

The ward detonated under Blaise’s feet with a sound like a deep bell hit wrong. The cobbles around his boots flexed as if breathing. And then snapped, and snapped, tearing itself open in a flood of light.
The force threw him sideways into a wall hard enough to shake soot from the brick in a grey cough.

“Down!” Hermione barked, spinning as the first curse cut the space she’d occupied a second earlier. She threw a shield up on instinct. Protego Maxima, fast, too fast; it flared wide and strong and took the second hit like a hammer on glass.

Three figures stepped into view at the far end of the throat, hoods low, moving with the economy of people who liked results. Two more sealed the rear. No shouting, no gloating. This wasn’t theatre. This was removal.

Draco’s shield came up beside hers, smaller and tighter than her own, but dense enough to make the air between them vibrate. The impact of the next curse didn’t just break against it. It dissolved.
Threads of spellwork unraveling before they could reach her. His magic pressed against hers, not in volume but in weight, as if each line of it had been hammered into place and would not move for anyone. Two notes on the same line, briefly, perfectly in tune. 

Theo moved like poured mercury, a bright, cruel line of hexes snapping tight around the ankles of the rear attacker. The man hit the stones with a noise like someone biting down on a silver spoon. At the front, another attacker threw green light with a lazy wrist that made Hermione want to teach him something permanent about posture. She angled her shield, bled the curse off into the wall, felt the heat skate her forearm as it passed.

“Left,” Draco said as a warming.

She didn’t hesitate. They switched sides in the narrow space as if they’d practiced it: his shield taking the heavy work from the right while hers ground the spellwork on the left into powder. For one breath, it was almost...beautiful. The kind of precision that leads somewhere dark if you applaud it too often.

Blaise was already back on his feet, breath a notch too shallow, coat smoking at the hem. “Annoying,” he said, casual as a man finding ash on a cuff. He flicked his wand and cut a clean line through the warding net the front trio tried to lower over them.

He didn’t see the second spell until it was too late.

It came from above. A narrow violet spindle of light, quiet and elegant and merciless. It fell like a pin dropped from a great height, unremarkable until it was already inside you.
The runes on Blaise’s coat lit in response, a row of small suns flaring across his chest. And then, impossibly, went out.
The light slid through, entered him with a soft, obscene neatness.

“Blaise!” Hermione felt herself move before she decided to. She reached him as his knees failed. His eyes were very clear and very wrong. He tried to inhale and made a thin whistling sound instead.

She dropped hard to her knees. Heat came up through the stone. Her world narrowed to six inches of ruined fabric and the shallow rise of a chest that didn’t want to lift.

Fieldwork training opened in her like a drawer. She didn’t fight it.

“Look at me,” she said, voice even. She peeled the coat back. It fought her, the protective weave instinctively trying to close over what it had failed to protect. The wound was small. That was the worst part. A precise star, edges too clean. Already the skin around it had taken on a pale, glassy sheen that meant the magic was still doing something beneath the surface.

“Don’t move,” she told him, and her hands were steady as she said it. She yanked her own satchel around, fingers diving into the side pocket for the right vial. Deep red, thick as syrup.
To Draco: “Hold the line.”

She was aware of him before he answered. Not just of his presence, but of the way the air changed shape to make room for him, the way the attackers’ movements shifted in response to him the way birds shift when a hawk’s shadow passes.

“Line is held,” Draco said, voice low and flat. The next three curses broke against his shield like thrown crockery. He didn’t retaliate yet. He was selecting. The restraint made the hair rise on her arms more than fury would have.

Hermione uncorked the red vial with her teeth and let two drops fall directly on the wound. The liquid hissed where it met magic, then bubbled, not blood but something thinner and darker rising and then sinking again. Not enough. She whispered a stabilising charm. 

“Respire,” she murmured, left hand spread over Blaise’s sternum, right hand hovering an inch above the star. The charm took, subtle as a hand beginning to push a swing. Blaise’s next inhale found more room than his last. It hurt anyway. His fingers flexed on the stone. He hated showing pain. He always had.

“Stay with me,” she said, and the steadiness in her voice cost her something.

Theo slid in on her other side, already unbuckling the medical sleeve from his forearm. “Left wrist,” he said, thrusting it toward her without looking. To the two attackers still at the far end of the street, voice bright, a smile in it like the first glimmer on a blade: “Gentlemen. Someone has just ruined an excellent coat. There will be a reckoning.”

“Now,” Draco said.

The word was a hinge. The fight turned on it.

He moved. Not forward, not back, but in. His shield collapsed to a hard, narrow plane that lived exactly where it needed to, and his other hand snapped once, twice, silent and efficient. The first attacker’s wand hand broke at the wrist with a muffled pop that made the man’s mouth open without sound. The second took a cutting hex to the thigh that opened muscle in a clean, white grin. The third, who had hung back and thought he was safe, Disapparated and left his courage on the stones with the rest of the muck.

Draco’s face didn’t change. Of course it didn’t.

Hermione saw the choice he didn’t make. The curse he didn’t throw, the space just beyond the line where the spells ceased being tactical and became statements. He didn’t cross it. Not here. Not with her hands inside a friend’s pain within arm’s reach.

“Gate,” he said, without looking back.

Theo stunned the one still breathing at their rear and kicked his wand into the gutter. “With pleasure.”

They moved. Hermione conjured a stabilising brace around Blaise’s ribs and shoulder, wrapped his chest in compressing silk that refused to take on the scent of burnt cloth. The brace chimed faintly each time his breath hit the wrong part of the scale. Draco blew the ironwork ward off the estate gate with an economy that would have been admirable in another life. The wards here weren’t sloppy; they were proud. He broke them as one breaks pride. Cleanly, without linger.

Inside the carriage house, oil and cold iron and the metallic sigh of old hinges. The chest sat under a pall of dust so even it looked intentional. Silver inlay outlined a design Hermione recognised with a twist in her stomach: Black work. Binding work.

The needle lay in a groove, simple as a hairpin, cruel as a fine tool can be. The runes along its length were older than the city outside the door, grammars that had forgotten other alphabets.

“Don’t-” she began.

“I know,” Draco said softly.

He didn’t snatch. He lifted. For a beat, the room leaned toward him. Something in Draco’s posture loosened and then snapped back into place so fast it might have been her imagination.

“That’s enough,” Theo said, sharper than necessary. “We need to go.”

Hermione layered three protections round the needle and slid it into a shielded pouch. The pouch vibrated once in her palm like a bird testing the bars of a cage, then stilled. She wanted, absurdly, to hold the thing under water until it stopped complaining.

They left the same way they’d come, only faster, Blaise bracketed between her and Theo, Draco walking behind, gaze a blade across the backs of anyone who thought about looking too long. The quarter pretended not to notice them. It did not succeed.

At the Apparition point, the Belgian Floo station accepted her credentials with a sniff. Healers in dark green drew Blaise away on a floating stretcher; he laughed once, breathless and thin, at something Theo said and then didn’t laugh again.

The green flames took him.

Silence folded in.

She turned. Draco was watching the place where the fire had been. The shape of his jaw was wrong: too controlled. She knew that look. It meant decisions had been made and filed. It meant names had been written down somewhere in him where ink didn’t fade.

“Draco,” she said.

His eyes found hers. Protective, and maybe possessive, 

“We’ll get him back,” he said. Calm. Certain. 

“Let’s finish this,” she said.

Draco’s mouth didn’t smile. His eyes did something worse.

“Gladly.”

Chapter Text

The estate had the kind of presence that made lesser buildings avert their gaze.
Three storeys of disciplined shadow, the brickwork dark as riverbed silt, leaded panes sunk deep like careful eyes. The ironwork on the balcony curls wasn’t decorative; it was language. Old Black, transposed into Flemish flourishes.

Draco could taste them before the gate. Pressure points along the boundary, like a spine you could set with the right touch. Beneath it all, a familiar arrogance: the architecture of people who believed masonry should remember obedience.

Hermione slowed half a breath, just enough to tell him she felt the pressure shift. The tether hummed, warm at the edge of his senses. Her magic didn’t clutch; it adjusted. He let a fraction of his own power lean back.

“They’re watching,” she said.

“They’ve been watching since "since we set foot in the city” he answered, eyes on the seam where the wall joined the gate. “Now they think the house can do what they couldn’t.”

Theo stepped ahead with a little theatre to his boots, as though mounting the stage of a private matinée. “Points for taste,” he said, tipping his chin at the keystone.

Theo’s mouth curved. “Do try to blend in. The façade is already reciting the Black family tree.”

Draco didn’t look away from the seam where wall met gate. “At least it has the good sense to skip the scandals.”

Theo’s grin flashed, before he flicked two fingers under the first ward. Not a shove. A flirtation.The gate sighed, illusions creaking a hinge, and for a breath the house showed them its real bones. Less pretty. More honest. 

Hermione breathed, soft. “Layered glamour. Seven tiers, at least.”

“Nine,” Draco said, and peeled away the first three. He didn’t break them; he denied them the surface to cling to. The air smoothed.

Theo watched the nothing he’d made. “No applause,” he murmured. “But I assure you, someone in the foundations just took offense.”

The next layer was pure nostalgia. Black work. A corridor that could have stood in any of the old houses from London to Bruges: portrait frames heavy as verdicts, sconces glittering, Faces in the paintings turned to him with that particular Black gaze. Measuring. Recognition without affection.

He didn’t give them his eyes back. One diagonal cut across the illusion’s load-bearing line, and the hall folded neatly into the dust it wished it could be.

“Family homes,” Theo said, hands still in his pockets, as if discussing weather. "Always torn between honouring and hunting you."

“Why not both,” Draco said, and took the step over the threshold first.

The foyer smelt of river damp, with a thin ribbon of something medicinal threaded through. Potion-work done recently, not well. Under his boots, the marble was too clean. Not the polish of care, but the gloss of magic doing the work of people who’d stopped being paid.

Illusions woke in the walls. Not grand. Personal. A door ajar where none had been; sunlight in a room whose windows were shuttered; the smell of strong tea from a century ago. A woman’s voice. Pitched to what a boy might have wanted to hear. He could have answered that voice. He had, once, in a different house, before he knew what answers cost.

Amateurs, he thought.

He loosened anchor points with the ease of habit: one tucked into the bevel of a stair, one in the seam of skirting board, another in the cut of shadow under a console table. Each let-go was silent. 

Theo angled toward a side door. “Allow me,” he said, voice brightening with a showman’s relish. He traced a spiral midair; the sigil didn’t flash so much as bloom. Where most wizards would push, Theo coaxed. The lock clicked. He snapped his wrist and a chain of conjured manacles slithered under the door’s edge and out again, returning with a listening ward.

“House ears,” he said, dangling it. “Rude.” He crushed it to ash with a neat twist of will. No wand theatrics, no mess.

“Try not to wake the rest of the choir,” Draco said, but he filed away the efficiency. Theo’s magic was not loud. It was nimble, precise, and vicious when it wanted to be. 

They reached the inner hall as the glamour gave them up and the house made a decision. A door opened without anyone touching it.

The man who stood there was the shape of a story Draco had been told by people who preferred their relatives dead and at a distance. Taller than he’d expected, the Black jaw softened by years of careful meals and unearned certainty. Black hair threaded with merciful silver. Coat cut like the past refused to cede ground. He smiled.

“Lord Malfoy,” he said, with the courtesy of a duel invitation. His gaze passed to Hermione, to Theo. “Antwerp has been entertainment enough this week. I didn’t expect an encore."

“Consider this the closing performance,” Draco said.

A fractional tilt of the head, as if appreciating line delivery. “One hears things,” the man said. “About your… alliance. About the one in a fine coat who’s… absent.” 

Theo’s expression didn’t change. The temperature did. “Choose your next words,” he said, cheerful as a hangman on payday.

The man’s smile didn’t move. “Collateral,” he said.

Hermione didn’t make a sound. The tether did. Draco let his own magic rise. The hall recalibrated.

“Wrong answer,” Draco said.

The man moved first, and he moved well. Illusion shed from him like a second skin: nine copies stepping forward with coordinated ease, each casting the same crescent of light. Good work. Not good enough.

Draco took the first with a single, seamless counter, that didn’t stop the spell so much as remove its place to land. It guttered in clean air. Theo handled the second with a flourish that would have been show-off if it hadn’t been so efficient: he inverted the glamour around its spine, turning the false man inside out until it folded into a marble-sized knot of hard light. He pocketed it. “Souvenir,” he said.

The third and fourth fell to speed. Draco stepped into the fourth copy’s space and turned his body just enough to be impolite; his hex locked the real man’s right knee one illusion away, where only someone counting breath and blink would have realised it lived. The crack was quiet and devastating. Copies five through eight wavered as their origin stumbled.

Hermione’s hands moved. She laid a ward like a dome over the hall, the sort thieves hate and soldiers respect: sound-dampening, Disapparition-sour, a net that doesn’t announce itself until you try to breathe through the wrong part of the mesh. Smart. He felt her reach for the seam of his power and place her thread alongside it. Did she know she’d done that? He did. He allowed it. 

The ninth copy tried something clever. Became smaller, close to the floor, a child’s height. Draco didn’t bother to counter. He let it approach, raised his hand, and the illusion simply failed to be. 

Theo crouched by the real man where he’d fallen to one knee, head cocked, voice bright with inquiry. “This is the part where you say something memorable before things get practical. Shall I start you off? ‘I regret underestimating…’ No? Nothing?”

“Family,” the man said, as if the word were a shield that could make spells bounce.

“Exactly,” Draco said, and bound him.

The wards he called were old Black. There are a dozen ways to hold a body still, but only three that make the blood believe the decision was its own. The band of magic locked around wrist and throat, pulsed once in recognisable approval, and went quiet as a valet. The house noticed. Somewhere under the floor, a counter-charm woke and found it was outranked.

Hermione watched him with an attention. He could feel her conclusions forming, the bite of them against her patience. He offered her nothing to soften them. She did not ask. They understood each other terribly well in that.

“Walk,” Draco told the man.

“You think Antwerp will let you leave with me?” he asked, composure cracking just at the edges.

“Antwerp doesn’t get a vote,” Theo said, pleasantly. He tapped the bound man’s ring with a fingernail; the false sigil peeled away like foil from bad chocolate. “That explains the sloppiness. Counterfeits always overperform.”

They moved back through the corridors Hermione’s dome held quiet. The illusions tried once, twice, in small ways. Draco set his heel on each lie and made the house confess tile and glue. If Hermione flinched at any of it, he didn’t feel it. What he did feel was the thread between them. Warmer now, steadier. She matched his cadence without looking. Good, he thought, and let the approval stand, rare as it was.

Outside, the light had shifted; the day was still itself but slightly off-key. The city would not like this. Windows don’t applaud kidnappings. Shutters don’t nod along. Which was why they would not see one.

“Package,” Draco said.

Theo had it ready before the word was done. A coffin-long shimmer of air folded the man out of shape and back again into a neutral, float-tight capsule. No edges to catch on, no silhouette to glimpse, a charm that made witnesses remember a delivery van at exactly the wrong minute. Theo’s work had elegance even when it was ugly. He threw Draco the smallest of bows. “Your carriage, my lord.”

They reached the boundary where Antwerp’s old magic shook hands with the city’s newer arteries. The house’s wards watched them go. So did others. You could feel disapproval like temperature if you knew where to stand.

Theo glanced sideways. “Do we send flowers to the neighbours,” he asked lightly, “or is a fruit basket more tasteful after a daytime abduction?”

“Send them silence,” Draco said.

They stepped into Apparition range. The capsule shivered politely, as if it shared the joke.

Antwerp did not applaud. It would remember. So would he.

They Disapparated.

Chapter Text

It came from above.

A narrow violet spindle of light, quiet and elegant and merciless. It fell like a pin dropped from a great height, unremarkable until it was already inside you.

The runes on his coat had lit in response. A row of small suns flaring across his chest. And then, impossibly, went out.

No roar, no shockwave. Just that obscene, surgical neatness as the light slid through.

Should’ve moved sooner. The thought had been absurdly calm, the way you might notice you’d left the door unlocked.

Someone had shouted his name. Hermione, probably. And then the ground had gone from beneath him. The air rushed from his lungs, the world folding in on itself in one long, soundless beat.

He woke to light. Not sunlight, hat had warmth. This was pale and sterile, filtered through layered charms until it fell in a soft green wash across the room.

The air was sharp with antiseptic mint, undercut by the faint metallic tang of blood and spell residue. Somewhere to his right, a rune-dampener hummed at a pitch just low enough to feel in his bones.

The bed beneath him was charmed to discourage sudden movement. It held him as if it knew better. Fine white linen lay over him, light enough not to aggravate the burns, heavy enough to remind him to stay down.

The curse pulsed under his ribs, not as pain but as a steady, deliberate throb.

On his right, glass cabinets held neat rows of potions in every shade of glow:

• Ice-blue for nerve restoration.

• Opaque silver for curse extraction.

• Viscous amber for burn reversal.

Each bottle was labelled in elegant, curling script, as if beauty could distract from function.

Above him floated two devices: a slim wandlike instrument, sending out rhythmic pulses that kept the curse’s magic contained and a quill scratching his vitals in neat, looping columns on parchment that turned itself when full.
He’d counted the page flips. Four since he’d woken.

Private room. Pansy’s doing, obviously.

The door opened without a knock.

“About time you decided to wake up.”

Pansy swept in, her perfume crisp and cold. She didn’t look at him first. Not even a flicker. Instead, she pivoted with deliberate precision, the cut of her tailored coat shifting just enough to suggest it had been designed for exactly that movement. The fabric caught the light in a subtle sheen, the kind that whispered of hand-finished seams and impossible expense. Her gaze found the potion cabinet in the corner and stayed there, sharp and measuring. One brow arched, almost imperceptibly, and the line of her mouth settled into something that was neither smile nor frown.

“Are these all yours?” she asked the healer shadowing her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not a ma’am,” she cut in. “And if I find out you’ve been rationing-”

“They’re the best available,” the healer said quickly.

“Good. See that it stays that way.” Her tone could have frosted glass.

Finally, she turned to him. “You look dreadful.”

“Charming as ever,” Blaise rasped. The words scraped his throat raw.
Short sentences from now on.

Her eyes flicked to the faint runes under his gown, fingers hovering but not touching. “They’ll scar.”

“They’ll match the rest.”

A pause. Something softened in her expression, then vanished. “You’re lucky you were here. Five minutes later and…” She didn’t finish.

She didn’t have to.

By the time she left, she’d given the healer another long, deliberate look. The kind that promised retribution for even minor failings. “I’ll be back,” she told Blaise. “Don’t die. I don’t have time for the drama.”

The silence afterward was heavy. The hum of charms filled it, joined by the faint clink of potion glass settling back into its racks.

He drifted. Not quite asleep, but far enough under to catch voices outside the door.

“…curse lodged in the subdermal layer. Regenerative draught every four hours. No magic, no sudden movement.”

“If it had been a Muggle hospital, he’d be gone.”

He let the words sink in, slow and unhurried, the way poison spreads in water. Not that he hadn’t known, but hearing it made the truth settle deeper.

He thought of Draco. The way the artefacts had lit something inside him that wasn’t entirely human. Blaise wasn’t there to watch his back. Not now. Maybe not soon.

The door opened again. This time, no rustle of healer robes.

Ginny Weasley stepped in as if she owned the place.
“You look terrible,” she said, pulling a chair to his bedside.

“You should see the other guy,” Blaise croaked.

Her brow rose. “You mean the three of them?”

“Details,” he said, smirk tugging at the burn, “and none of them as pretty.”

She poured water, steady hands sliding behind his head to help him drink. Her touch was brisk, but the warmth was there in the steadiness. She adjusted his pillow until it stopped swallowing him whole.

“If this is your idea of getting my attention, Zabini-”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away.

A healer entered, wand gliding over the burns. The diagnostic charm settled over him in a faint shimmer, cool against overheated skin. Blaise watched the way the light caught along the edge of the curse-scarring.

“If the curse roots again, we’ll have to start over,” the healer murmured, voice clinical. “And you won’t get a second reprieve like this one.”

Ginny’s gaze shifted from the healer to Blaise, sharp as a blade’s edge. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. The message was there in the set of her jaw, the way her hand lingered on the back of the chair instead of resting in her lap.

He lifted one shoulder, slow. “I like to keep people guessing.”

She leaned forward, close enough that he caught the faint spice in her hair. Warm, bright, and entirely out of place in a room this sterile.
“Some of us would rather not guess whether you’re still breathing, Zabini.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The green light from the ceiling painted her skin in soft shadows, catching the gold flecks in her eyes until they looked like something dangerous dressed as something harmless. He wondered if she knew how much she’d just admitted. He wondered if she’d care if she did.

He wanted to answer with something cutting. A shield. Something easy.
Instead, it came out low and rough:
“Then don’t stop checking.”

Her fingers brushed his. Not an accident, not quite. But she didn’t linger. Then she straightened, the mask sliding back over her face.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

When she left, the silence moved in fast, greedy, like it had been waiting at the door.

He stared up at the green-lit ceiling, the hum of the charms ticking in time with his heartbeat. Still a fraction too quick. Her scent still hung in the air, stubborn. Her touch still sat warm on his skin, which was ridiculous. He’d had her closer before in a crowd, and it hadn’t left him… like this.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he planned on admitting. Not to her. Not to anyone.

The group was moving without him. Draco was moving without him.
And Ginny Weasley had given him something worth coming back for. And he wasn’t about to fail her.

Chapter Text

Antwerp at night pressed close, every sound dampened until even footsteps felt submerged. Theo led the way with a key he’d never quite given back, down a narrow alley between shuttered workshops, past a peeling door marked in Dutch with a warning no one had obeyed in years: Verboden Toegang. Overtreders worden vervolgd.
The building had once been a tannery, then a photographer’s studio, then briefly an occult boutique run by a woman who wore moonstone on her throat and called herself a witch. Theo’s witch. Muggle, of course. Very certain of the stars; very uncertain of men like Theo.

She had loved the basement. She said you could “hear truth accumulate” in brick.

The third stair creaked. The fourth didn’t. Theo’s grin flashed in the dim as if the staircase itself had remembered him. He swung the lamp wide to show the door at the bottom. Cracked paint, a rusted hasp swollen with age and the padlock scabbed in red-brown. He didn’t bother with Alohomora. He produced another key from his sleeve and turned it with theatrical slowness until the lock exhaled a flake of rust and gave in.

“Welcome to Antwerp,” Theo said softly, as if unveiling a stage.

The room breathed cold. Stone drank the light and handed it back meanly. The smell was layered: iron first. The permanent tang of oxidized things, then dried sweat, mildew, old rope, and that faint, sickly sweetness that never came from rot, only from burned bodies whose smoke the walls still remembered. Water gathered itself along mortar lines and ran down to pool in dips where the floor had settled.

There were personal signs. Someone had once strung charms (Muggle charms, the kind with beads) over a nail, now the string hung snapped, the beads scattered in a dusty crescent near the wall.
A notebook lay under the bench, swollen with damp; when Theo toed it out, the pages fell apart, revealing sketches of sigils copied wrong. On the far wall, shallow grooves: fingernails.

Chains hung from the ceiling hook. Old iron, not enchanted. The links thick enough to hold a man forever if no one listened. There was a bench with leather straps that had taken the shape of past wrists. A bucket. A coil of rope. Three Muggle instruments laid out as if waiting for a lecture: a thumbscrew, a narrow saw with a clean, mean line of teeth, and a branding iron filed smooth, stripped of any insignia. Meant not to leave symbols, only raw pain.”

Severian Veyraunt watched them like a cat cornered in a church. Pale, but with contempt.
They had bound his wrists high so his weight dragged his shoulders forward and down. Sweat already slicked the hollows under his collarbones. His throat worked, but his mouth made the shape of a smirk.

“You think this will impress the tapestry,” Severian sneered, and Draco knew exactly which one he meant. The Black family tree, woven in threads that had judged bloodlines for centuries. “Rope and iron. Children who have found their grandfather’s attic.”

Theo delighted in the line. “Children, darling, are the most inventive creatures alive.” He brushed Severian’s hair back with two fingers, friendly as a barber. “And attics have the best toys.”

Draco did not answer. The room struck him as precise. No ornament, no distraction: only the plain arithmetic of suffering. 

Hermione stood at the door. She had chosen to come; he’d seen it on her face upstairs, that terrible, admirable decision to witness what she hated. The bond between them -whatever name Narcissa would have given it- pulled like a taut string inside Draco’s chest. It simply connected, exchanging breath for breath, pulse for pulse, meaning for meaning.

He wanted her here.

He hated that he wanted that.

He knew exactly why.

Theo balanced the thumbscrew on his palm like a sommelier appraising a bottle. “The medievals were so… honest. They didn’t pretend this was about anything except time. Pain versus the man’s hourglass.” He fitted the screw over Severian’s index finger, made a show of aligning it, the rust whispering against skin. “One turn,” he said gently. “For Blaise.”

Severian rolled his eyes. “Your lover with the pretty face?”

Theo’s smile cooled by a degree. “Two turns,” he said, as if moving on in a recipe.

The first turn set the cartilage creaking, straining against the pressure. Severian’s mouth tightened but refused him the satisfaction of anything else.

Theo glanced at Draco. “Three?”

Draco’s voice came even. “Make him listen first.”
Then, to Severian: “You saw what was done to Blaise.”

Severian laughed, low and intimate, like he was about to tell a secret. “Do you know what holds the tapestry together, Malfoy? Not thread. Blood. Names braided in, sealed with intent. You think the needle and the trinkets make you whole? Without the key, they’re nothing but relics.” He bared his teeth in a grin. “Find the key, if you dare. Then you’ll see what your mother really paid for.”

Theo turned. The screw bit. The knuckle surrendered. The scream was high and thin, the sort children make when they’ve touched a kettle and realize the world will not take the heat back.

Draco closed his eyes to feel it cleaner. He wanted every grain of the sound to hit the drum that had woken in him.
Not disgust. he inspected his mind like a shelf and found none.
Not pity. Nothing there either, no space cleared for it.
Something else: not hunger exactly, but an appetite all the same.
It felt like placing a hand on a living thing and feeling its pulse because you had asked it to beat.

Hermione’s breath snagged. Through the bond it felt like swallowing glass. He took it into himself without trying; the bond did not ask permission any more than he did.

Theo’s eyes went bright. “let's play some music.” he said, delighted. “Listen how the room gets taller when men scream.”

“Enough theatre,” Draco said quietly.

Theo’s grin had a bow in it, a little flourish; he stepped aside with a courtly gesture. “Be my guest.”

Draco moved closer until Severian’s breath climbed over his own. He didn’t lift a wand. He didn’t need one. The chains responded. The links gathered tension that had not been there a heartbeat before. Severian’s arms, already drawn too high, rose higher, shoulders grinding in their sockets. Skin split at his wrists, clean at first, then messy. Blood found the floor.

The fear in Severian’s eyes was a shadow that knew it had nowhere left to hide.

“Tell me,” Draco said. The voice that came out of him didn’t need to be loud. “The key. In whose hands.”

“You think...” Severian panted. He tried on a smirk and found it didn’t fit. “You think I will break because you can rattle furniture without a wand? I am more Black than you will ever be Malfoy.”

Draco’s hand closed in the air. Bone obliged. A wrong-angle snap. The scream tore something in the room open and left it open. Hermione’s body didn’t move, but Draco felt the recoil as if her palm had been pressed flat to his sternum. Then yanked away.

He looked back over his shoulder. It was slow, and he let it be slow. He wanted her to see where he was standing. He wanted her to understand where the door back was, and that he wasn’t looking for it.

“Don’t look away,” he said. Not to Severian.

Theo’s laugh was softer now, more jagged. “Merlin, Draco. You’re enjoying yourself.”

“Watch,” Draco said.

He placed his palm on Severian’s chest, just left of center, where he could feel the rabbit-skitter of the man’s heart. No words. He pressed with will. Heat rose under his hand, first the warmth of an embarrassed cheek, then the punishing glow of a fever, then the terrible, deliberate burn of an iron held too long. Veins stood up under the skin as if trying to climb away.

Severian writhed against his restraints. His breath came in sawed pieces, mind cutting itself on each inhale. “The...key...” he rasped, broken laughter shredding the word. “You think it was sold? No. Passed. Hidden. Not Black hands...but bound by what they left behind. You’ll never hold it, Malfoy...never...” The rest dissolved into a shriek as Draco’s magic seared blister after blister into his chest.

“Who has it,” Draco said.

“Ketteridge-” It came out a sob. “Lazaro Ketteridge...I swear...”

Hermione turned. She didn’t slam the door; she didn’t speak. She let him look at her once. A clean, unornamented look, heavy with the knowledge that something had shifted and could not shift back. And then she went up the stairs. The bond tore at him like a stitch pulled hard. The ache was almost sweet.

Not enough to stop him.

Theo was tapping the brand against the wall now, rhythm gone from his wrist. “He’s begging,” he said, though the joy had thinned in his voice. “You’ve got him.”

Draco tightened the chains with thought alone and watched the body do the arithmetic. Metal versus muscle. The skin at the wrists became ribbons; the joints developed new angles. Severian stopped making words and made sound. The pleas were not noble. They were human, and that was worse.

Pleasure found Draco without guilt as escort. It was clean. Clear as a bell struck in an empty room. He had thought, once, that pleasure must be warm. This was cold and exact and better for it.

“I believe you,” he said, and closed his will around the beating heart beneath his hand. It crushed like fruit under a heel.

There wasn’t much noise. There never is, when the engine stops. The chains took the new weight and complained about it. The head fell sideways, the eyes kept doing what they’d done all along, taking in light and making nothing of it.

Theo gave a low whistle. “Well,” he said. “And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”

His grin held, but the edges were stiff. For once he didn’t step closer, didn’t reach for his instruments again. He only watched, weighing Draco like a man.

Draco’s own breath came steady, controlled. No rush of adrenaline, no guilt. Only clarity. 

Draco lifted his hand from the blackened print it had left on Severian’s chest. 

For a moment he thought of Blaise. Something bucked in Draco’s throat. An equation balancing: this for that.

“Not enough,” Theo said, very softly, answering something Draco hadn’t said. “For Blaise.”

“Never enough,” Draco said.
And then it was simply quiet.

They came back after the hour had turned. Theo went upstairs to wash his hands, came down with a bottle and left it on the bench unopened. He didn’t drink when he worked. He liked to remember everything.

Hermione was not there when they returned. Her absence made a shape in the room. Draco could feel the hollow of it.

Severian swung gently, the chains groaning each time the body traced its narrow arc. Heat had buckled the skin where Draco’s palm had pressed. The wrists were raw, the fingers, at least the one Theo had worked, crushed past the dignity of names. Blood had dried in the channels the floor offered it.

Theo crouched to look up into the dead face. He spat, not carelessly but as if there were ceremony to it. “For Blaise,” he said again, and this time it had no theatre at all.

They did not speak for a time. Work had a right to its own silence.

Draco lifted his hand and called up a black-edged flame. It wasn’t the theatrical orange of bonfires; it was the hunger that lies under flame, the part that eats before the color is made. He let it take the hair first. Hair always went loud, a quick greasy flare. Then the skin. It moved over the body.

When the flame finished its first pass, the room reeked of scorched meat and old iron.

Theo’s eyes had gone soft at the edges in the way they did when he was too close to a thing to be merely amused by it.

“Leave the chest,” Draco said. “I want to see something.”

Theo’s head turned. “Experiment?”

Draco nodded. The word felt clean in his mouth.

He called a thin line of fire and drew it like a scalpel down the sternum. Heat parted what knives would have suggested. Bone revealed itself reluctantly, then yielded. Draco didn’t hurry. He did not speak the parts of the mind that told him this was necessary. He did not speak the parts that told him this was interesting. He simply made a neat door and opened it.

Inside, what bodies always held: machinery. The heart had burst under will; its walls were black where they had been commanded to break. But around it, under the ribs, along the curve of the diaphragm, Draco could see traces that were not anatomy. A faint shimmer where his palm had pushed power through. Tiny scorches like punctuation marks along the pericardium. 

“Draco.” Theo’s voice had no edges. “If you’re about to eat it, warn me. I’d like to record the folklore correctly.”

Draco smiled without heat. “I want to know how long command lingers in tissue.” He touched the heart again, lightly. Power answered, faint but real, a ghost of the force he’d used. “Answer: long enough to be useful.”

Theo considered him as if sighting along a blade. “Useful for what?”

“For whatever we ask,” Draco said, and the room accepted the truth.

They closed the chest because work that is careful does not leave doors open. Draco burned again, disciplined arcs, until skin and fascia and the proud map of ribs resolved themselves to brittle black. When the flame went out this time, it left quiet behind that felt like respect.

That was when Hermione returned.

He did not hear her first. He felt the bond take a breath. The room did not change temperature; the lamp did not flare or dim. But something corrected itself inside him. He turned as if the room had instructed him to face the door and found her there, one hand still on the wood of the doorway, as if she’d decided from the threshold how much she could bear.

Her eyes moved once, slow, a single sweep: chains, bench and then the shape that had been Severian. It took very little imagination to see everything he and Theo had done to it. That was what Muggle rooms were good for: making explanations unnecessary.

She did not speak. He could feel the words she wasn’t saying pressed up against the back of her teeth: You-, Why-, How-. Under that, the thin, threatening line of I know exactly why. And I hate that I do. The bond handed him her nausea like a cup and he drank it. It didn’t choke him. It bit, and he welcomed the bite.

He wanted to tell her something true. He hurt Blaise. Or: We need what he knew. Or the most honest of all: I wanted you to see what I can do. He said none of it because truth here was worse than lie, and because he had chosen the man he was going to be an hour ago.

Hermione’s gaze lifted to his, the small muscles around her mouth tight. She did not ask for an apology; he would not have given one. She did not condemn him aloud; he did not need her to. For a heartbeat the bond sang at a pitch that put pain in his molars. Then she stepped back, once, twice, and the doorframe swallowed her.

Theo let out a breath he’d been pretending not to hold. “She didn’t slap you,” he said lightly, to see if the room wanted jokes again.

“She isn’t finished deciding,” Draco said, and knew it was true.

Theo looked at the body, at Draco’s hands, at the neatness of the ruin. For the first time that night, worry introduced its small, deft fingers at the corners of his eyes. “All right,” he said. “Let’s finish.”

Draco nodded. He closed his palm and called flame until anatomy resolved to ash and the smell complicated itself into something no cook would claim. He stepped back to let the last of the heat do its work. The chains creaked as the weight on them changed from human to history.

Theo fetched the leather pouch he kept for ugly errands. He scraped ash and bone with a flat iron scoop. The old habit of a man who cleaned up after performances with police who would not understand. A clavicle came away whole; he snapped it in two before the pouch took it. 

They left the lamp burning. The room would eat the light by morning. Rooms like this did not keep souvenirs unless you forced them.

Antwerp’s river widened at night. The wind smelled of salt and ship oil and a hint of rot the tide could never quite solve.

Theo stood at the edge and swung the pouch once, twice, three times like a censer. He let the arc finish itself and the pouch open. Ash came out first, a soft black weather that the wind took south. Then bone chips fell in a clatter too small to disturb the larger water. A rib fragment hit a stone near the edge, skittered, and dropped with a sound like a penny.

They watched. Bubbles found the surface.

Theo cleared his throat. He was not good at silence when it felt like church. “You know,” he said, conversational as a man discussing a dessert menu, “she’ll make you pay for this.”

Draco thought of Hermione’s eyes in that doorway. Of what they hadn’t said, and why. “She’ll make me answer for it,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

“And if she leaves anyway?”

Draco was surprised to find he had the answer ready. “Then I’ll still know what I can do.”

Theo made a small motion with his hand, half toast, half warding sign. “You enjoyed it,” he said, not as a question.

“Yes.” Draco didn’t pick up a stone. He didn’t need the ritual. “And I will again.”

Theo’s laugh was short and without malice. “Remind me to keep you pointed at the right people.”

The bond with Hermione lay quiet. It had gone silent. Draco touched it with his mind and felt the ache answer, steady and real.

He watched the river accept Severian Veyraunt. The water didn’t care. It took what it was given and made it no one’s.

Draco saw the room again: the neatness of the bench; the stupid, brave, ugly sounds men make when their bodies learn new shapes; the precise black mark his palm had left when it decided to be an instrument. He could go back there in a thought and knew it.

He had crossed the line.

He thought about crossing back.

He didn’t want to.

“Come on,” Theo said, shivering now that the work was gone and only night remained. “Let’s go tell Hermione what the clever bastard confessed before you unthreaded him.”

Draco watched the last ripple die. The city’s lights lay across the water in a bruise. “Tell Hermione if she asks.”

Theo looked at him. “If she asks?”

Draco turned from the river. “If she wants the truth, she’ll take it. If she wants a reason to hate me, she’ll take that, too.” He didn’t add the third truth. The one that pressed like a coin in his mouth, that if she wanted neither, he would still have the room, the chains, the precise pressure of his palm, the clean arithmetic of command and compliance.

They walked back along the riverside. Behind them the Scheldt kept its counsel. Draco’s coat moved with him like a shadow.

He felt very awake. He felt, and he let himself know it without shame, very pleased.

He pressed his thumb to the inside of one wrist and felt the pulse answer. He did not count the beats. He did not need to. He knew the rhythm now.

He had crossed the line.
And there was no world in which he chose to go back.

Chapter Text

The safehouse smelled of damp wool and scorched paper when they returned.

The river had taken Severian Veyraunt.

Antwerp had swallowed the noise.

The satchel with the box still hummed in the corner of the room.

For now, the safehouse was only a pause. For the next hunt.

Even now ours later, Hermione could feel it in her ribs, in the curve of her palm when she flexed her fingers. The tether still hummed there, low and insistent, like a second heartbeat that didn’t belong to her.

Draco stood by the window, coat still on. He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. Hermione watched the way his shoulders held. Too precise. 

“Draco,” she said quietly, “we need to talk.”

His head tilted, slow, the smallest acknowledgement. The pale light caught in his eyes and made them look dangerous. “So talk, Granger.”

She drew a breath. Stay steady. “What you did in that cellar… you weren’t questioning him, Draco. You were enjoying it. And I had to leave before I couldn’t bear to watch.”

For a heartbeat he didn’t move. His gaze stayed fixed on her, pale and cutting, but there was something beneath it. Then his mouth curved, thin and sharp.

“Enjoying it,” he echoed softly, as though tasting the words. “You think pain has to be an accident to have value? He gave us what we needed. That was all that mattered.”

“That isn’t all that mattered,” she shot back, her voice breaking against the edge of his calm. “It wasn’t just the man chained in front of you. It was me, Draco. I felt it...through the tether, through you. Every scream, every snap of bone. You didn’t just break him, you dragged me into it.”

His jaw tightened, the tendons standing out against pale skin. “Then maybe you finally understand,” he said, voice low, dangerous, “what it takes to win.”

Her throat closed around the surge of anger and grief. “No. I understand what it takes to lose yourself.”

The silence after was suffocating. His magic stirred in the air, restless, pulling toward her even as she stepped back. 

She forced herself not to flinch when he moved closer, slow, deliberate, until the cold edge of his power brushed against her skin. His hand lifted. Fingers grazing her jaw.

“You think you can walk away from this,” he murmured, eyes searching hers. “From me. But you’ve already felt it. You know what it is to have that power in your blood. Don’t lie to me, Granger. You wanted it too.”

Her wand was in her hand before she realised she’d drawn it. Pressed flat against his chest, the tip burning with unshed light. Her voice trembled, but the words did not:

“I wanted you. Not this.”

The air erupted.

Glass cracked in the windows. And still he stood there, unmoving, eyes fixed on her as if the destruction were nothing but punctuation.

Hermione’s breath hitched, her wand still pressed to his chest. Her heart thundered in her ears, but she didn’t look away.

“Choose,” she whispered. “Before there’s nothing left of you worth saving.”

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, eyes fixed on hers. “This power. It answers me. It was always meant to. And when it runs through you...” 

Her heart lurched, traitorously. She did feel it. She hated how much.

But then his grip tightened, just enough to press bone. His magic flared, hot, invasive, curling around hers like smoke forcing its way under a door.

“Draco.” Her voice was low, warning. “Let go.”

He didn’t. Instead he leaned closer, mouth brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot. “I could give you everything. Power. Clarity. You’d never doubt again.”

And then his hand slid from her jaw to her throat. Possessive. A silent claim. Fingers curved with intent, thumb pressing against the hollow where her pulse thundered. The tether surged with the contact, a pulse that wasn’t hers flooding through her veins, demanding she answer it.

His lips grazed the edge of her cheek, hot and deliberate, lingering just long enough to stake a choice she hadn’t made. He tilted his head, unhurried, the scrape of stubble dragging across her skin until his mouth hovered over hers. His breath mingled with hers, a promise of a kiss that carried no question.

His grip shifted, firmer now, fingers spreading along the line of her jaw, holding her there as if he could command the answer with touch alone. Magic poured into her with the same rhythm as his pulse. Pulling her closer, even as her body stiffened in warning, even as her mind screamed against the temptation.

It was dominance disguised as desire, and for one dangerous second, she felt how easy it would be to surrender.

Her wand was in her hand before she knew it. The tip pressed hard against his chest, light blooming hot between them.

“Let go,” she said, voice breaking, eyes shining with fury and something more fragile.

But he didn’t. His eyes burned pale, unreadable, and he leaned closer still, mouth brushing the edge of her lips, reckless with want.

She wrenched free, stumbling back, tears bright in her eyes as she raised her wand higher. “This isn’t you,” she whispered, but the sound of it cut deeper than a shout.

Draco stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes locked on her like she was both the weapon and the wound. For a heartbeat too long, she saw it in his eyes. The temptation to seize her, simply because he could.

Instead she turned. Her cloak caught in the gust of displaced magic, and then she was gone, the door slamming behind her with a crack that echoed like finality.

Draco’s breath came ragged. The hunger in his veins didn’t fade; it curdled, turned on itself, needing release.

He lifted a hand. The nearest table exploded into splinters. Shelves tore free from their brackets, a cascade of ruined books raining down. Windowpanes cracked into white webs. The safehouse shuddered as his fury filled every corner, every beam.

When it finally stilled, he stood in the ruins, chest tight, pulse wild, the taste of her still on his lips.

At the centre, Draco stood motionless, chest heaving, eyes bright and empty. Every breath came with a tremor of power he couldn’t force back down.

The world bent around him. And he let it.

Chapter Text

The safehouse looked as if it had been drunk, stumbled into a fight with itself, and lost.

Chairs splintered in corners, books curled on the floor like dying birds, glass glittered in the hearthrug. The air was still hot from the surge, buzzing with the wrong kind of silence.

And in the middle of it: Granger.

She sat on the edge of the sofa that was still in one piece, shoulders drawn tight, hair tumbling in her face as she pressed her hands against her eyes. Not the prim scholar. Not the witch who could stand toe-to-toe with Ministry brass. Just a woman whose ribs still shook with whatever Malfoy had lit in her.

Theo leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, letting his shadow fall long across the wreckage. He waited until she dropped her hands, until the shine of her tears caught the dim light.

“Bad date?” he offered.

Her breath snagged. She shook her head, not in denial, but because she had no words that wouldn’t break.

“It was him,” she whispered finally. “All of this. He-” Her voice caught again. “It was Draco.”

Theo let his eyes sweep the room with exaggerated theatre. “You don’t say.” He flicked a shard of glass with his boot. It skittered across the boards, sharp little punctuation.

Her gaze snapped to him, fierce despite the tears. “Don’t make a joke out of this.”

He tilted his head, grin carving itself slow and thin. “Darling, if I don’t joke, I’ll start screaming. And I’ve always preferred my breakdowns with an audience, not rubble.”

She flinched, but she didn’t look away. Brave girl. Or stupid.

Theo pushed off the doorframe and came closer, crouching so they were eye-to-eye. Up close, she looked even worse. Flushed, raw, the tether still tugging under her skin. He’d felt it too, the echo in the air when Malfoy lost himself.

“You’re not crying because he touched you,” Theo said softly, knife-sharp under the gentleness. “You’re crying because you saw him enjoy it. That’s the real danger. Not the power. The pleasure.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t deny it.

Theo straightened, rubbing a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the truth he’d just handed her. The silence swelled again. Antwerp never really slept. And right now, it was much too close.

“We can’t stay here,” he said finally. “Noise like that doesn’t go unnoticed. Safehouses don’t stay safe when the walls are singing.”

She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, gaze on the broken table, on nothing. “What happens when he does it again?”

Theo barked a laugh, short, without humour. “Then we hope he remembers which side we’re on before he decides to redecorate.”

He turned for the stairs, but glanced back once, catching her hollowed look. For the first time in a long while, the grin didn’t come.

Because underneath the wreckage, the glass, the tears, Theo knew the truth he hadn’t said aloud.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t losing control.
He was choosing it.

And Theo. Clever, charming, vicious Theo, wasn’t sure anymore if he could keep laughing his way through the fallout.

Theo found him upstairs.

Malfoy hadn’t bothered with lamps. The room was dark but bright enough to turn his pale skin into something not quite alive. He stood by the window, posture immaculate, as if he’d been waiting for someone to challenge him.

Theo let the floorboard creak under his weight as he stepped in. No hiding. No courtesy. “Well,” he said brightly, “you’ve redecorated downstairs. Granger’s crying, the sofa’s lost a leg, and I’m fairly certain the neighbors think we’re murdering goats. Bravo.”

Draco didn’t turn. “Leave.”

Theo laughed, sharp and light, like broken glass in a tumbler. “Leave? And miss this little performance? No, no, I insist. Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t start using the wallpaper as target practice.”

Slowly, Draco pivoted, gaze pale and hard. “I said. Leave.”

Theo sauntered closer, hands in his pockets, smile lazy, eyes unblinking. “Funny thing, Malfoy. She’s downstairs asking what happens if you do it again. And I-well, I told her the truth. We hope you remember which side we’re on before you start redecorating.”

Draco’s jaw flexed. “You think this is a game.”

Theo shrugged, smile razor-thin. “Everything’s a game. The trick is knowing who’s still playing and who’s already lost.” He tilted his head, voice dropping. “You enjoyed it. That’s the real danger. Not your power. The pleasure.”

Draco moved in a blink, faster than thought, hand at Theo’s collar, shoving him back into the wall. The plaster cracked. His wand wasn’t drawn; he didn’t need it. Magic pressed like a knife under Theo’s ribs.

Theo’s grin widened, teeth flashing white. “There it is. The menace. The ‘I could snap you in half and no one would hear the crunch’ look. Congratulations, Malfoy. You’ve finally become every bedtime story our mothers warned us about.”

The pressure increased. Enough to bruise, enough to promise worse.

Theo’s voice softened, cutting clean. “Try it. Kill me. Crush me. Burn me. Doesn’t matter. I’ll still be here. Because I’m the only one who’ll tell you the truth: you’re not slipping, Draco. You’re choosing it. And that-” he leaned in as much as the wall would allow, eyes bright, grin crooked “that’s what should terrify you.”

For a moment, the air thrummed with the possibility. Draco’s pale eyes unreadable, his hand steady, the hum of his magic alive and hungry. Theo thought, not for the first time, that it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. To be undone by a friend who’d forgotten how to be one.

But Draco didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t release it either.

Theo let the silence stretch, then chuckled low. “Thought so. You won’t do it. Not yet. Because if you did… who’d be left to keep score?”

Draco dropped him suddenly, as if discarding something that no longer interested him. Theo straightened his collar, brushed dust from his sleeve, and gave a jaunty half-bow. “Always a pleasure, Malfoy. Let’s try not to collapse the roof before breakfast, hm?”

Draco said nothing. Just turned back to the window, to the city that didn’t care if they destroyed themselves inside its walls.

Theo lingered in the doorway, grin fading to something thinner, sharper. “You’ll destroy her if you keep this up,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s the part you enjoy most.”

He left before he had to see if Draco flinched.

Downstairs, the safehouse held its breath. Hermione hadn’t moved from the sofa, her wand clutched too tightly, eyes fixed on the door as if it might betray her. The walls still thrummed faintly, the ghost of Malfoy’s surge lingering like heat after lightning.

And then-

A sound.
Soft, deliberate. Not the building settling. Not the wind. Boots on stone, too many, too close.

Theo froze on the stairwell, grin vanishing as he tilted his head. Even Draco at the window straightened, sharp as a blade scenting blood.

Antwerp hadn’t swallowed the noise after all. It had listened.

And now, it was answering.

Chapter Text

The safehouse was no longer safe.
She felt it before she heard it.

Hermione rose from the wrecked sofa, cloak pulled close, eyes darting to the window where the city should have looked ordinary. It didn’t. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the cobbled street, holding their places like sentinels.

And then the sound came. Boots, deliberate. More than one set. Too many.

She froze. Upstairs, she heard the faint scrape of wood. The floorboard beneath Theo’s weight. A warning she hadn’t needed.

They had been heard. The city had listened. And now it was coming for them.

When they stepped outside, it was as if Antwerp itself had closed over them.
Figures waited in the street. Dozens, then more, slipping out of doorways, peeling away from alleys, descending the stone steps of old houses with aristocratic calm. Witches and wizards in severe coats and high collars, their stances too measured, too proud. They looked like judges who had already agreed on the verdict.

Hermione’s throat tightened. The weight of their magic was suffocating; the air buzzed with wards layered so intricately it was a wonder the buildings hadn’t split from the strain. 

A man in front, silver hair caught neatly at his neck, spoke without raising his voice.
“Severian Veyraunt is ash. Your doing.”

Her chest constricted. They knew. Of course they knew. No one in a city like this died unheard.

Draco stepped forward, slow, deliberate. His coat swept like ink over stone, posture unhurried, almost elegant. He looked, horribly, as though he belonged among them.
“Severian chose poorly,” he said. Smooth. Controlled. “Antwerp should thank me.”

The ripple that moved through the crowd was cold, collective disapproval.

Theo let out a low whistle behind her. “Well, that’s one way to make friends.”

Hermione’s fingers curled tight around her wand. There were too many. Their stares felt like hexes already cast. And yet Draco’s voice carried the faintest trace of amusement, as if he’d been waiting for this.

The circle closed tighter. To her left, a woman’s wand glimmered silver at the tip, a quiet promise of violence. To her right, two men whispered in Flemish, words she didn’t need to translate to understand: punishment.

Theo tilted his head, grin unfazed. “At least they dressed up for the occasion. Nothing worse than being murdered by people with no sense of style.”

No one laughed. 

Hermione’s breath caught when she felt it: Draco’s hand closing around her arm, firm, pulling her behind the line of his body. The motion was so instinctive it was almost careless, like ownership.

He didn’t look at her. His eyes were on the circle ahead, but the set of his jaw told her more than words would have. Calm. Certain. A man who carried himself as if the outcome was already decided.

For a heartbeat, she hated the way her chest loosened. The way relief struck first, before outrage. Because his grip wasn’t just possession. Tt was also protection. The tether between them surged like a struck chord, humming deep in her ribs, until she could feel his pulse thrumming alongside hers.

The air around him shifted, thick with power. It curled off him like smoke, sharp enough to sting her skin, and yet all of it pressed outward, never touching her. He was a wall, a shield, a threat honed into something beautiful and terrible.

“Stay behind me,” he said, low, not sparing her a glance. Command, not request.

Her wand was steady in her hand, but her bones weren’t. She felt his strength like a current wrapping around her, vast enough that for one fractured second she wanted to surrender to it. To let herself be carried instead of fighting.

And that terrified her more than the circle of wands aimed at their hearts.

The circle of magicians raised their wands as one. The air thickened until even breath came sharp.
This was judgment.
This was death.

And Draco looked like he was enjoying the game.

Theo, of course, couldn’t resist. He stepped half a pace to the side, just enough to break the neat line Draco had made with Hermione behind him, his grin slicing through the tension.
“Lovely symmetry,” he said, flicking two fingers toward the raised wands. “Bit cultish, but points for choreography. Do we clap first, or do you skip straight to the execution?”

The nearest witch’s mouth twitched, not with amusement but disdain. A ripple of cold disapproval moved through the ranks. They didn’t lower their wands. If anything, they angled them higher.

The man with the silver hair took another step forward. His coat swept the stones like a judge’s robes, his voice clear and measured. “You shed blood that was bound to this city. Severian’s ashes are in the river, but his name remains. That cannot go unanswered.”

Hermione’s throat was dry. Every witch and wizard here carried themselves like aristocrats, poised and certain. They weren’t here to fight. They were here to pass their verdict.

Draco’s hand flexed at her arm, reminding her of its grip. She could feel his pulse in it, steady, deliberate, like a drumbeat no one else could hear.

Theo rolled his eyes, tipping his head as if bored already. “Severian was an arrogant prick who talked too much. You should be thanking us for sparing you another decade of his speeches.” He flashed teeth, bright and careless. “But no, let’s all get dramatic instead. It’s very old-world.”

A woman’s wand twitched. Hermione saw the shimmer of runes coil along its length. An attack waiting for the word. Her grip on her own wand tightened until her knuckles ached.

Draco’s laugh, low, soft, utterly wrong, broke the silence. His pale eyes swept the circle, not flinching, not afraid. Almost amused.
“You stand here certain, but you have no idea what stands before you.”

The words slid into the crowd. 

Hermione’s heart pounded. She wanted to scream at him, to make him stop goading them. But the tether pulled, relentless, feeding her the surge of his certainty, the cold thrill of his enjoyment. He wanted this. Merlin help her, part of him had been waiting for this.

The silver-haired man lifted his wand higher. All around them, the circle followed, a unified movement so precise it made Hermione’s skin crawl.

The street itself seemed to lean in.

And still Draco smiled.

Theo gave a soft, incredulous laugh under his breath. “Oh, fuck. He’s actually enjoying this.”

Hermione’s throat burned. She wanted to shout, to drag him back, to break the tether by sheer will. But when she looked at him she saw. He had already decided.

“Draco...” she whispered, desperate.

He didn’t hear her. Or worse: he did. And chose not to listen.

His free hand rose, fingers loose, casual, as if dismissing a servant. He tapped thumb to forefinger. A sound like a single knuckle cracking.

The world broke.

Light collapsed. Magic imploded inward, then lashed outward in a single shockwave that wasn’t spell or curse but pure command. A pulse so absolute it carried no color, no sound, only force.

Hermione’s knees buckled. She gasped, clutching at her chest, feeling the tether surge like it might tear her open.

The circle fell.

Every wand, every body, every aristocratic poise crumpled at once. No cries, no struggle. Just a clean, simultaneous collapse. Coats and cloaks snapped against stone as bodies hit cobblestones. Heads lolled, eyes glassy, silence descending like a burial cloth.

Dozens.

Then silence.

The city itself seemed to recoil.  lamps flickered and died. Antwerp...proud, warded Antwerp, had gone silent in a single blink.

Hermione couldn’t breathe. The bile rose before she could swallow it back. She clapped a hand over her mouth, trembling, the echo of their deaths thrumming through her veins via the tether.

Theo exhaled a long, low whistle. “Well,” he said, voice unsteady despite the grin he tried to wear, “that escalated quickly.” His eyes flicked over the fallen bodies, then to Draco, sharp now, stripped of theatre. “Merlin’s cock, Malfoy. Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Draco lowered his hand. Smooth, deliberate. His coat barely moved. His eyes were pale fire, unreadable, but his chest rose and fell like he’d swallowed the city whole.

“They would have killed us,” he said simply.

Hermione staggered back a step, heart hammering. “You killed everyone...” Her voice cracked. “This isn’t defence. This is slaughter.”

The tether gave her his calm, his clarity, and it horrified her more than the silence.

Draco’s gaze flicked to her at last, unreadable. “Antwerp will not forget this night.”

Theo flicked dust from his sleeve, voice casual, but his eyes too sharp. “There it is. The moment the story changes. You’re not fighting them anymore, Draco. You’ve just declared yourself the monster they warned us about.”

Hermione’s wand shook in her grip. Her voice did too. “You don’t come back from this. You can’t.”

For a moment, the only sound was the drip of water from a gutter and Hermione’s ragged breath.

Draco looked at the street of corpses as if at a chessboard already won. “I don’t intend to.”

Silence stretched, vast, suffocating.

Hermione couldn’t stop staring at him. At the place where a dozen lives had stood only moments ago, now nothing but husks of robes and the echo of his laughter. He looked untouched. Not triumphant, not shaken. Just… resolved.

Theo’s muttered words still hung in the air like smoke: You’ve declared yourself the monster they warned us about.

And then the sound came.

A low, rolling crack in the air, not Apparition, too heavy for that. This was Ministry work. Layers of wards unfolding.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “They’ve sent someone.”

Theo arched a brow, tone falsely light. “Correction. They’ve sent everyone.”

Figures flickered into being at the far end of the street. Not just Aurors in regulation cloaks, their wands already drawn in military precision, but another rank behind them. Shadows that seemed to move independent of the lanternlight.

Hermione’s blood ran cold.

Dementors.

Their hoods loomed above their skeletal frames, their presence a void that leached warmth from the stones themselves. The lamps guttered, frost crackled across the cobblestones, and every exhale clouded white.

The Aurors advanced with trained efficiency, wands raised, forming a barrier line. Behind them, the Dementors floated forward like the true threat they were, drawn to the taste of violence in the air, to Draco most of all.

Theo’s grin faltered just a fraction. “Well, that explains why the party suddenly feels less festive.”

Hermione’s wand hand shook before she could steady it. She had fought these creatures before, she had survived. But this was different. This was official. A sanctioned weapon turned on them.

One Auror stepped forward, voice amplified by charm. “Draco Malfoy. Theodore Nott. Hermione Granger. By order of the British Ministry of Magic, you are to be taken into custody for the unlawful execution of Severian Veyraunt and the massacre that followed. Do not resist.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped at the sound of her own name, cold and official, like a sentence already passed.

Theo arched a brow, grin cutting wide. “Well, that’s flattering. Arrested in such fine company.”

Draco’s grip on Hermione’s arm tightened, a fleeting press that was half-reassurance, half-possession. His voice carried, low and certain.
“They’ve done nothing. Every choice, every death you want blame, take me. They were forced. By me.”

The circle of wands didn’t waver. But Hermione felt the tether hum at his words.

Until it snapped.

A ripple moved through the Aurors’ formation, runes flaring briefly along their sleeves. A severing charm.

The tether tore.

Hermione gasped as if struck, her ribs hollowing with sudden absence. The pulse she had grown used to, his heartbeat in hers, that dark drumbeat threading her veins...was gone. Silence rushed in where he had been, and it left her cold, unsteady, more alone than she had been in years.

She looked at him.

And for the first time since the tether had bound them, since the artefacts began to pull him further from himself his eyes were different. Not pale fire, not the burn of power and dominance, but clear. Startlingly clear. Stripped of the storm, he looked like himself. Just a man.

And in that moment, he looked almost afraid.

She felt it, beneath his calm posture, something buckled. A flicker of dread not aimed at the Aurors, not at their wands, but at the dark figures drifting closer.

Dementors.

Theo saw it too. His eyes narrowed. “You feel it, don’t you? That’s not the monster. That’s you.”

Draco’s gaze stayed forward, but Hermione no longer needed the tether to know the truth. It bled through in his silence, in the rigid set of his jaw.

Because he couldn’t fight them. Not the way he fought everyone else. His magic, vast and brutal, fed on control. And Dementors didn’t obey commands. They unmade them. They didn’t burn, they devoured. Every surge of strength he pushed outward, they would drink it in, and leave him hollow.

For the first time, Draco Malfoy’s certainty cracked.

And the Dementors glided closer.

Chapter Text

Theo had never trusted theatrical arrests, but this… this was opera.
The Aurors advanced with grim precision, boots striking cobblestones in unison, and the Dementors drifted in their wake like punctuation marks of doom. A whole bloody paragraph of inevitability.

He stood very still, hands loose at his sides, watching how quickly the night had turned into a verdict. Hermione’s wand trembled in her grip, though her spine stayed straight. Brave, stubborn girl. He envied her hope.

Draco didn’t move. That was worse. No fire, no taunt, no delicious arrogance. Just stillness. The moment the Dementors drew near, Theo saw it: his friend hollowing by the second. The monster stripped away, leaving something thinner, Fear.

“Clever bastards,” Theo muttered, low enough for only Hermione to hear. “They’re not taking him with chains. They’re taking him with ghosts.”

She shot him a look. Desperate, as if demanding he do something. He didn’t. Couldn’t. This wasn’t a duel. This was theatre, scripted long before they stepped outside.

Bindings lashed through the air, charmed ropes snapping tight around Hermione’s wrists, her wand tumbling uselessly from her hand. She gasped, furious, but the Aurors moved with cold efficiency: no brutality, just certainty. She was taken like a piece already accounted for on their board.

Theo didn’t resist when the cords found him. He even bowed slightly, grin faint though his gut twisted. Better a jester than a victim. “Always wanted to see the inside of a Ministry carriage,” he said, voice dry. Nobody laughed.

But Draco. Draco didn’t need ropes. He simply folded, not to them, but to the darkness pouring off the Dementors. His shoulders slumped, eyes dimming as if every cruel certainty had been drained from him. Theo’s throat tightened, unexpected and unwelcome. Because if this was what Draco looked like without power, then Merlin help them all.

The Aurors closed in, their perimeter exact and polished. The Dementors drifted closer, greedy shadows sucking the last warmth from the air. Hermione shivered so hard the shackles rattled.

Theo forced himself to look away from Draco’s eyes. Eyes that, for the first time in months, looked like the boy he used to know. Human. Breakable. Already broken.

And he knew the consequences: The Ministry didn’t forgive. They would drag Draco through a trial, through Azkaban’s gates if they dared, and all of them, Hermione, himself, would be painted guilty by association.