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Chapter Text

Friday 6th March 2009

Draco Lucius Malfoy: Once the pinnacle of Pureblood society and Voldemort’s most feared Death Eater, now reformed, Britain’s most eligible bachelor, and a total and complete fucking moron.

That’s what his epitaph will say when they realise the sole heir to a fortune so large that he, his children and his children’s children would never have to work a day in their lives, chose  — let me say that again, chose  — to take a suicidal job at the Ministry.

He could remember the day the list arrived, sat at the large Mahogany desk, positioned in the centre of Malfoy Manor library, right in front of the fire.

“Ridiculous place for a desk,” his father would have said, but his father wasn’t there anymore. He could no longer dictate his every move.

Besides, Draco had always been drawn towards the library. Perhaps it was its large rococo structure, the black marble pillars lining the centre walkway with hundreds of aisles of books, the two leather sofas, positioned in front of two of the three black marble fireplaces, and windows so large he was sure they had to be charmed with an ancient derivative of Engorgio.

Maybe it was the feeling of power that came from sitting amongst boundless knowledge, centuries worth of research, lost texts, words that authors plagued themselves with writing and rewriting just to find the perfect combination to satisfy their audiences. The strength that came from being surrounded by hundreds of witches and wizards who had been pushed back, knocked down, told no over and over again and written it anyway, because they believed so strongly in what they wanted the outside world to see. 

Perhaps it was the jealousy he felt for their freedom. Their ability to have a passion so strong they felt they could defy all those who opposed them. Their freedom to push back against the powers that be, the powers he once cowered to for fear of his family’s lives.

There is a safety in words, in books. They could be a place to escape, or a place to discover. A place to heal or a place to face reality. A place to learn, teach, practise, hone, research, and most importantly, a place in which his father found absolutely no value.

Knowledge was never largely important to the great Lucius Malfoy.

While, yes, if Draco came home from school with less than perfect scores, he would have been shunned and threatened with disinheritance, Lucius himself found no value in reading or researching. He was more of a practical learner, who thought books were a waste of time and intelligence.

“Real men do not get lost in worlds of fantasy, Draco. Real men value hard work and practical applications. You do not learn to duel from words on a page, you throw yourself into battle and you keep firing until you win. Books are there to subdue women's sensibilities and to attempt to rectify mudbloods’ inability to perform. Those who only wish they could be as powerful as us. Pureblood men do not read. We act.”

“Yes father,” young Draco had said. What he should have said was, “take your pureblood aristocracy and shove it up your arse,” but that would’ve earned Draco a few lashings from Lucius’ cane, despite Narcissa’s protests. 

If she thought that was bad, she should’ve seen her sister’s punishments when Draco made a mistake in training.

Lucius was a rather practical man. Physical punishments seemed much more fitting to a man who spat on the idea of broadening the mind.

Perhaps that was why he lacked the wherewithal to follow through with the Dark Lord’s plans.

Luckily for him, Draco never paid much attention to his father’s musings about education.

His mother was much smarter than his father, though neither of them would ever admit that, therefore when she would sneak in to read to him before bed, when he was too little to explore the library alone, Draco would lap up every word like a dragon starved of water.

Books provided a place of solace for Draco, away from the pressures of being the sole heir to a pureblood dynasty, and knowledge became his greatest weapon. He strived to know everything about anything. Well, anything important. He avoided most of the books on muggle studies, reading only enough to know how to pass as a functioning muggle outside of the wizarding world.

It wasn’t that Draco was disgusted by the presence of muggles like his mother, or willing to blindly follow an egotistical maniac into war to rid the world of those lesser like his father. It was more that no matter how much knowledge he absorbed surrounding muggles, Draco could never fully understand them. Something just never clicked, and although he would never admit it to anyone, that scared him.

Only with the power of knowledge could Draco carefully hone his magic, turning him into the lethal weapon Voldemort so desperately needed in his last twelve months.

The more Draco read, the more dangerous he became. To know everything, meant to anticipate anything.

Creating new spells, potions and wards didn’t come by fluke. No, it came from reading thousands of tomes in Latin, French, and English, detailing the history of counter spells, curse-breaking and ward disarming, meaning Draco could adapt his arithmancy by a tenth of a number to ensure his results were flawless.

Draco could anticipate spells and counter them before they’d even been cast, just by studying the way in which the caster raised their wand.  

This, paired with his impeccable skills at Occlumency and his natural ability for Legilimency meant Draco was absolutely ruthless, wildly dangerous and completely indestructible, and boy, was it glorious.

Occlumency was something Draco had to learn growing up in such a cold environment. “Purebloods do not perform such acts of weakness, Draco,” Lucius had scorned as his cane slashed Draco’s wrist for the fifth time. One lashing for every year he had dared to exist. It had been his fifth birthday and Draco had cried when his friend Theo had pushed him into his mother’s rose bushes.

That night, when his mother snuck into his room for their usual reading time, she had brought Draco an extra gift. He sat up excitedly and greedily peered into the tissue paper to find a small book: ‘The Trials and Tribulations of Occluding One’s Mind: A Beginners Guide to Occlumency.’

“This will help you to become a strong young man, Draco,” his mother’s voice crooned. “You must study this in order to become the man of the house. It is your duty to protect your mind from nasty thoughts in order to protect your family. You must lock them away, Draco. You cannot appear weak.”

That was the last time Draco cried.

Occlumency taught Draco how to survive as a pureblood child. As he got older, it helped him to retain such large quantities of information, and ultimately was the reason he was able to not only survive but thrive during Voldemort’s resurgence.

Draco was already a natural Legilimens. Ever since he was born, he was able to so easily slip into others’ minds. At first, it was an accident. He thought he was going mad. He would be sitting at the dinner table, picking at his roast potatoes, when he would hear his father’s voice hiss obscenities at him. He would look up, panicked, wondering what he had done wrong, only to find his father staring pointedly at the Daily Prophet, his lips not moving.

Luckily for Draco, Legilimency and Occlumency went hand in hand, so when his mother gifted him that book, he learned he was in fact not crazy, but actually a natural Legilimens, a rare gift indeed. As it turned out, Draco was even more special than his parents could ever know.

Legilimency is like reading a book except the pages are a person’s eyes, and the content is their mind. Perhaps being a natural Legilimens lends itself to those who love to read, or vice versa.

His insatiable hunger for knowledge was something Draco never let go of, even in his five years at Azkaban. Once he was out and his father was gone, the library became his sanctuary once more.

Draco knew the moment the Manor was signed over to him, his father’s office was not the place of safety Lucius so often escaped to anymore. He was not his father and never would be. He had sworn that to himself years ago. His sanctuary would be the opposite to his fathers, the one place Lucius despised most in that house.  

No, Draco was not his father. Far from it. Draco was everything his father wished he could be but could never amount to. Draco was everything Lucius was too afraid to become, because he denied himself access to the tools it took to create such a cunning, perceptive, ruthless leader.

A tap at the window and a flurry of black feathers alerted Draco to the elegant landing of Orion. Fiery amber eyes locked on to his steely grey, piercing into his soul in a way only Orion had ever been able to.

With a curt nod, Draco dismissed the bird before opening the heavy letter dropped on top of his pile of paperwork.

Dear Mister Malfoy,

Merlin, is that what people were calling him now? That’s what people used to address his father as…

An involuntary shudder made the letter shake, snapping Draco’s attention back to it.

As per the stipulations for your early release from Azkaban, please find attached the list of community serving roles which you may choose to partake in.

Please be reminded that you will take a reduced salary in exchange for access to your Manor,

“Yeah,” Draco thought to himself, “access after you lot ransacked it for all its worth.”

Centuries worth of history was stuffed into boxes and shoved on shelves in the archives of the Ministry, never to be looked at again due to its ‘unsavoury’ nature. Maybe it wasn’t the nicest history, but it was still his…

and that you must work at your chosen job for at least five years before you are able to further your career or explore other options.

Dependent on the job you choose, a suitable mentor will be assigned to you to ensure you possess the knowledge and skills required for said job, and to aid in your path towards becoming a redeemed citizen in our new wizarding world. They will be in charge of bimonthly check ins to record your progress and update the Ministry with any concerns.

i.e. ensure I stay in line. A babysitter. Great.

If at any point you fail to comply with the aforementioned stipulations, or any of the other conditions discussed at your hearing, your Manor will be reclaimed permanently by the Ministry, and you will be sent back to Azkaban until your original sentence has been served.

Sincerely,

Kingsley Shacklebolt

British Minister for Magic

List of Ministry approved community serving jobs:

How bloody many were there?! Draco’s eyes skimmed the 37-page list frantically.

Administrative Assistant to non-profit companies

…

Auror

…

Curse-Breaker

…

Healer’s assistant

…

Ingredient gatherer for apothecary

…

Inventory taker for the Ministry

…

Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

HAH! They’ve got to be joking. Fucking hilarious bunch of fucking… Potter . He bet it was fucking Potter. This had his moronic humour written all over it.

…

Summer school tutor for HH students (Hogwarts Home – a new initiative in which students who do not have suitable living quarters to return to during summers may stay at Hogwarts and attend optional summer lessons)

…

Wandmakers assistant

…

Draco sighed and shoved the list to the floor, alongside the rest of his paperwork, before putting his head in his hands. What the bloody hell was he supposed to choose? And why the fuck would he want to ‘serve the community’ that failed him all those years ago?!

He thrust his chair backwards, sending it toppling to the floor with a crash, and stormed over to the hidden cabinet above the fireplace. With a wave of his wand, a door opened, revealing rows upon rows of ancient liquor.

The one useful thing his father did teach him: always have suitable alcohol around for any occasion.

His hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of firewhiskey and squeezed hard.

No. He would not go down that road again.

With a firm swig, Draco picked up the list, plonked it on his desk, shut his eyes and pointed at a random page.

So that’s how he ended up here, four and a half years later, standing in the middle of a battlefield, writing his own epitaph at age 28, because of how utterly idiotic he was.

I mean, seriously, who the fuck chooses a job for the next five years with their eyes closed?!

Only six months left until he could quit and go back to living a solitary, peaceful life, shut away in his Manor with his firewhiskey and his books.

“INCENDIO DUO”

A bright green flash of light zipped past Draco, narrowly avoiding his left ear. Bloody Salazar, at this rate he wouldn’t even have a body to bury underneath a tombstone. So much for the epitaph.

Draco ducked down behind a broken pillar and sprinted towards his partner, Ernie Macmillan.

Of course, this was another one of Scarhead’s brilliant jokes, to pair Draco with a fucking Hairymuff.

Oh, did he mention that? That silly little stipulation about having a mentor? Well, three guesses as to who got assigned to Draco.

Harry-bloody-speccy-git-know-it-all-arrogant-dickhead-Potter.

He should’ve known the moment he walked into the Auror offices his first day that mister celebrity boy-who-should-fall-down-a-fucking-well would be the one to volunteer to monitor Draco’s rehabilitation.

He could read it on his face the moment he entered Tonks’ office to find him and his ginger sidekick Carrot Top Weaselbee sat with smug grins.

He should’ve turned around and marched right out then. He should’ve told the Ministry to stuff their jobs, take the Manor, and send him back to Azkaban. At least there he didn’t have to look at the chuckle twins.

Merlin, were they always that insufferable? Perhaps the Golden Girl’s swotty attitude overshadowed their intolerability in school. But she wasn’t here now to mask their repugnant personalities.

So, of course, good old Scarhead decided to take it upon himself to make Draco’s life a living hell. Step one? Partner him with goody Hufflepuff Ernie Macmillan, who would rather eat mountain troll shit than cast an offensive spell.

Honestly, how was this kid in Dumbledore’s Army? How did he survive the war ?!

There must have been a special bunker underground housing all the Hufflepuffs and their little pets.

“On your left Malfoy!”

Draco dived into a roll, landing right in front of Macmillan. “Thanks,” he grunted reluctantly.

One positive to Hufflepuffs? They’re ever vigilant. Probably from all the time they spent watching from the sidelines.

“No problem. Any sign of Harry?”

“Nope, Scarhead seems to have disappeared. Not even a flash of ginger anywhere near us either.”

“Probably disillusioned. We should do the same.”

Usually, Draco would argue against the coward's way out but being outnumbered 19-2 with no sign of Scarhead or Carrot Top, Macmillan seemed to have a point.

“How far are we from the borders of the anti-apparition wards?”

Macmillan ducked as a stream of red flew overhead. “Too far to get there undetected.”

Draco huffed and nodded. “Alright. Disillusionment it is.”

Both men muttered under their breaths and vanished behind a shimmery sheen.

“Follow my lead,” the Hairymuff whispered.

Draco Malfoy was never one for doing as he was told. Another hilarious joke on Scarhead’s part – put the ruddy Hufflepuff in charge.

Draco followed the glimmers of movements out of the corner of his eyes, ducking behind a bench to avoid falling rubble and stepping lightly to avoid making noise.

The ruins of Coventry cathedral provided the perfect landscape for today’s mission. Intel stated that some snatchers running an illegal dragon breeding ring would be moving merchandise today, so Potter’s team, who had been tracking them for the past three months, were sent out to capture the ringleaders - Rookwood and some unknown fellow he had partnered up with.

Scarhead decided his team should include all of the Gryffinpricks: his partner Carrot Top, Neville Shitbottom and his partner Katie Bellend, Shame-he-lives Finnigan and his partner Dean Thomas, their resident healers Hannah Abbot and Padma? Parvati? One of the bloody Patils, leaving Macmillan and himself to bring up the rear.

The plan was simple: stay in formation, capture the two ringleaders, and fall out.

The problem? Intel didn’t fucking tell them there would be twenty-two bodyguards protecting the ringleaders.

Was it overkill to have eight fighters with two healers waiting on standby down the road just for two people? Yes, Scarhead was nothing if not thorough, but it turns out perhaps his over-preparedness was useful in this scenario.

Draco immediately shot a Bombarda to scatter the team, instantly killing two of the bodyguards and causing the rest to duck and roll.

This, however, was not an order issued by Potter, rather an instinctive reaction from Draco’s Death Eater days, causing most of their team to also split and duck to find cover. He could thank good old Aunt Bella for his lightning-fast reflexes and lack of consideration for orders.

That was how half of the already decrepit structure of Coventry cathedral came tumbling down, separating Scarhead’s troupe from the targets.

Alright, so a Bombarda wasn’t his finest idea, but seriously what was Potter going to do other than sit there with a dumbstruck look on his face? He was thinking fast, something Scarhead has never had the ability to do.

From there, a full-blown battle broke out.

Spells flew from every direction, visibility significantly deteriorated by the dust in the air, causing half the team to run and find clean air.

After realising they could no longer apparate, the targets went on the prowl. It seems they spent too much time with those dragons, their battle tactics mimicking that of a dragon fight. Lashing out from anger instead of falling back and calculating their next move was their downfall. With every Auror they cornered, two more appeared behind to capture and demobilise them.

Draco shot a few less-than-legal spells across the way, whittling down the crowd to nineteen, however was stopped when Rookwood sent the spire crashing down in front of him, separating him and Macmillan, who had been casting a series of Protego’s around Draco as he fought.

The shockwaves from the spire was enough to knock a few Aurors off their feet, causing them to lose their grip on the captured targets, allowing them to escape and regroup. At that point, Draco lost track of the battle, his ears ringing and head pounding from being so close to the blow.

Something wet was trickling from the back of his head, but he had no time to dwell on it. Getting back to Macmillan and finding the rest of the team was now the main priority. That was when a poorly aimed Incendio Duo missed his ear, and he finally came back to his senses, finding Macmillan again.

Looking around as he sprinted, Draco could see no one. Visibility was poor, the outdoor space lit only by rogue flashes of red and green.

Now, as Draco followed his superior across the destruction in search of anyone, he could finally pay attention to the pounding in the back of his head. Merlin, was everything always this blurry?

As he took another step forwards, something caught his attention in the corner of his eye.

Surely not… it couldn’t be… why would…

Draco stopped in his tracks, whirling around to see a bloodied uniform, a beam of white light, and a swirling mass of curls tearing through the rubble and heading straight for him.

Oh, but it was.

Hermione fucking Granger.

She was the Angel of Death who had come to carry the bodies of the wounded to the great beyond. The white lights flying overhead framed her face, giving her a glow that seemed to come from within, a beacon of light ready to guide wayward souls from the shores of the battlefield home.

The next moment, everything went black.

Finally, it was time…

Chapter Text

Waking up in St. Mungo’s was not something uncommon for most Aurors. Note the use of ‘most’. For Draco, it was a rarity, considering his precision and flawless reaction times, however, it wasn’t an impossibility. He had, in fact, found himself squinting his steely grey eyes against the harsh bright lights of the accident and emergency ward twice. Neither time was entirely his fault, mind you.

The first time was on a stakeout mission three years ago. Draco and Macmillan had set up in an abandoned flat above Cobb & Webb’s in Knockturn Alley with a view into a side street in which they knew Greyback frequented.  

Tonks had left Scarhead in charge of handing out that week’s assignments, and with Draco’s ‘invaluable experience’ and ‘unique insights,’ or as Carrot Top so eloquently put it, “because Draco used to be Voldie’s bum buddy,” he and Macmillan were often sent on assignments which followed the actions of ex-Death Eaters.

Although it was true, Draco did have a unique understanding of Death Eaters and how they think, move, fight, even breathe, he couldn’t help but feel slighted any time a mission came his way, as though the memories of that bloody mark on his left forearm would never release him from their grasp.

Draco had mixed feelings about his past. He loved the way he felt unstoppable, how powerful he was allowed to be during Voldemort’s reign, but he never felt like he truly fit in there. He didn’t blindly follow the snake into battle because he believed in his cause. It was survival. It was self-preservation. It was protection for his family — no, not his psychotic Aunt Bella or cold failure of a father — his chosen family. His mother. His friends. For if Draco was on the frontlines winning, doing the Dark Lord’s bidding when he could no longer do it for himself, they were allowed to fade into the background unseen.

To have that thrown back in his face every time a mission regarding a Death Eater came around stung. Especially since no one saw it for what it was.

Being a Death Eater to the public eye was a choice. It was a way of life. It was a decision willingly made because the evil monsters that bore that mark were insane enough to believe a giant toddler with a dangerous mind and smooth as silk mouth.

In reality? It was never a choice. It was only ever a way to keep him and his chosen family alive. It was survival, no more, no less.

Old habits die hard, as they say, but they can always eventually be trained out. Old beliefs? Those are much harder to change. That’s why Draco never bothered to argue his case. He had read books about politics, seen the way it took hundreds of people to stand up for a singular cause in order to even begin to inspire any change. For beliefs this strong, rooted in a deep hatred based on a war that had taken almost everything from everyone, Draco knew there was no chance in Merlin’s universe he could get people to view him as the sympathetic character. Not that he wanted their pity anyway.

Still, it didn’t stop his left arm from flinching any time a file marked with ‘DEATH EATER CASE’ in big red letters came his way.

Really, it was no surprise when Greyback’s hefty file was dropped on Draco’s desk. Nor was it a surprise when Macmillan asked Draco to take the lead on gathering intel. He still had some less-than-noble connections, both from his own past but also through his familial connections. Being a Malfoy had to be good for something, at least.

Draco’s lead ended the moment they stepped into that abandoned flat. That was his first mistake — allowing Macmillan to take charge on a mission he was way out of his depth in.

Although Macmillan had been part of Dumbledore’s Army, Draco didn’t seem to remember him ever coming face to face with an actual Death Eater, let alone a Death Eater with huge claws, a nasty temper, and a desire to create a werewolf army. But Macmillan was in charge, as per Scarhead’s idiotic instruction when he first joined the team, and there was nothing Draco could do about it.

That, of course, didn’t stop him from sulking about it from time to time.

A movement from below caught Draco’s attention as he silently waved to Macmillan to join him at the window.

Macmillan raised his wand and disillusioned them both before pulling out a pair of ‘Ear Everything’s, an updated version of the Weasel twins’ Extendable Ears.

Draco knew very little of the remaining ginger twin, mostly because he chose not to listen when Carrot Top prattled on. What he did know, and only because he had to, was that the surviving twin overtook the joke shop completely, boosting its success by creating an underground operation which provided state of the art technology to the Ministry.

Business must have been booming considering just how much technology the Auror department alone used with the trademark ‘Weasleys Wizard Wheezes’ stamped along the bottom.

Good for him, Draco supposed. He didn’t care much for the Weasels as a family, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a twin brother like that. Contrary to popular belief, he may have been cold, but he wasn’t heartless.

The ear in Macmillan’s hand buzzed as its shrunken and disillusioned counterpart found its target, slipping into the ripped pocket of Greyback’s tattered Death Eater uniform.

Even though Voldemort had been dead for nearly seven years at that point, many of his followers still wore his uniform as a sign of respect, or as a demonstration of their refusal to comply with the new rules of Wizarding Britain. Greyback was one of Voldemort’s fiercest loyalists and one of the Ministry’s harshest critics.

Greyback believed werewolves should be the presiding race, thus he bit as many innocent witches and wizards as possible in the days leading up to any full moon. Voldemort was merely a stepping stone for Greyback. He was loyal to the snake because it gave him leverage. It gave him security. It gave him an army. Once Voldemort had completed his mission of ridding the world of any non-purebloods, Greyback would have left his ranks and started to build up his own.

Unlike Voldemort, Draco wasn’t thick enough to believe everyone would blindly follow the snake without any ulterior motives. He had figured out Greyback’s true intentions within weeks of meeting him. He knew all of this because Draco spent time observing. Rather than ordering people around and expecting obedience, Draco took time and care in learning exactly what made each person tick, so he knew exactly which aspect to exploit when he needed to.

Greyback’s weakness was the same as his strength: his undying loyalty to the werewolf community. One negative word about how wolves should be locked up and Greyback would lose it, no matter what orders Voldemort hissed his way.

That was what made Greyback so dangerous now, even without Voldemort at the reins. He had his own plans, his own motives, and one day he planned to surpass his master and lead a new revolution against anyone unwilling to fall victim to the lycanthropic disease.

The Ministry had been a little slower to come to this same conclusion, and Draco was by no means going to give it to them himself. He presumed they’d figure it out eventually for themselves, the word of an ex-Death Eater was hardly going to stand up against the conclusions of the top Aurors. Besides, why should he hand information over to an institution which would rather watch him burn than ever return his generosity?

A crackling sound confirmed the ears had made a strong connection, and the next moment the gruff sounds of Greyback’s gravelly voice flooded the room.

“… and if you cannot find it, then I will be forced to find another supplier. Do you know what happens to suppliers who fail me, Mulpepper?!”

“N-n-no sir, I can get it, I w-will” the shaken voice of Mr. Mulpepper, owner of the apothecary, replied.

A shifting of fabric crackled through the ear, muffling Greyback’s response. Draco chanced a glance out of the window, against Macmillan’s orders, to find a little old man held two feet off the floor by Greyback’s hairy arm.

“Not yet Malfoy,” hissed Macmillan.

Draco rolled his eyes. Bloody Hufflepuff and his stupid defensive strategies.

The ear crackled and the voices became clear once more.

“…two days, Mulpepper. I will not offer you such mercy next time.”

“Y-yes sir, I w-wont f-f-fail you.” Mulpepper could barely speak around the claws digging into his neck.

Greyback squeezed tighter and Draco growled. “We’ll lose a civilian if you keep pissing about, Macmillan.”

“Keep your voice down. We still have time.”

Bloody Hairymuffs and their fucking inability to act fast. He knew being partnered with the weakest house would bite him in the arse one day.

Greyback dropped Mulpepper and stood on his chest, cutting off his airways. “See to it that you don’t. I hear you have a granddaughter. Lovely girl called Millie. It would be an awful shame if something happened to her.”

Mulpepper’s response came out as a choked gurgle, the lack of air in his lungs making it difficult to speak coherently. “P-please… innocent… no…”

Draco clenched his fist so tightly his knuckles cracked. If the bloody twat didn’t move fast, they’d lose a civilian and a child!

A shimmer of movement out of the corner of his eye alerted Draco to Macmillan’s signal — it was go time.

Draco watched Macmillan apparate to one end of the alley, disillusion himself once more and drop a silver metal ball. Draco then apparated to the opposite end, disillusioned himself and dropped the one in his hand. A bright white wave rippled through the alley, causing Greyback to stumble back from the elderly wizard, who curled up in a ball, gasping for breath.

With a low, menacing growl, Greyback snatched his wand, waved it and…

… nothing happened.

Draco smirked.

He waved it again with the same result.

Draco’s smirk morphed into a wicked grin. It had worked.

Well, of course it had worked. Draco hadn’t had a doubt that it would because this wasn’t one of the Weasel products, oh no. This was an invention of his own fruition. It didn’t have a clever name, because he wasn’t going to waste his intelligence on coming up with gimmicky catchphrases. This invention wasn’t for public consumption. This was for his own convenience, and by extension, that had to include Macmillan, unfortunately.

These little metal balls were made of silver — the most conductive metal. Any conductive metal works with magic the way it works with muggle electricity. This was one of the areas of muggle studies Draco had taken the time to research. When magic comes near the silver, the metal conducts the magic, sucking it out of the air and away from the caster. When combining the conductivity of silver with a few clever anti-apparition wards, in which Draco had to alter his arithmancy so the silver did not render his magic obsolete, and by incorporating unicorn hair, the core of his wand, to tie his magic to the metal balls, the creator of them could effectively render any magical being within their radius powerless.

Take that and tie in a linking spell derived from the phenomenon Priori Incantatem to connect two of these little objects and you create a radius of anti-magic and anti-apparition wards tied to the location between the two little balls.

It was clever really. Genius honestly. He should have been awarded an Order of Merlin: First Class for his contributions to magical inventions, arithmancy, and ward creation. But that would require telling someone other than Macmillan about these little inventions with less-than-legal spell work attached, and really, Draco was already fed up with Macmillan’s wary looks any time he handed him one, he could not be bothered to cope with the entire Wizengamot questioning his entire process and having to justify why he would not use these for evil.

Honestly, you become a lethal killing machine for a megalomaniac one time and people never let you live it down.

Greyback growled loudly, swiping angrily at the poor wizard on the floor, leaving three large slash wounds on his chest.

Bloody fucking Salazar did Greyback know how much paperwork that was going to be?!

Draco raised his wand but could not see Macmillan’s signal yet. Was he taking the piss?! These metal balls would hold a wizard back for at least three weeks, but a werewolf close to a full moon? They’d be lucky if they had fifteen minutes left before Greyback physically tore his way through the wards.

Greyback threw the wizard’s bloodied body to the end of the alley, his limbs hitting the invisible wall with a sickening crunch before falling to the floor with a squelch.

Great. So, he’d figured out where the wards were.

Time passed but still no signal. This waiting thing really was not in Draco’s arsenal.

Greyback started to throw himself at the wards. Draco narrowed his eyes, noticing the tiniest of cracks forming. He could only hope Greyback hadn’t noticed it too.

He frantically scanned the other end of the alley, waiting, hoping desperately that Macmillan would remove his disillusionment so Draco could attack.

But there was nothing.

Not even the shimmer of Macmillan’s disillusioned form.

Something was wrong…

A loud tearing sound broke Draco’s train of thought, his eyes snapping to Greyback’s grotesque form contorting itself to fit through a small hole in the wards.

Shit. It was now or never, and if waiting for Macmillan meant becoming wolf food, Draco would rather face Scarhead’s reprimands later than Greyback’s rancid breath now.

With a quick flick of his wand, Draco removed his disillusionment just in time to catch Greyback with a stinging hex, flinging him back into the radius of the wards.

A deafening roar tore from Greyback’s throat as he sprinted towards Draco, screaming obscenities about Draco being a “fucking traitorous rat.”

Draco ducked just in time to miss the bricks Greyback had ripped from a nearby building to throw at his head. Seriously, where the fuck was Macmillan?! So much for having a partner!

Draco knew it was futile to throw any spells Greyback’s way — the one downside of his invention being that the wards worked to keep things out just as much as they did to keep things in.

He would have to lure the rabid dog out. Which didn’t seem to be much of a challenge, considering he was currently frothing at the mouth as he tore at the weak spot in the shimmering wall.

Draco glanced above the beast’s head and finally his eyes landed on Macmillan, who seemed to be standing still, watching the whole exchange with wide eyes.

“MACMILLAN, STOP GAWKING AND GET YOUR BLOODY ARSE OVER HERE!”

Only then did Macmillan seem able to snap out of his trance and apparate to Draco’s side.

He was, however, too late. With an almighty roar, Greyback tore himself free from the wards and launched himself at Draco.

Had Macmillan apparated a second earlier, he may have been able to stop Greyback. Even slowed him down. But no, because Macmillan froze like the Hairymuff coward he always was, Greyback was able to grab Draco and almost tear him apart.

The last thing Draco could remember from that day was watching Greyback’s claws tear into his body, the sound of his skin being ripped from his body, leaving a matching set of scars adjacent to Scarhead’s lucky Sectumsempra set.

That visit to St. Mungo’s was mortifying. Draco had always prided himself on being the only Auror to have never been injured on duty. Used to shove it in Carrot Top’s face, whose clumsy oafishness earned him a hospital visit at least once a month. The only solace was knowing it wasn’t his fault, and that Macmillan would be torn to shreds by Tonks the moment he could submit his report.

Or so he thought. Macmillan was merely reprimanded with a slap on the wrist and set free to ruin Draco’s life once more due to his ‘complex past with the lycanthropic community,’ whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean.

Draco supposed it was less to do with Macmillan’s failure, and more to do with the fact it was him who got hurt. If it had been Potter lying in a hospital bed with his arm hanging off, there would have been an uproar leading to multiple suspensions and perhaps even an Azkaban sentence. But something about the reactions across the office, even from his own bloody cousin, told him that they had been waiting for the day Draco Malfoy got his comeuppance.

His second trip to St. Mungo’s was more routine, and Draco made much less of a fuss, having learned that his peers most likely fantasised about him getting injured. It was a simple broken leg due to Weaselbee’s fat arse landing on him during a mission. He would have healed it himself if the obese oaf hadn’t broken it in six different places, causing Draco to pass out before the battle had even begun.

No, an Auror waking up in St. Mungo’s was not uncommon by any means.

What was uncommon, however, was waking up laying on his back, staring at the once blue sky now painted red, coughing up smoke, and coming face to face with Hannah Abbott as she finished her final round of compressions on his chest, a muggle healing method that was sometimes used when magical depletion had taken its toll.

Evidently, it was not, in fact, time. 

Buggering healers, never could leave well enough alone.

Abbott panted heavily and stopped the repeated pressure to Draco’s chest. “Welcome back Malfoy, thought we’d lost you there.”

Draco blinked rapidly, trying desperately to make sense of the scene before him.

His head pounded as he shut his eyes, snippets of memories flashing before him as he searched the carefully organised library inside of his mind. Everything seemed to be a jumbled mess, books flying in every direction, pages torn out and left to float aimlessly in the wind.

Since when was there wind in his brain?!

Draco had spent years carefully cultivating this library in his mind, and never once had he seen it in such disarray. He tried desperately to push deeper, to catch the loose pages and slide books back onto their shelves, but every time he caught a leather-bound spine between his fingers, five more books popped out of their designated slots and practically ran away from him.

What in Merlin’s name was going on?!

A searing pain brought him out of his mind and back to the present.

A loud noise from somewhere nearby made him jump, and when he opened his eyes, he found he was facing the cobbles. He tried to push himself up to no avail. A heavy pressure on his spine kept him firmly planted in place.

Another searing pain right in the back of his head, and the noise seemed to get louder. What was that? It sounded low and rumbling… but Draco just couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.

Another searing pain, more loud noises, another failed attempt to push himself up.

Salazar’s saggy left tit, if someone didn’t tell him what was happening soon, he was going to lose his—

“Alright, Malfoy, alright! I know! It’s almost over, you just need to stay still and stop screaming!” The hurried voice of Hannah Abbott pierced through his scrambled thoughts.

Oh.

So that’s what the noise was.

He finally came to his senses and clamped his mouth shut, his jaw aching from the strain — just how long had he been screaming for?

Another searing pain almost blinded him, white spots floating in front of his vision, before finally a cooling sensation at the back of his head brought the pain to a stop.

He felt like he was floating.

Maybe he was.

Clearly, he wasn’t aware of or in control of his body’s actions at the moment. Perhaps he simply began levitating himself to get away from the awful scene in front of him.

“Okay, Malfoy, I’ve closed the wound and cast a series of healing charms…”

Wound? What wound?

“… you may still feel dizzy for a while, and I don’t have the time to check for any long-term damage, but I have cast a quick diagnostic on your brain and the cut on the back of your head didn’t seem to puncture anything vital…”

Oh.

That explains the mess of his library then…

“… though it did shatter part of your skull, I’ve managed to piece it back together. The conditions were less than ideal obviously but what can you do…”

Less than ideal? Less than ideal?!

From what Draco could tell, they were in the middle of a dirty cobblestone path with smoke and debris flying around everywhere. Less than ideal would be a walk in Diagon Alley compared to this.

As Abbott wittered on about his injury, something Draco probably should have been paying attention to, he couldn’t stop his mind from instead trying to piece together what happened.

Fragments from torn pages kept flashing before his eyes in random orders…

… a broken spire…

… a shimmery figure …

… a bright white light…

… casting a Bombarda…

… pain…

…lots of pain…

… and then it clicked. All the pieces fit together, the pages collecting in the correct order, the books mending themselves and slotting back into their allotted spaces on the shelves. Finally, his library was back in one piece and…

No.

No .

It couldn’t be…

He could’ve sworn he’d seen…

But she wasn’t there.

She couldn’t be.

She wasn’t a field healer. She hadn’t been in years. She stepped down from the job for “reasons too personal to discuss with Death Eater scum like you.” He could always trust Carrot Top to get a jab in.

There was no way he had seen her. It must’ve been his injury. He must have been imagining things.

Plenty of girls have curly brown hair. Hell, it could have even been Abbott herself if she’d been wading through all that dust and rubble.

No.

There was no way Draco had seen Hermione fucking Granger.

Why his brain had decided to conjure an image of her right before he almost died, he would never know. It wasn’t something he particularly wanted to waste any time or energy on analysing.

Potter. Must’ve been to do with him. Spending too much time with Scarhead and Carrot Top must really be getting to him. That’s it. And that’s the last thought he would spare it.

Instead, he decided to sit up — a little too quickly, judging by the way Abbott frantically gripped his arm — and look around.

If Coventry cathedral had been in ruins before, it was totally and completely fucking obliterated now.

Draco’s eyes widened and as he felt Abbott slip away, his hand shot out to grab her wrist.

“wh… what happened?!”

Abbott carefully peeled her arm from his grasp and sighed. “It was an ambush. Rookwood and his cronies knew you’d been tracking them for weeks. They had planned to scare you into leaving by showing up with 22 instead of the original 2 you’d been told about, but once you sent that Bombarda, they panicked. Rookwood had at least 50 people waiting in hiding in case something went wrong. When they heard the Bombarda they all apparated outside of the wards and charged in. Padma and I…”

That’s what bloody Patil it was. Padma. Padma. Do not forget Padma.

“… rushed in to try and grab as many of you as possible, but most of our team was disillusioned so it was hard to track you all down. You’re lucky really, if we hadn’t had …”

Draco couldn’t listen to any more. An ambush? Rookwood was smart enough to plan a fucking ambush?! The slimy git had always acted first and thought later, and that was when one of the scariest megalomaniacs to ever exist had him under thumb.

What changed? Why now was he acting smart?

Draco glanced around to see half his team unconscious in various states of undress and injury surrounding him. Still no sign of Potter and his sidekick.

Fuck.

It was one thing for Draco to return with half the team injured. It was an entirely different thing for Draco to return without the famous Boy-Who-Lived-Far-Too-Many-Times and his pet Weasel.

He would be blamed.

Four and a half years into his service for the Ministry and still people would send him death threats on a daily. If the public found out that Draco had been there on the mission that their favourite chosen one went missing…

He shuddered and frantically whipped his head around. “Has anyone seen Potter or Weasley?”

Various grunts from his injured team confirmed his worst suspicions.

FUCK.

Draco slowly got to his feet, despite Abbott’s protests, and followed the sounds of battle, stumbling blindly into the smoke and dust clouds covering the scene.

“POTTER?! WEASEL?! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

No response.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Draco tried his best to summon a positive memory but his corporeal Patronus was shaky on the best of days.

He settled on a Lumos Maxima instead, not caring that it would expose his location.

“POTTER! WEASEL! I SWEAR ON SALAZAR’S CRUSTY BONES IF YOU DO NOT ANSWER ME SOON I WILL PERSONALLY—”

And there it was, his salvation. A grunt. It was faint. Sounded pained. But it was there.

“KEEP MAKING NOISE, I'M COMING!”

More grunts.

Draco picked his way through the rubble, following the sound as it got louder and louder.

Finally, he shifted a slab of what was once most likely a beautiful painted ceiling to come face to face with Potter’s scraggly black hair, sticking out even more than usual, if that was even possible.

“Potter! Thank Merlin!”

Potter grunted again. “Malfoy… its Ron… he’s trapped… get help…”

“No time Potter, can you walk? We’re going to have to do this ourselves.”

“We can’t Malfoy. Now is not the time for you to disobey direct orders, Ron’s life is on the line.”

What Draco really wanted to say was ‘sounds like the perfect time to disobey, maybe even have a cup of coffee, or a glass of champagne to celebrate,’ but he held his tongue and instead opted for, “I’m not disobeying, I’m being realistic. Weasel will die if I leave you behind.”

Potter let out a disgruntled sound before using his stupid green eyes to pierce right into Draco’s. Well. If he wanted to play it like that, Draco would stare just as hard.

“What do you mean? What’s going on out there?”

“It was an ambush. Now are you going to help me get Weasel out of there or shall we let his bumbling fool of a father know he died because the great saviour was too stubborn to help.”

Potter glared harder than Draco had ever seen him glare before.

If he continued like that, he was sure Potter would burst a vein.

“Fine.”

With great effort, Potter stood and hobbled over to Draco.

They levitated the rubble off of the Weasel and Potter ran to his side to help drag him out.

Draco figured he had done enough good deeds for one day and let Scarhead take the glory of carrying Carrot Top to safety.

Once outside of the anti-apparition wards, they regrouped with the rest of the team, who Abbott and … fuck… which Patil did she say? He really needed to make room on a shelf to store that one.

Abbott and the other one had finally stabilised everyone else.

Draco studied Potter’s furrowed brow and knew he was planning a tactical retreat, likely painful for his pride, but for once Draco could admit the cowards way out might be the only way to survive.

Huddled together in a group, the lesser injured Aurors apparated to St. Mungo’s, taking the worse for wear with them.

It wasn’t until Draco arrived home to his empty Manor that night that he really allowed himself to analyse what had happened.

And analyse he did.

He sat slumped in one of the black leather sofas in his library, a bottle of Ogden’s in one hand and a cigar in the other. He closed his eyes and disappeared into the library in his mind, picking out a stack of books with the day’s events in. He spread out the books and meticulously studied every word, every memory, every event, looking for the precise moment in which he failed.

Whilst this was Potter’s mission, and even in his pair he was not in charge, Draco would still always blame himself if a mission went awry.

Perhaps it came from his father’s constant belittling when he was younger, or maybe Malfoys just had a predisposition for self-deprecation. Theo had always said it was because he was a “brooding mare.”

While studying the seconds surrounding his collapse, something caught his attention once more.

The one thing he told himself he wouldn’t analyse further. The one moment he thought his mind had conjured up in his injured haze. The one image which just couldn’t fit into his perfect puzzle.

Granger .

He watched the event over and over, replaying from the moment a bright white light shot from a woman’s wand, highlighting the mass of curly brown hair and illuminating just for a second fiery amber eyes.

He had convinced himself it had to have been Abbott covered in dust, but the more he studied the memory, the less sure he was.

Draco spent the rest of his evening analysing those same three seconds until his cigar was burnt out and his bottle was almost empty.

He couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

If it was her, what was she doing there? How was she there? How did she even know?

Auror missions were top secret. Classified even to the likes of the Golden Girl.

When she had quit, she had also relinquished her right to be in the know.

Nothing made sense. It could not have been Granger. It just couldn’t have been.

He watched it one last time before concluding: that mysterious woman was absolutely, certainly, most definitely NOT Hermione Granger.

One thing was for certain, no matter who it was, Draco was sure they’d been the one to save his life.

Chapter Text

Friday 13th March 2009

Exactly a week after the disaster of a mission at Coventry Cathedral, Draco was called into Tonks’ office.

Of course they’d fucking blame him for that. He bet Scarhead couldn’t wait to come back and write up a report detailing just how Draco buggered it all up, even though if anyone were to blame, it was bloody Carrot Top and his bullshit intel. Never trust a Weasel to do a man’s job.

The memo appeared on his cubicle desk precisely 3.5 seconds after he arrived for work that Friday morning.

Malfoy,

Please meet me in my office the moment you get this.

I have something serious to discuss with you.

N.T.

Tonks never signed memos with her initials. Depending on the recipient, it was usually a very informal Tonks , or for special cases like Scarhead, something more affectionate like Dory , which is apparently a reference to some muggle children’s fish.

Draco couldn’t fathom why muggle children felt the need to name a fish, or why they all seemed to know the same fish. Did they hand it around? Take it in turns to look after it? How many children were in on this? How did they know which child had the fish when? Was there some kind of schedule?

Apparently, Potter had taken his sort of brother sort of godchild — Draco didn’t care enough to learn the intricacies of the Boy-Who-Got-Everything’s new family — Teddy into muggle London to see it when he was little.

Why Scarhead paid to see a fish was beyond him, but it seemed to make the child happy so who was Draco to judge.

Famous fish aside, the golden trio had always been treated more affectionately by his boss.

Really, Draco should be insulted considering she was his cousin, but family ties had never meant much to the Malfoy/Black clan, especially since his Aunt Andromeda had so severely cut them before he was born, he had never even met her.

After the war was won, Tonks and her wolf husband unofficially adopted Potter. Considering he was over the age of 18 it seemed ludicrous that they saw fit to make this arrangement, especially since Tonks was less motherly to Scarhead than that pink Pogrebin Umbridge was to her students — and that woman handed out torture as though it were sweets. Their dynamic resembled more of old friends but apparently family was important to that sappy lot, and judging by the size of the Weasel clan, it was something the entire golden trio shared.

Some weren’t so lucky to come out the other end of the war with a full family spanning multiple generations, and an extended family with all their friends intact, but that was just another one of those wonderful things Scarhead would never appreciate about his life. And they called Draco privileged.

So really it wasn’t surprising when Tonks referred to Scarhead and Carrot Top more affectionately than anyone else, but it definitely was surprising to see her use her full initials.

From what he could remember, the one time he had dared to call her by her first name, Tonks severely disliked it. She only used it in severe cases, like when called in to comment on a case by the Wizengamot or when—

Oh .

Oh fuck.

The Minister. That was Tonks’ way of warning Draco that Kingsley bloody Shacklebolt was in her office waiting for him.

What had he done wrong? Surely, he wasn’t going to be blamed for almost losing the chuckle twins. He’d been the one to find them for fucks sake!

With a disgruntled groan, Draco threw his briefcase onto his chair, snatched up the memo and stormed towards Tonks’ office, ignoring the confused stares of his peers.

Once he reached the office door, he caught a glimpse of Carrot Top’s shit-eating grin.

Well fuck. If the Weasel was that bloody happy, this couldn’t be good.

Was he being sent back to Azkaban?!

No. No . He couldn’t go down that route. He only had six months left there and he hadn’t done anything illegal, other than perhaps casting a few rogue dark curses, but really in the midst of a mission it was impossible to tell which side those curses came from.

He closed his eyes and carried the book full of negative thoughts right to the back of his library and into the restricted section, locking it behind reinforced steel gates. His library often reminded him of the layout of the Hogwarts library. Funny how the little things stick with you.

With a shake of his head, he stood tall and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” called the voice of a very stressed Tonks.

Draco decided it would be best not to analyse that.

Walking into the grand sage green office, furnished with a large oak desk, a small brown leather sofa in front of a beige marble fireplace and multiple rugs of all different colours, Draco felt the eyes of three people on him.

He kept his eyes on the hardwood floor for a moment longer before braving their stares.

He was a Malfoy for fucks sake. Fear wasn’t in his arsenal, why should he start feeling it now?

His walls went up quickly, the metal gates closing and steel chains locking around the brass handles to his library. His eyes sharpened and his spine straightened as he finally took the time to survey the faces around him.

Tonks was stood behind her desk, drumming her fingers on a large stack of paperwork, her emotionless face betrayed by the pale orange of her hair. She was anxious.

His eyes slid to the front of her desk, where Potter sat slumped in a brown leather chair. His black spiky hair was tousled, most likely from running his fingers through it, a nervous habit Draco had noticed. His eyes were fixed on the floor, refusing to meet Draco’s hard glare.

Draco then surveyed the rest of the room, noting the wilting plants and the stacks of paperwork. He studied the maps strewn carelessly across the table in the far-right corner before looking into the foe-glass positioned to the left of Tonks’ desk, an artefact handed down from head Auror to head Auror, enabling each to keep an eye on their enemies, before finally allowing his eyes to settle on Kingsley’s.

Draco wasn’t avoiding Kingsley’s eyes, far from it, and Kingsley knew this. Everything Draco did was intentional. He let his presence ruminate, let his confidence and unbothered expression settle and allowed the three of them to stew in their obvious anxieties as Draco gave off the picture of pure calm and composure.

Being a pureblood was useful for many things, one of which being to make your presence known and meaningful. Draco’s presence today would show his elegant, composed demeanour. If they were going to punish him, he wouldn’t let them rattle him. He wouldn’t let them have the satisfaction of seeing him crumble.

If this really was his last day of freedom, he would milk it for all its worth and present a strong front. He would let them stew in their guilt, because surely, after all he had done for that damned department over the past four and a half years, surely, SURELY, no matter how much hatred they harboured in their hearts for him, they had to feel some form of guilt for sending him back when he was so close to being free.

When Draco searched Kingsley’s eyes, however, he saw nothing but peace. He stood tall, with his hands behind his back, a symbol of importance. A sign he wouldn’t be ruffled by Draco’s presence, no matter how strong he stood.

Draco tried to take a peek into Kingsley’s mind, but he knew his efforts would be futile. You don’t become Minister for Magic by being poor at Occlumency.

Politicians were always ever so good at concealing their truths. Occlumency was a necessity for any witch or wizard in a position of political power.

Draco’s efforts were broken by the clearing of Kingsley’s throat. He retreated from his mind gently so as to not alert the wizard to his efforts, but something in his eyes told Draco he already knew.

But that wasn’t why they were here today. Draco’s Legilimency had positively served the Auror department since they discovered his natural skill. Interrogations were always much faster when Draco was involved, and that saved the Ministry lots of precious time and resources.

So why were they here?

Kingsley’s voice was smooth, calculated. Every breath, every intonation, every syllable was carefully considered and perfectly practised before leaving his lips, a perfect incantation to ensnare his victims. A true politician. He often reminded Draco of Voldemort, not that he would ever voice that comparison.

“Mr. Malfoy, I’m sure you’re wondering why we have called you in here today.”

Draco simply nodded.

Kingsley turned to Tonks. “Nymphadora…”

Tonks visibly stiffened, her hair turning bright red before she could tame it back to a slightly darker orange than it was before.

Kingsley knew she hated her first name. They’d worked together in the Order for years before working in this capacity. There was no way that was a mistake. No. Kingsley calling her Nymphadora was yet another calculated move, one meant to irritate her, to belittle her by telling her that her opinion meant nothing to him. Which told Draco everything he needed to know about Tonks’ position on this matter.

“… I believe you wanted to be the one to break the news to Mr. Malfoy.”

Tonks took a deep breath before looking up at Draco, her hair colour softening slightly in the face of his hard stare.

“We have taken some time to review your position with us over the past four and a half years. Recent missions have been taken into account, and Harry has provided the reports from your past few check in meetings and we have decided…”

Here it comes.

“… to promote you.”

Draco had to stop his mouth from falling open to gape at them like an oaf. He cleared his throat before responding. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. I thought I was unable to progress for another six months?”

Kingsley stepped forwards. “An opportunity has presented itself for you to have a new partner…”

Tonks clenched her fingers around the edge of her desk.

“… and considering your dedication to the department and the progress you have made, alongside Harry’s recommendation, I have seen fit to waive the last six months of your contract to enable you to begin your career progression now.”

Ah. So that was why Kingsley was there.

Draco stood in silence, his eyes darting from Kingsley, to Tonks, to Potter.

There had to be a catch. There had to be.

Someone was going to pull the rug out from under him sometime soon.

Tonks took the lead on explaining the specifics of his job offer. “In this promotion, you will be entitled to take full pay and will no longer need to report to Harry for your bimonthly meetings, but please be aware he will be there if you should so need it.”

Seriously, someone was going to jump out and hex him. Drop a troll’s club on his head.

“You will be the leader of your duo, and able to choose other pairings to form teams to join you on missions. You will be able to choose your own hours dependent on what you believe your missions require from you. You will be predominantly in charge of Death Eater cases due to your specialised knowledge and talents for Legilimency.”

Never mind feeling slighted, he didn’t give a fuck what others thought. This was literally a dream job offer, and he was perfect for it. In charge of his own hours, able to choose teams, seriously, someone was going to pinch him. He was going to wake up soon.

Then Kingsley cleared his throat once more. “There is, however, one caveat…”

Whoosh.

That was the sound of the rug not just being pulled but aggressively torn from under him.

“Go on,” was all he could muster.

“Your partner has already been assigned to you, and you will not be privy to their identity until after you sign the contract.”

With that, Kingsley looked to Tonks, who held out the job contact to Draco without meeting his eyes.

Potter seemed to suddenly find his hands to be the most interesting things in the world.

Draco scanned the contract, which detailed everything Tonks had just explained, including the bombshell Kingsley had just dropped.

He looked up. “What about Macmillan?”

Tonks continued to stare at her boots, her hair growing paler by the second. “Macmillan has been assigned a new partner and a lesser role. It would seem on the previous mission he was… unable to continue his duties objectively.”

The fuck was that supposed to mean?

Draco stared back down at the contract again, noticing the blurred smudge near the bottom.

Someone else had signed. Someone he didn’t have the clearance to see. Presumably his new partner.

“Do I have time to send this to my lawyers to check?”

Kingsley sighed. “I can assure you Mr. Malfoy, there is no catch. We are not trying to trip you up. We have simply seen your dedication and recognise your efficacy to the team and want to reward the progress you have made. Nothing other than what we have already discussed is in there.”

So that was a no then. Why the time crunch?

Tonks glanced at Kingsley, her hair turning a vibrant purple.

Ah. So there was a secret they weren’t telling him. Something bigger than the identity of his mysterious partner.

Scarhead had been awfully quiet for the boy-who-can’t-shut-his-mouth.

This was starting to feel off. More off than it had felt when he first walked in.

Tonks clenched her jaw. “Tell him Shacklebolt. He won’t sign it if he thinks something is off.”

His cousin was more astute than he gave her credit for.

Kingsley took a measured breath as Potter finally tore his gaze from his hands to stare at the closed doors leading to the adjoining meeting room.

That’s where they were keeping this secret then.

Kingsley’s carefully considered words drew Draco’s gaze away from the doors, but not before he noticed the shimmers of wards clinging to the wood.

Wards.

But what for…

“Unfortunately, Mr. Malfoy, we are limited in time due to the high profile of your new partner...”

High profile? Higher than Potter and Weasel?

“We must act now so you can meet them and begin your work.”

Begin his work? Did they have an assignment for him already? Was something major happening with the ex-Death Eaters? He hadn’t heard anything from any of his sources, who were loyal only to the Malfoy family, most likely due to the extortionate donations he would make to their causes.

Kingsley handed Draco a quill, which he reluctantly took. He read over the contract more thoroughly, ensuring to carefully analyse the fine print. It was true. There was nothing in there which was set up to make him fail. Other than the mystery identity of this high-profile partner, everything was clear and honest.

With a deep breath, Draco made his choice. He had planned to leave after his six months were up. He could have denied this offer, continued with his plan and lived a peaceful life hauled up in his library surrounded by his books.

He could have.

But you know what they say. Curiosity killed the Kneazle.  

With a swift flick of his wrist, Draco’s name appeared in the signature box, the magic quill elegantly dragging the ink in precise movements.

The moment his name was signed, the contract rolled up and sealed itself before flying into Kingsley’s hands.

Kingsley nodded towards Tonks, who took the scroll and filed it away on a shelf, presumably with the rest of the Auror job contracts.

Kingsley then slowly approached Draco, dragging out each step he took.

Potter’s cheeks reddened as he fluffed his hair for the fourth time in less than a minute.

Draco thought the other shoe had dropped already. Clearly, he was wrong.

Kingsley stopped in front of Draco and extended his arm towards the warded doors and his eyes snapped to them, examining the shimmer of the wards, attempting to figure out which ones had been placed there.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand,” Draco said warily, trying to buy himself time to examine the wards more thoroughly.

“All will be revealed through those doors, Mr. Malfoy.”

Well, that wasn’t bloody cryptic.

Draco scoffed. “I’m not going in there until someone tells me why there are wards over those doors, what’s waiting for me in there, and why Potter has spent the last three minutes deciding to become a fucking hairdresser.”

He had intended to keep a calm, measured tone, but the past fifteen minutes had set his nerves on edge. He tried to focus on throwing his anxieties over the steel walls in his mind as Potter’s hand shot out of his hair, his expression sheepish.

Kingsley studied Draco a moment longer before speaking, seemingly unphased by his little outburst. “The wards are there for privacy and protection. Silencing wards and anti-magic wards. Anyone inside that room cannot use magic, which is crucial for the safety of all parties.”

Were they serious? They wanted him to walk into a room not knowing what’s on the other side of those damned doors without the protection of his magic?!

They had to have lost their minds.

“I’m not going anywhere without my magic, especially without knowing what the fuck is waiting for me in there.”

“I can assure you no one is in there to get you, Mr. Malfoy. This is not a trap. Merely a precaution. Something Nymphadora, Mr. Potter, and I deemed necessary.”

Tonks was unable to hold back her scoff.

So not Tonks then.

Kingsley shot her a warning look before folding his hands in front of his abdomen and levelling Draco with a distant stare. “Was there anything in your contract about setting you up?”

Draco pulled the image of the contract out of his mental library and scanned it once more before reluctantly responding, “No.”

“And was the usual protection clause embedded, which states the Ministry will do everything in their power to protect their Aurors and provide the best quality care should their employment result in any injuries?”

Draco scanned it again. “Yes.”

“Well then, Mr. Malfoy, surely it would be illegal for me to send you into inevitable death knowingly? I do believe as Minister for Magic, I would never disobey the laws I myself had a hand in setting.”

Draco clenched his jaw. There really was no getting out of this.

“Fine. I’ll go into the room. But I’m keeping my wand on me. I’m the best ward breaker you have, and you can bet I will bring your wards crashing down faster than any of you could attack me.”

Kingsley nodded. “If that is what you wish, Mr. Malfoy. But as I have already asserted, you are in no danger. This is not a trap.”

With a deep breath, and a thorough testing of his Occlumency walls, Draco approached the large oak doors. He hesitantly reached a hand out and touched the handle.

After one last glance at Tonks and Potter, who were pointedly not looking at him, he opened the doors and stepped inside.

The room was large, decorated in the style of Tonks’ main office, but the majority of the room was taken up by a large oak table with at least 20 chairs surrounding it.

As Draco wearily took in his surroundings, he spotted a hooded figure standing by the ceiling high window.

He cleared his throat to introduce himself but then the figure turned to face him, and a stunned silence fell upon the room.

“No. NO! Not happening. No.” He whirled around and stormed back towards the doors only to find them locked. He slammed his fists into them, bellowing with all his might. “KINGSLEY IF YOU DON’T LET ME OUT OF HERE THIS INSTANT, I DON’T CARE THAT YOU’RE THE MINISTER FOR MAGIC, I’LL HAVE YOU SKINNED ALIVE!”

A shimmer caught his eye, and he released his death grip on the handles. The silencing wards.

Shit .

He hung his head for a moment, running his hand over his face as he tried to compose himself. He cleared his throat once more before turning around to face the figure.

They pulled their hood down and reality set in.

His new “high profile” partner was none other than Hermione fucking know-it-all swotty Golden Girl Granger.

Judging by the way her mouth hung open, she also had no idea about this arrangement. His name must have been blocked out for her on the contract too.

But how? And why? She wasn’t even an Auror, she was only ever a field healer, and she hadn’t been out in the field in…

“4 years.” As though she had heard his every thought, seen right through his impenetrable walls, and read his mind like an open book, she answered the precise question on the tip of his tongue.

Draco cleared his throat and stood up tall. “Granger,” he drawled, attempting to seem bored and unaffected, despite his obvious outburst moments ago.

She levelled him with a look he wasn’t quite expecting. “Malfoy.”

When he spotted the mass of curls peeking out from behind the hood, he half expected her to launch herself at him. When she last worked for the Auror department, they’d barely spoken. Barely even spared each other a passing look.

While his relationships — if you could call them that — with Scarhead and Carrot Top were tumultuous at best, his relationship with Granger had been outright disastrous.

His library chose this very moment to spit out a particularly unsavoury book, one buried deep in the depths of the restricted section, held behind multiple chains, locks and charms.

But standing here, right now, face to face with the swottiest woman to walk this earth, she somehow managed to undo all of those safety measures and pull forth images of one of the worst days of his life.

He heard her screams before he saw the image.

Block it out Draco.

Block. It. Out.

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath before steeling himself and reinforcing his walls twice as high.

When he opened his eyes, he found her still staring at him with that same look.

Not hatred.

Not anger.

Not even distaste.

Curiosity. As though Draco was some kind of riddle she hadn’t quite figured out.

But that was Draco’s job. That was Draco’s thing. How dare she try to rattle him by looking at him the way he looked at everyone.

He narrowed his eyes and looked at her from head to toe.

Two could play that game, Granger .

“I’m assuming you had as little knowledge of this as I did,” she stated, still sussing him out.

“If I’d have known, do you really think I’d have signed the bloody contract?”

“Hmm.” She surveyed him one more time before sighing. “I’ll speak to Kingsley. I still have some sway with him, even after my sabbatical.”

Before she could brush past him, his hand shot out. “Wait.”

She jumped before glaring up at him.

Why was he doing this? He should just let her rant to Shacklebolt about what an awful idea this was. Let her face the punishment of breaching the contract. But if he did that, he would be stuck with the same punishment or worse, he was almost sure of it. He sighed in defeat. “Did you read the contract?”

She scoffed. “Yes, of course I read the contract. I don’t sign what I don’t read.”

He rolled his eyes. “Then you should know that one of the conditions of signing was that you couldn’t turn back on the contract for at least one year. Meaning no matter how much you beg, plead, or rant at Shacklebolt, he won’t budge. You are contracted to work with me for the next twelve months, no matter what either of us think about it. And if you go ranting at Shacklebolt now, considering I’m your new superior, the blame will most likely fall on me, meaning I’ll be punished for your insubordination.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times.

Merlin, did it feel good to put the swot in her place.

Eventually she huffed and pouted like a petulant child, folding her arms and tearing herself out of Draco’s grip.

She paced the room three times, her tongue stuck out.

Was that her thinking face?

Sweet Salazar, this year was going to be hell.

Finally, she sat at the head of the table and gestured for Draco to take the seat next to her. She pulled out a journal and some kind of black… stick?

Draco hesitated.

“I’m not going to tear your head off Malfoy. Since we don’t have a choice in this, I believe we should set some ground rules and figure out how this next year is going to work.”

He took a moment to survey her, taking into account her casual, albeit a bit stiff, posture, and her defeated features.

She wasn’t going to attack him. She couldn’t anyway. She had no magic, and she had been out of the field for 4 years. If she launched herself at him, Draco would have her on her back in a matter of seconds.

A shudder shot through him.

Granger on her back was not an image he ever wanted to think about again.

He reluctantly walked over to where she was sitting, and pulled out the chair next to her. She started to scribble in her journal using her black sticky thing. It appeared to work just like a quill, but it had no sharp tip and where was the ink?

He reached over and snatched the mysterious object from her fingers, holding it up in front of his eyes. He pressed the end and to his surprise it made a satisfying ‘click .’

“Do you mind?”

“What is it?”

Draco’s eyes slid up to her face as he heard her choke back a laugh.

“You don’t know?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be asking if I knew what it was, Granger. Honestly, for someone who claims to be the Brightest Witch of her Age, you don’t half ask some stupid questions.”

At that, she bristled.

“Firstly…”

Draco rolled his eyes. He was in for a lecture. He forgot how easy she was to rile up.

“… I have never once ‘claimed to be’ the Brightest Witch of our Age, the press coined me that years ago, despite my outward protests. Secondly, if we are going to work together for the next twelve months, you could do with an attitude adjustment…”

She snatched the pen right from between his fingers.

“… thirdly, do not steal my things. And finally…”

Here she goes. She always saved the best for last. Draco was in for it now.

“… it’s a pen.”

“A... what?”

“A pen. It’s the muggle version of a quill and ink.”

“Well, I’d worked that much out. How does it work?”

She sighed and shifted her chair fractionally closer, still keeping a respectable distance. Probably to stop herself from choking him.

She pointed at the tip. “Here there is a metal ball that moves to slowly release the ink, which is already loaded in a tube inside of the pen here…”

Draco leaned in, fascinated by this muggle invention.

“This thing at the top either hides or reveals the tip of the pen. It uses a spring, which is like a metal coil which springs to move things, to either push the tip of the pen in or out of its little metal hiding hole here. When clicked on, you can use the pen and write like normal, just without the hassle of needing ink or the mess. Now, shall we get started?”

“Get started?”

“On the rules.”

That little… Did she really think she was just going to boss Draco around? She wasn’t even a fucking Auror. No. Absolutely not.

“Well Granger, in case you didn’t already know, I am in charge of our little partnership. It says so in the contract. So, if anyone is making the rules, it’ll be me.”

Granger glared at him, gritting her teeth as she spoke. “Fine. We will make the rules together .”

Draco sat back in his chair to assess her. “Before we make any rules, I need to know your background.”

Granger sat up straighter. “My background?”

“Yes. Your background. I’m assuming you haven’t had much training since you left for your… whatever Potter said it was.”

“My sabbatical.”

“Right. That.”

Her eyes narrowed at that. Not ten minutes into this interaction and Granger was going to provide him with a second lecture.

“Do you know what I have been doing for the past four years? Why I left the Auror department?”

Draco shrugged. “Pretty sure Carrot Top mentioned something about it being ‘too personal’ for me to know.”

Her grip on the pen tightened. “I left on sabbatical to complete my PhD in magical healing and specialised field medicines. I travelled to 16 different countries in the span of 4 years to learn healing techniques specific to the diseases and curses of those countries, and studied ancient potions, developing modern medicines by combining ancient techniques with modern ingredients. I helped to create five different cures for previously thought incurable dark curses and used my last year to specialise in healing dark curses due to the rise in ex-Death Eater actions in the past 18 months. So no, I was not ‘training’ in whatever capacity you presume I’m lacking in, I had far more important skills to develop other than throwing useless curses at innocent people.”

Well. That was a lecture if Draco ever did hear one. He straightened his cuffs, smoothed down the front of his suit, appearing perfectly nonchalant as he studied his nails for a moment. He could see Granger’s face getting redder and redder, her grip on that pen so tight it was a miracle it didn’t shatter.

When she was about to burst and deliver round three of her insufferable lectures, Draco raised his hand, cleared his throat and finally stared into her amber eyes.

“Contrary to your assumptions, Granger, I do not care about what you have been doing over the past four years, not because I think of it as any less than what I have been doing, but merely because it does not pertain to your role under me now. As my… partner…” He really did try his best to suppress the sneer in his tone at that word. “… you will need to have field experience in not only healing, but also combat, both with a wand, with handheld weapons, and without any form of defence.”

Granger began scribbling notes with that pen.

“I have been promoted to take on missions which involve ex-Death Eaters, who, unlike the rest of the criminals this department detains, are either incredibly intelligent, or completely erratic, hence the heightened danger. Whilst I do not pretend to understand your motivations for returning to the Auror department as a field healer, nor will I ever try to understand the intricacies of your craft, I do understand that for you to work side by side with me, you will need some form of skill in combat, preferably from a more qualified teacher than a 15-year-old Potter.” This time the sneer in his voice was unavoidable. Speaking Scarhead’s name like that was more of a reflex after so many years, and something he didn’t care enough to train himself out of. “Even the chosen one has his limits, and it would seem I have since surpassed his level of training, hence why I was promoted to take charge of ex-Death Eater cases and not him.”

The look on her face was bloody priceless. If only Draco had a photographer. Call the press, Hermione Granger gets humbled by ex-Death Eater after delivering two entitled yet poorly considered lectures.

Now to really drive the point home.

“So, Granger, I will ask you again. What is your background?”

Their stare off seemed to last forever, but Draco wasn’t ruffled. In fact, he was far from it. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of himself, crossing his right foot over his left. His hands twined together and rested on his lap, his head tilted slightly to the left as his emotionless grey eyes pierced straight through hers. He was the picture of elegant nonchalance.

Now would be an excellent time to peek inside her mind. What he wouldn’t give to know the thoughts flying around the great Hermione Granger’s head after firmly being put in her place. However, he knew even she had her limits, and he valued his life, so he would leave it be.

For now.

Her brain finally seemed to connect to her mouth, but her answer wasn’t a condescending lecture or a snide remark, as he had expected.

“My previous training, as you know, came from Hogwarts and Harry’s training for Dumbledore’s Army. You are aware I was at the battle of Hogwarts, as well as the battle of Riddle Manor. I was part of the team which infiltrated and ultimately seized Riddle Manor, and was one of the first people to help detain Voldemort himself. Since then, I switched focus to study healing. I passed my entrance exam to become a field healer but have had no further training other than my experience on the field over four years ago.”

Draco nodded contemplatively. “Hmmm. And your mind skills?”

“My what?”

“Your mind skills: Occlumency, Legilimency, your ability to retain research, your skills with mind altering charms, those sorts of things.”

She sat up straighter and jutted her chin out, as though her next words were supposed to impress him. “I am excellent at Occlumency, no one has ever been able to gain access to my mind. Voldemort himself even tried once. I am not a natural Legilimens and have never deemed it necessary for my field, nor do I utilise memory charms anymore.” She glanced away for a brief moment and took a breath.

Interesting.

That would be filed away for later analysis.

“As for my ability to retain research, must I recount some of my Hogwarts essays, or was knowing me then enough proof for you?”

She folded her arms.

Defiant little thing.

He would have to train that out of her. He needed his partner to be compliant without complaint. Granger and complaint were not words which fit together.

Draco nodded. “You’ll need training in combat, and I would like to test your Occlumency skills for myself. Legilimency is a rather difficult skill to obtain at this age, but no matter. I am a Legilimens, therefore it won’t be necessary for you to learn. I should, however, like to remind you not to underestimate the value of Legilimency, even in your field. If you had a non-verbal patient for whatever reason, Legilimency would cut down your diagnostic time and allow a greater chance for survival. Just a thought.”

Draco was getting really good at this patronising thing.

“I do remember your swotty nature from school, so I shan’t underestimate your memory retention. We will need to set up a training schedule. Before I can take you on the field, I need to see for myself your skills and be sure that if my arse was on the line, you’d be able to back me up no matter the situation. Monday and Wednesday evenings are good for me, does that work for you?”

Granger’s eyes flashed with defiance, but she ultimately decided against whatever lecture she had conjured up in her mind. “I can make that work. What time and where?”

“7pm – 9pm. Mondays will focus on physical training: your hand-to-hand combat, your knife and wand skills, how you carry yourself in battle.”

Granger’s pen worked furiously on her pad, jotting down every little detail.

“Later down the line I will also perform spot checks, randomly dropping in on you to test your reflexes and ability to battle unprepared. Are there any times that you absolutely cannot make work?”

Instead of responding, she thrust her beaded bag onto the table and practically climbed inside it.

Draco’s eyebrows raised beyond his hairline. “Are those illegal extension charms? My, my, Granger, I didn’t take you for a criminal.”

She scoffed, her voice muffled by the fabric currently swallowing all the way up to her torso. “I am not a criminal; it was simply more effort than it was worth to register an extension charm that would never be big enough for everything I needed. Besides, I’m entirely sure your department has bigger things to worry about than a couple of unregistered extension charms.”

Draco smirked. “You mean our department. You’re part of the team now, Granger.”

She reemerged from her bag with a piece of paper in hand. She slammed it down onto the table and slid it towards Draco before tugging her hair back and attempting to tame it into a ponytail.

“My Magi-Scheduler. I’d make you a copy, but we can’t use our wands in this room. I’ll have one sent to you by the end of the day. If you haven’t received it by sundown, send me an owl and I’ll get it to you.”

He peered down at the almost full schedule in front of him. “You do realise being an Auror is a full-time job, right?”

“I’m aware. But I was also under the impression that you could now choose your hours.”

“Yes. I can choose my hours.”

“Precisely. So, my hours will depend on yours. If you could take into consideration the things I cannot move, that would be greatly appreciated. It is colour coordinated, red being the most important, green being the most flexible.”

Draco scoffed. “You expect me to choose my hours based on your availability? That’s not how this works, Granger. You will work when I say you will.”

Granger sighed. “I thought you might say that. Hence why most of the things pencilled in for next week are green and yellow.”

Draco nodded.

After finally finishing wrestling with her hair, which if she asked him, he’d say looked no different than it did when she started, she pointed at her evenings.

“As you can see, I work in St. Mungo’s every Tuesday evening and am on call Friday evenings and Sunday mornings. On the last Sunday of every month, I have a standing dinner with the Weasleys and Lupin/Potters. I do hope you will respect my commitment to those. Other than that, my evenings and weekends are filled with research or lab work, which can be disturbed if you must.”

Draco’s eyes scanned over the schedule, taking a mental picture of it to store away for later. “Do you have any free time, Granger?”

She busied herself with reorganising that monstrosity of a bag of hers. “Hm? Oh, yes. I schedule myself holiday days at least once a month.”

Draco raised his eyebrows but decided not to comment. They had somehow come to an understanding, which perhaps wasn’t as formal as peace, but definitely was less than animosity, over the past hour, and he didn’t feel like breaking it and giving himself a headache with another one of Granger’s lectures.

“Alright, I won’t disturb you on Tuesday or Friday evenings, or Sunday mornings. But I make no promises about Weasel dinners.”

She sighed but nodded. “I suppose that’s fair enough.”

“Our hours will be based on the missions Tonks assigns to us at the time and how much research it will require. Paperwork should be completed no more than 48 hours after completing a mission. I will let you know your hours at least 3 days in advance when possible, however sometimes, as I’m sure you’re aware, missions can be of different priorities, so if anything urgent is sent my way, I shall update your Magi-Scheduler directly or drop you a line through your Floo. Which reminds me, we will need to connect your home Floo to the Manor’s Floo so you can come directly to training without—”

Granger stiffened and looked up wide-eyed. “The Manor?”

Draco looked up at her, noticing the change in her demeanour. “Yes, the Manor. I have an entire training centre on the ground floor. I converted my father’s old office alongside its adjoining rooms.”

He didn’t fail to notice how she picked at her nails or how she could no longer meet his eye. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Are you going to spit it out or do I need to find it in your mind for myself?”

She visibly shrank in her seat. He had never seen her like this. What the fuck was wrong with her?

She started to shake.

Fuck.

Was that his fault?

Tonks would murder him if he managed to somehow kill the Golden Girl.

Her breaths quickened.

Fuck. FUCK.

He wasn’t a fucking healer, what was he supposed to do?!

Tears gathered in her eyes as they lost focus, a glazed expression adorning her once sharp face.

“…Granger?”

Her breaths quickened further.

Shit. He couldn’t just sit there like a bloody lemon while war heroine Hermione Granger keeled over and died before his eyes — the press would have a bloody field day! He sat up straight before pushing his chair out and sinking to his knee in front of her.

“Granger? Granger! Look at me!”

She didn’t move. It was as if he wasn’t even there.

He closed his eyes and searched his extensive library. He knew this had to be a panic attack, he had seen Theo have a few when they were younger after his father…

But he was never the one to deal with it. In fact, he purposefully walked the other way any time he saw it because he had absolutely no idea what to do.

Think, Draco. Think.

He searched deeper but nothing came to mind.

What did he see when other people used to help Theo?

Water. A glass of water. Except there was no glass of water in here and he couldn’t use magic to conjure one.

Besides, he wasn’t entirely convinced Granger could consume any water considering the way her body violently shook.

What else did people do to Theo?

What had he heard? What did they used to say? “Ground yourself Theo, count things…”

Granger could barely focus on the objects in her view, let alone count them all.

“…smell things…”

Like what, the plastic plants dotted around the room because clearly, judging by the state of the greenery in her office, Tonks could not be trusted to keep real ones alive.

“…the world isn’t as big as it feels right now.”

That’s it. Make the world small.

With a hesitant breath, Draco stood in front of her. “Granger, I’m going to cover your face now. I need you to focus on that feeling. The world is not as big as it feels right now.”

He prayed to Salazar this would work because if not, he was out of ideas and running out of time.

So much for not going back to Azkaban.

He then stood and awkwardly pushed Granger’s face into his chest, patting the back of her head tentatively, as though she were a frightened animal.

Nothing happened.

Her breathing was still too fast, and he could feel her tears soaking through his shirt.

Shit. What now? He was out of ideas, and he couldn’t—

Her hands gripped his shirt as she attempted to take a deep breath.

Thank fucking Merlin.

“That’s it Granger, breathe. The world is not big. It’s small. It is just you and me.”

Where the fuck did that come from?

No time to analyse that one, focus on the task at hand.

After what felt like a lifetime, Granger’s breathing finally slowed. Although her hands were still shaking, her grip on his shirt tight and unyielding, she was no longer at death's door.

When she removed her head from his chest and looked up, their eyes locked and reality came crashing down like a bucket of ice water.

Draco immediately stepped back and stiffened awkwardly, horrified by whatever the fuck had just happened.

Granger looked away, unable to meet his eyes anymore. She cleared her throat before busying herself by searching through her bag and producing tissues and a bottle of water.

Draco busied himself by straightening out the creases on his shirt and trying not to let the thoughts whirring around his mind — the most prominent one being WHAT IN MERLINS FUCKING NAME WERE YOU DOING?! — drown him.

She wiped her eyes and took a sip as Draco sat back down, pushing his chair as far away from her as physically possible.

When she finally spoke again, her voice sounded meek. “Thank you… for… uh… that. I… uh… I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time… I don’t usually… I’m not… I just…”

Draco nodded stiffly, pointedly staring at a spot on the table, his features hard and jaw clenched.

She took a fortifying breath before continuing, apparently feeling too exhausted to hide the truth. “It’s just… I haven’t been back in your Manor since…”

OH.

A deafening scream rang through his ears before he could firmly close the book and throw it so far back, he was sure it went straight through the back wall of the restricted section.

“I see.”

I see?

I SEE?!

The woman just had a panic attack right in front of him because of something his deranged aunt did under his roof because of a megalomaniac he decided to follow, and he did absolutely NOTHING to save her and all he could say was ‘I see’?!

It was Draco’s turn to take a fortifying breath. “I’d suggest elsewhere but the Manor really is the only place with suitable facilities… I… the drawi—” Granger visibly stiffened again, and he changed course. “That area of the Manor has been sealed shut for a long time and is in an opposite wing to the training facilities. I can link your Floo to the one inside the training centre if you’d prefer so you do not need to walk through the house at all.”

Draco couldn’t face looking at her. Total and complete fucking coward. What was fucking wrong with him?

Granger sniffled before clearing her throat. “That sounds reasonable.”

Good. They were getting back to business. Business and facts. That’s where Draco was comfortable. Too many fucking emotions in this room. Bloody fucking Granger, how dare she appear in his life after years and try to dredge up old emotions, scenes he hadn’t thought about in years.

Stick to business and facts and he could hopefully get through the rest of this meeting without accidentally killing her.

At that thought, an image popped into his mind. A bright white light creating a halo around messy brown curls, dust swirling in the air, amber eyes locking on his steely grey. He shook his head to try to rid himself of the image, but it wouldn’t leave. His insatiable thirst for knowledge would never let him forget it, and he started to become physically uncomfortable from how much he itched to ask.

Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. “I thought I saw you the other day, you know.”

Granger glanced up from her notes, her pen stilling in her hand. “Oh?”

Draco nodded and scoffed. “A silly assumption really, considering you haven’t been on the field in years, but last week we were in battle, and I must’ve imagined you before I passed out.”

She raised an eyebrow and studied him. “If that’s your way of telling me you have dreams about me—”

Draco scoffed, offended by her assumption. Just who did she think she was?!

“Believe me, Granger, if I were to ever have any dreams about you, I’d Avada myself on the spot. I don’t sully my peaceful nights with thoughts of people like you .” The last word came out as a snarl, his lips curving around the word to accentuate the preposterousness of her assumption.

She gritted her teeth and glared at him. “I was merely joking, but if you are going to spend the next twelve months being the same sensitive arsehole you were in school then—”

“Sensitive? That’s rich coming from the girl who used to cry every time she saw me.”

“If I remember correctly, I was the one who punched you in third year. Would you like a reminder of that moment? I’d be truly willing to reenact it.”

Draco growled and leaned forwards. “Watch yourself Granger, you haven’t been in battle in years. I wouldn’t like your odds if you were to go toe to toe with me without your swotty unknown spells.”

She looked like she was about to tackle him, and he was ready for it too. His fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly, his knuckles turned bright white. Fuck Azkaban, putting the swot in her place was worth the cold cell.

Instead of lunging at him, she sat back and smirked, as though she somehow had the high ground. Whatever delusional world she was living in, he wasn’t privy to it, nor did he care to be.

“I think you owe me a thank you, Malfoy.”

He sneered down his nose at her. “Trust me, Granger, I will never owe you a thank you for anything.”

She raised her eyebrows, as though she held some precious knowledge he didn’t have access to. “Is that so?”

Draco clenched his fist. Don’t hit women, don’t hit women, Draco.

“Well, you weren’t imagining things. I was at the battle. Harry briefly mentioned the details of his upcoming mission at the previous Weasley dinner, and I happened to overhear a certain snatcher speaking of an upcoming ambush against Harry’s team. By the time I got there, the ambush was already taking place. I found you half conscious laying on the floor. If I hadn’t arrived, you would have died then and there in battle, crushed by falling rubble. So you are welcome.”

Draco clenched his jaw and could feel the vein in his forehead pulsing. “I didn’t need your help, Granger. I was perfectly on top of things.”

She scoffed. “Ah, yes, if you call almost being crushed by a building ‘perfectly on top of things.’”

Draco stood, his chair flying backwards as he raised his wand at her. Reflexively, she did the same, but it was only when he felt his magic simmering in his hands and sparking out did he remember the anti-magic wards. He grunted aggressively and pushed himself away from the table, pacing the room, muttering to himself about what an insufferable bitch Granger was, and how the next twelve months was going to be hell on earth.

Fucking hell. Fucking Shacklebolt. Fucking Tonks. Fucking Scarhead and Weasel. Fucking Voldemort for making him take the damned mark in the first place which landed him with this stupid ordeal to reduce his Azkaban sentence. Fuck it all.

By the time he had calmed himself down again, Granger was sitting on her chair, reading through the notes on her paper, looking completely unbothered.

Fucking insufferable witch.

He stormed over to his chair and sat down again to finally finish their meeting. The sooner they got this done, the sooner he could get the fuck away from her .

They spent the next thirty minutes hashing out the rest of the details before standing for a brief, yet hostile, handshake. Neither of them mentioned the panic attack or the awkward events that followed, nor did they speak any further on her apparent rescue mission for him. Though really, he wished she had let him die, lest he owe her his fucking life. Thankfully, it seemed Granger had enough grace to let them both forget about the mortifying ordeals which had occurred over the past hour.

They exited the room through the large oak doors back into Tonks’ office. Clearly, the wards had been set with a timer for however long Kingsley had deemed necessary for them to stop trying to escape.

Kingsley had disappeared, replaced by a very excited Weasel. However, upon seeing the civil nature in which Granger and Draco exited the room, his face soon turned thunderous, just as Pothead’s eyebrows shot past his hairline.

Tonks nodded awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with this entire arrangement.

Draco schooled his expression, standing firm. He wasn’t going to be the one to talk first. They tricked him into this. They could squirm.

Finally, Granger had had enough of the awkward tension in the room, if her frustrated huff had anything to say. She stepped forwards to address the room.

“Yes, Malfoy and I are both alive and unharmed. No, neither of us tried to kill each other. Yes, I will be having words with Kingsley for keeping this a secret. No, I don’t blame any of you. And finally, yes, Malfoy and I have come to an arrangement and hashed out the details of our new working relationship. Any questions?”

Potter opened and closed his mouth a few times and he could’ve sworn Carrot Top’s hair turned even redder.

Tonks was the one to break the silence this time, straightening up and returning to her usual professional self. “I can only apologise for Shacklebolt’s actions. I can assure you both I was not on board with this plan, but apparently the Minister has motives not even I am privy to. So long as you both make it out of missions alive, I have no qualms.”

She levelled Draco with a cold stare. “That stands mostly for you, Malfoy. Hermione is an asset to this team, and if I hear for one moment she is in any harm because of something you have done, I can assure you I will be the least of your worries. There is a large line of people who would happily hex you, don’t give me a reason to let them.”

Draco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. As if he was the liability in this partnership. She was the bloody one who hadn’t been out on the field in over four years!

It was Carrot Top’s turn to pitch in now. Seemingly he had finally found his last few brain cells, which had clearly dropped out of his head the moment he had emerged civilly with Granger.

“You can’t be fucking serious! You’re not really going to let him work with her?! Dory, seriously, he’ll get her fucking killed! ‘Mione please, don’t do this. I’ll speak to Kingsley, get you out of the contract.”

Granger held up her hand to placate him. “Ronald, please. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I am not the same person I was when…” she took a fortifying breath. “I’m not how I was when I left. It is not your business anymore. Malfoy and I have a mutual understanding about our working relationship and neither of us fancy risking killing ourselves just to harm the other. It will be fine.”

Draco smirked at the look on Carrot Top’s face. Perhaps working with the Golden Girl wouldn’t be all that bad if it meant seeing the Weasel react like that.

He took a step closer to Granger. Just to test a theory…

And there it was.

Carrot Top clenched his jaw so hard it was a surprise his teeth didn’t crack.

Oh, this would be fun.

Silver linings and all. Clearly there was something unresolved between the two, and Draco would use that to his advantage if he was going to be forced into working with Granger for the next twelve months.

After another tense silence, Tonks dismissed Scarhead and his now bright red sidekick, before running through any last-minute details with them both.

Once dismissed, after yet another warning from Tonks about the safety of Granger — seriously, they should be more worried about his fucking safety! She was a loose cannon with no real training other than from an arrogant 15-year-old, who Draco had long surpassed, and no fucking field experience in over four years! — Draco left the office rather irate.

He stormed through the rows of cubicles, swiftly picked up his briefcase and left without another word.

They could make do with his absence this afternoon after everything they had thrown at him today.

He needed a fucking drink. 

Stepping out of his Floo into his library that afternoon he came face to face with Theo’s arse.

Great. Exactly what he needed.

“Theo what the fuck are you doing?” He growled as he threw his briefcase onto his desk chair and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. He unclipped his leather wand holster and threw it somewhere to his left.

Theo, who was currently upside down on Draco’s desk, his arse sky high, mumbled a greeting and waved his friend off, as though this were the most normal thing in the world.

Draco rolled his eyes and headed straight for the hidden cabinet.

“AH HAH! FOUND IT!” A very red-faced Theo finally emerged from the desk, pushing himself backwards and very ungracefully sliding to his feet, pulling half of the desk’s contents with him.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.

He would need something STRONG to deal with this.

He grabbed the oldest bottle of whiskey he could find, pulled the cork off with his teeth and downed at least half in one go before walking over to his now messy desk, opening the top drawer, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one with the tip of his wand. He took a large drag before finally asking Theo, “What did you find and what the fuck are you doing in my house?”

Theo grinned a rather boyish grin, which Draco recognised as his ‘I’m up to something’ look.

Theo eyed Draco up and down before whistling. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“Long day, Theo. Too long to put up with your bullshit. What are you doing here?”

Theo grinned and pulled out a white sticky blob, holding it between them as though it held all the answers to life’s questions.

“And I’m supposed to know what that is because?”

Theo grinned wider. “This was your father’s desk, yes?”

Draco clenched his jaw, speaking through gritted teeth. “Yes. Your point?”

Theo laughed. “Wow, I’m so surprised he never noticed.”

Draco took a large swig, and another drag of his cigarette. He had almost finished it in two tokes. “Never noticed what, Nott. Get to the fucking point.”

Theo poked the white mound in his hand. “You know what this is?”

“Yes, I have just been playing a lovely little game with you this entire time asking what the fuck you are doing because I thought it would be fun to just pretend. NO I don’t know what that is.”

Theo held up his hands. “Alright, alright, I see you’re not in the mood for jokes today. Pity, I had a new one to try out on you.”

“THEODORE,” Draco growled so loud the desk shook.

Completely unperturbed, Theo skipped — yes, really, skipped — over to the sofas and flopped down, kicking his shoes off and putting his feet up on the Mahogany coffee table.

Draco took a breath to stop himself from murdering his friend before slumping down in the armchair next to the sofa. Theo grinned and stood up, pocketing the white mound before walking up behind Draco and starting to massage his shoulders. “There ya go Drakey boy, much better.”

“It doesn’t matter how good your massages are, I’m still not going to shag you.”

“How dare you!” Theo’s face turned indignant. “I would never whore myself out with a massage. I have much better moves than that.”

“Hmm,” Draco hummed into the bottle, which was now almost empty.

Theo plonked himself on to the arm of Draco’s chair and pulled the white mound out. “This, my dear friend, is a piece of chewed muggle gum.”

Draco blanched and stood up. “CHEWED?!”

Theo shrugged. “Well yes, how else would it stick to the bottom of his desk without my saliva?”

“You mean to tell me you bought this muggle goom—”

“Gum”

“Whatever the fuck it’s called, then you chewed it and stuck it to the bottom of my father’s desk, which I then chose to keep, and all the time you never told me?!”

“Yup that pretty much sums it up. Good old daddy Malfoy had just told me off for not using my manners correctly at the dinner table. I mean, seriously, I only called him papi. Didn’t realise he’d be so sensitive.”

“You called my father papi? And you’re still alive?”

Theo smirked. “He wouldn’t admit it, but I think he had a soft spot for me. I could tell. He may have glared at me, but under all that, I secretly think he wanted to shag me.”

Draco spat out his last mouthful of whiskey. Suddenly he wasn’t able to stomach anything.

“Anyways, he irritated me so much with his lecture about how I should behave as a perfect pureblood boy at the dinner table, I purposefully went out and bought muggle gum in order to stick it to his desk, which happened to be his favourite place to be ever, so his perfect pureblood sanctuary was tainted by a muggle item. I completely forgot about it until this morning when I had a dream about daddy Malfoy spanking me.”

That image was getting firmly locked away and burned. He was starting a book fire in his mind’s library all because of Theo. Merlin, Draco was going to run out of cigarettes at this rate. He was already starting on his fourth.

After that unsightly revelation, Draco began to rant about his terrible day, if only to get Theo to shut up about fucking his father.

Eugh .

So many shudders.

Theo, of course, found the entire situation hilarious, and as they opened their third bottle of matured whiskey, Draco found himself joining in on the laughter. If he didn’t laugh, he would break things. This seemed the safer option.

It wasn’t until they were halfway through their fifth bottle that they both passed out in front of the fire on the leather sofas of the Manor library.

Merlin, Draco was going to have the worst hangover in the morning. But after the awful day he had? Worth every bit.

Chapter Text

Monday 16 th March 2009

After sending Tonks a letter explaining that he would need the next two weeks to focus on Granger’s training before he could take on any new missions to ensure she wasn’t going to get herself — or him, for that matter — killed, Draco found himself staring down the face of a lot of free time, not quite sure what to do with it.

He set about his usual weekend routine, which consisted of a Saturday morning flying session, followed by pouring over legal documents and catching up on the previous weeks’ news with his lawyers, signing far too many papers, and ending the day by reading in front of the fire in the library.

Sunday mornings were for lie ins, followed by a long warm soapy bath before visiting his mother for lunch and spending an hour listening to her talk about how woefully single he was and why his “resistance against the perfectly wonderful marriage selections” his mother had made for him was tainting the Malfoy name and “destroying your father’s legacy.” Well, that was when the conversation was coherent enough to get to that point.

After that wonderfully predictable conversation, he would floo home to get changed and join his friends for a friendly game of quidditch in Nott Manor gardens, which would typically end in Theo winding the ever calm Blaise up so much, Draco would need to leave before he found himself on the receiving end of some nasty hexes when Theo inevitably used him as a human body shield.

Draco would end his weekend with a glass of bourbon, a Cuban cigar and the rest of his book from Saturday.

By the time Monday morning came, Draco found himself out of things to do.

He sat downstairs at the breakfast bar, a cup of coffee in one hand and the Daily Prophet in the other, tapping his foot as he read the same article for the third time over. He sighed irritably before heading to his desk to write up a plan for Granger’s new training regime, including what he wanted to start with that night. He glanced at the clock on the wall to find that it was only 10am, meaning that task had only taken him an hour. He sighed and reclined back in his office chair before something flashing caught his eye. He rummaged through the papers on his desk before finding the source of the light: three new updates on Granger’s Magi-Scheduler.

What was Granger up to today?

Well, since it was already in his hand, he might as well have a look.

Not that he cared what she was up to. He just wanted to know if she was doing anything useful towards her actual job or if she was still being a swotty Mother Theresa.

He scanned the page, finding she had two free hours ahead of her with nothing scheduled in.

Huh.

Curious.

For a woman who never seemed to give herself a break, two free hours seemed… odd. Out of character. He made a mental note to find out what she was doing later that night before tucking the Magi-Scheduler away in his top drawer and heading out into the gardens, grabbing his broom on the way.

After an exhilarating two hour fly down to Sand Bay Beach, broken up by a refreshing swim in the Bristol Channel, Draco returned home for a late lunch of chicken salad at about 1pm.

Draco huffed when he saw the pile of greenery on his plate. Apparently, Winkle was on a health kick this week.

Despite ongoing debates regarding the rights of house-elves and the legality of their previous treatment, Malfoy Manor was still home to three house-elves.

Winkle was the eldest, with fraying white hair, and was in charge of the cooking and really the whole of the kitchen. If anyone dared to misplace a single spice in the spice rack, Winkle would be in a terrible mood for at least the next week. Sometimes Draco went without dinner because he spilled coffee on the breakfast bar and Winkle refused to cook for him out of spite.

Of course, Draco could cook for himself, very well in fact, but he wouldn’t dare risk upsetting Winkle any further by messing up his kitchen whilst cooking.

Really, the kitchen was no longer Draco’s or the Manor’s, but rather Winkle’s, and honestly? He couldn’t blame the elf. Draco felt the same way about the library, so who was he to intrude on Winkle’s sanctuary?

Tilly took care of the rest of the house, performing the housework, ensuring each fireplace was lit in case Draco decided to use that room, and often took charge of redecorating when needed. In fact, when he resolved to convert his father’s old office and adjoining rooms into a training centre, he left Tilly in charge, giving her only a list of rooms he needed inside it and leaving the rest up to her, much to the dismay of the hired decorators.

She had done such a good job with the design that Draco named her ‘Official Interior Designer for Malfoy Manor.’ He even had a badge made for her with said title, which she proudly wore in the centre of her pale pink silk pillowcase every day.

Draco had offered to buy all of his house-elves appropriate attire, not caring if that would set them free or not, knowing they were all too loyal to the Manor and the Malfoy family — well, Draco and his mother — to ever want to leave. However, both Winkle and Tilly declined his offer, stating they much preferred the cool materials of their silk pillowcases.

Dalpert, the youngest house-elf, was very much pleased to take new clothes, and chose a small pair of denim dungarees and four different brightly coloured shirts which he would often interchange underneath the dungarees depending on his mood. He also fell in love with a pair of bright yellow wellie boots, and Draco didn’t have the heart to deny him his wish.

Dalpert took care of the gardens, paying particular attention to his mother’s rose bushes, and the Malfoy family cemetery, which resided at the end of a short pathway through the gates at the bottom of the gardens. Dalpert used to spend a lot of time with Draco’s mother when she lived there, often going on long walks around the garden and exchanging tips regarding different flowers and soils.

The rose garden was his mother’s most prized possession when she lived there, and Dalpert still took the greatest care with it now, just in case Narcissa ever decided to visit and see it.

Draco always thought they had a special bond, and no matter what he did, he could never share the same connection Dalpert and his mother did. He supposed it was most likely because Dalpert took care of his mother. He was entirely sure she used to spend so much time in the garden to escape his father. Once Voldemort took control of the Manor, she spent almost every waking hour outside, speaking only to Dalpert. The garden was her safe space and Dalpert her most trusted confidant.

Draco often used to feel offended that she seemed to show more love to a young house-elf than she did to him during Voldemort’s reign, but growing up he realised it was a defence mechanism to distance herself from him. She was terrified she would lose Draco, just as she had lost her husband.

Losing Lucius was such a difficult blow, she had never been the same…

Losing Draco, too, was something she just couldn’t even fathom, therefore she spent her days with Dalpert, because she knew she wouldn’t lose him.

When she was moved to the Lestrange Manor, Draco offered to send Dalpert with her, but his mother couldn’t bear to leave anyone else in charge of her precious gardens, nor could she stand to see Dalpert’s heartbreak at being taken away from his home and family. She became rather distressed at the thought, so Draco shut the idea down quickly to avoid any… outbursts.

While the elves were not related by blood, they had formed a sort of family.

They certainly bickered like siblings, that was for sure.

Draco was awfully fond of each of them, though he would never admit that to anyone.

Unlike most traditional pureblood families, Draco treated the elves incredibly well, letting them each choose their own bedrooms in the Manor as well as paying them for their services and constantly offering to buy them clothes. He even let them have holidays, should they so wish, but they typically declined, stating they would much prefer to “spend these happy days with Master Draco.”

He did insist they just call him Draco, but some things aren’t easily undone.

His love for house-elves stemmed from his childhood elf, Dobby. As Draco was an only child, and Theo was often not allowed out of his house, he only ever had Dobby to talk to. Dobby was a loyal elf, albeit opinionated. Although his father treated Dobby terribly, Dobby saw similarities between himself and Draco, therefore was forgiving to the Malfoy family because he wanted to protect Draco.

Of course, bloody Scarhead took it upon himself to once again cock up one of the only good things in Draco’s life by giving Dobby a sock in his second year at Hogwarts, meaning when he came home for the summer, Dobby was gone, and thus too was his confidant and friend.

Dobby was to younger Draco what Dalpert was to Narcissa: an escape from his tyrannical father, a confidant to speak freely in front of, but most importantly of all, a friend to keep them company in such a lonely house.

As he grew up, despite having his childhood friend torn from his side without even the opportunity to say goodbye, and despite the teachings of his malevolent father, Draco formulated his own independent opinions of the house-elves and ultimately decided they deserved the same level of respect they had always shown him.

He trusted his elves even more than he trusted his friends, therefore when the Manor was finally signed over to him after being away in Azkaban for five years, he greeted his house-elves as old friends and treated them with the respect his father was never generous enough to give.

His first order of business was to draw up legally binding job contracts for all three of them.

Tilly cried when she was handed hers, and Dalpert was ecstatic while Winkle gave a stoic nod, not out of spite or indifference, but one that spoke of wisdom and gratitude after decades of poor treatment.

He also added a small gravestone to the Malfoy family cemetery for Dobby, decorated by his favourite white lilies, with a stasis charm cast over them to ensure they always stay fresh.

Even though his body wasn’t under there — yet another thing Scarhead took from him — Draco often found himself talking to the gravestone when he had difficult decisions to make. Dobby had always been a calming presence to Draco, and his death didn’t change that.

With a soft crack, Winkle appeared next to Draco, scrunching his nose as he noticed most of the greenery left on his plate.

“Master Draco, was it not to your satisfaction?”

While his tone was perfectly respectful, Draco caught the edge of annoyance laying underneath his stoic mask.

Not wanting to be left without dinner for the second time that month, Draco smiled and shook his head, loading up his fork with a large helping of fresh lettuce leaves, red onions and a slice of tomato before bringing it to his mouth and elegantly chewing. He dabbed his mouth with his monogrammed napkin before making an exaggerated humming noise and rubbing his stomach.

“Mmmmm, perfect as always Winkle.”

Winkle’s eyes narrowed, not entirely convinced by his show, but slowly nodded all the same. “Master Draco is to eat every last bite if he is to train for long times tonight. Master Draco needs his strength. Winkle has been researching which foods give strength, everywhere says all green things.”

Great. It looked like salad was going to become a common occurrence then.

Yet another thing to thank fucking Granger for.

Not fucking Granger as in fucking Granger — eugh — fucking Granger as in agh, fucking Granger! Get it? Got it? Good.

Draco smiled wider and nodded, hoping to placate the easily offended house-elf.

Winkle hovered for the next three bites before disappearing once more with a crack, finally satisfied that Draco was not going to disobey him.

Sometimes Draco wondered if the old elf had gone mad with power since Draco had taken over the Manor. He didn’t dare try to take it away though. Merlin knows what the spiteful old git would poison his food with.

After lunch, and Winkle’s approving nod when clearing his clean plate — thank Salazar for that — Draco headed to the training centre to work out before Granger’s later session.

He needed to be on top form to train Granger later. He knew the task was going to be near impossible, considering she seemed to have gotten through life on the teachings of an arrogant child and secured her previous Auror status through fame alone.

Training anyone from that position in two weeks would be a challenge but adding her swotty attitude and defiant nature to it, Draco was facing a task even he wasn’t sure he could tackle.

But he wouldn’t let someone like Granger beat him.

He couldn’t.

So, he got to work, testing his own reflexes, pushing himself to the limit, running faster than he had before, fighting harder, casting hex after hex so that by the time Granger stepped through the Floo into the main hall of the training centre, Draco was dripping in sweat, his shirt discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor and his hair sticking to his slick forehead.

He didn’t hear the Floo ignite, nor did he see the green flames roar to life.

It wasn’t until he heard a polite cough that he actually lowered his wand and turned around to find a very flustered looking Granger stood in the centre of the room.

He panted heavily as he reached for his bottle of water. “Merlin Granger, how long have you been standing there? Try announcing yourself next time!”

She shuffled from foot to foot, looking anywhere but at him. “I did. You didn’t hear me.”

He poured some water over his hair before shaking it out and using his hand to tame it into its usual style — something a little more elegant than a shaggy cut, but not quite as rigid as a quiff.

“Ah. Sorry about that.”

Granger continued to shuffle awkwardly, her knuckles gripping the handles of her bag so tightly they were white.

Draco took a moment to survey her flustered state and stored the image away for later analysis before finally snapping his fingers.

Tilly appeared with a crack and Draco greeted her with a warm smile.

“Tilly, would you mind bringing me a fresh shirt? I believe mine is damp.”

Tilly curtseyed politely before popping out of the room.

Granger had finally torn her eyes away from the floor to watch the interaction.

Draco could sense the burning questions on the tip of her tongue, feel her curiosity as if it were tangible, but he was not going to offer her what she wanted.

If she wanted to know, she would have to ask for herself.

He brushed past her to grab a towel, wiping off his face before hanging it around his neck, not missing the way her body tensed when he got close.

Seriously, she was acting as if he’d lured her to her death.

Didn’t she realise he was doing her a favour?!

No one else would take time out of their days to train her as thoroughly as he had planned to. They’d just throw her out onto the field and hope she didn’t get herself or them killed.

Honestly, Granger was such a—

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft crack as Tilly materialised in front of Granger.

“Your shirt, Master Draco.”

Draco smiled and brushed past Granger once more to take his shirt from Tilly.

As he finished buttoning it up, he noticed the hesitation on the female elf’s face.

“Is there something you need, Tilly?”

“No Master Draco, Tilly is just wonderings if the Miss be needing anything?”

Draco smiled warmly and held out his hand to the suddenly shy elf — what was wrong with her? She was never usually this shy.

Granger stared on in bewilderment as Draco approached hand in hand with the tiny elf.

He stopped right in front of Granger and knelt down to Tilly’s level, glancing up at Granger.

“Granger, this is Tilly. She takes care of the housework and general maintenance of the Manor.”

Tilly frowned and cleared her throat, pointing at her badge proudly.

Draco chuckled. “Ah, yes, how silly of me to forget. Tilly is also the Official Interior Designer for Malfoy Manor.” He smiled warmly as he pointed at Tilly’s badge. “She designed this very centre you’re standing in.”

Granger’s mouth opened and closed a few times as she glanced around the room. It was a sophisticated place, with state of the art training equipment, multiple training rooms each designed to fit the user’s needs, all decorated in a refined palette of blacks, greys and silvers.

Draco found himself smirking at her bewilderment. He wasn’t quite sure why, but something about him clearly defying all of her preconceived expectations was rather satisfying, and wildly humorous.

Granger finally found her tongue after clearing her throat and she bent down, extending her hand to Tilly.

“Hi Tilly, I’m Hermione Granger. I must say, your work is very beautiful. I may have to steal you from Malfoy to redecorate my own cottage.”

Tilly’s eyes lit up as she found her confidence again, shaking Granger’s hand with great vigour. “Oh Miss, Tilly thinks that would be wonderful! What colours does Miss like? What is Miss's favourite flowers? Oh, Tilly will have to be makings a vision board…”

As Tilly wittered on, Granger glanced at Draco and mouther ‘vision board?’

Draco smirked and nodded, giving her a look that said, ‘you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into.’

Granger smirked back before catching herself. Draco could see the moment she faltered, firmly closing herself off and wiping any remnant of a smile from her face. As though sharing a joke with him had physically burned her.

She kept her eyes on Draco, studying him, and most likely herself.

He could see the cogs turning in her head as she attempted to analyse what had just transpired between them.

Before she could get too far, her attention was drawn by a very unhappy Tilly, her eyes snapping back to Tilly’s face.

“… Miss! Miss! Is Miss even listening?!” Tilly admonished her with such force, Granger actually looked as though she wanted the ground to swallow her up.

Who knew the Golden Girl would be bested by a simple house-elf.

“What? Oh, I’m ever so sorry, Tilly, I was lost in my own world of excitement thinking about what lovely things you could do to my home.”

Tilly softened immediately, lapping up the praise as she continued to twittle on.

Granger kept her focus solely on the tiny elf before her, though Draco could tell by the look in her eyes she wanted an escape.

As amusing as this was, Draco finally decided to give her a break, standing up and clearing his throat. “Sorry to interrupt your design session, but Miss Granger and I have lots of work to do.”

Tilly glared up at Draco, clearly displeased with his interruption.

Granger tried and failed to suppress her snort at the interaction.

Both eyes snapped to her face, and she immediately looked down, a flush creeping up her neck.

Draco sighed and turned to Tilly again. “Why don’t I take you shopping tomorrow to find what you need for your vision board?”

Granger’s face resumed its bewildered expression from earlier.

Tilly beamed. “Oh, yes please, Master Draco! Tilly does love shopping with Master Draco, especially when he buys Tilly ice cream from the old man with the cart.”

That sneaky elf…

Draco smirked. “You can only have ice cream if you promise to leave Miss Granger and myself in peace for the rest of our training session.”

Tilly thought about that for a moment before enthusiastically nodding.

She turned to curtsey at Granger. “Lovely to meet Miss, Tilly will be askings Master Draco to get in touch about Tilly’s vision board.”

Granger’s bewilderment was still evident in her eyes, even as she smiled and waved off the tiny elf.

With a soft crack, Tilly had disappeared once more, leaving just Draco and Granger in the training centre.

A heavy silence descended upon the room, filled with unasked questions, as Granger stared at the spot from which the elf had just disappeared.

This time, he decided to throw her a bone. “Go on.”

Granger’s eyes snapped to Draco’s. “Hmm?”

“I’m assuming we won’t be able to get any training done until you’ve got whatever thoughts you have whirring around that big brain of yours out, so go on. Spit it out.”

Granger cleared her throat.

Great.

She was gearing up.

Nothing good ever came from Granger preparing herself for a speech.

She took a breath. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

Well, that wasn’t what he was expecting. In fact, it was so far off his scope, he physically took a step back.

Draco cleared his throat and put up his walls. It was instinct. A reaction.

No one ever saw him like that.

Why had he done that in front of Granger of all people?

He had to rectify that.

Build up the image of cold aloofness he usually presented.

In fact, he would push it further, so whatever moment of weakness he just showed, it would be so far outweighed by his coldness, Granger would forget they came from the same person.

He stood tall, his eyes darkening as he bit out his next words in a cold sneer.

“Like what?”

Granger physically recoiled at the unexpected change.

Good.

Exactly as he wanted.

They were professionals who worked together and that was all. She couldn’t start to see him as human. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to perform her duties properly. This was best for both of them.

Granger looked away, the flush on her neck rising to her cheeks. “Nothing. I just… I was surprised you let her talk to you that way. I thought purebloods didn’t like house-elves.”

It wasn’t just a mask anymore.

For some reason, those words stung. Cut Draco deep. And it was the perfect excuse.

He stepped towards her, towering over her, his lips curled in disgust, each plosive accentuated by a sharp pop. “Sorry to disappoint, Granger . Clearly your preconceived notions of pureblood society are outdated. Which is funny, coming from the girl who spends her life preaching equality and defending her own blood status from the same outdated bullshit.” He let his words resonate for a moment, sneering down at her before he continued. “Just because I come from a pureblood family does not mean I share the same beliefs taught to me from birth. My Death Eater status had nothing to do with my own values, and everything to do with my natural skills. Do you know what those natural skills were, Granger?”

As his voice crescendoed, his hand shot up to grip her chin, dragging her gaze back up to his. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across her face. “Killing. I had a natural affinity for it. A blood lust no other Death Eater could compete with. I lived for the next kill, not because Voldemort told me to, not even because I believed the person I was killing deserved it, but because I fucking craved it. Whatever you think you saw in me back there, whatever you want to believe about me, you are wrong.”

Granger flinched at his words, taken aback by this change.

Draco pressed on, seeing she was finally beginning to understand. “I took this job at the Ministry to keep myself out of Azkaban. I do not care for you or your little golden trio buddies, nor do I care about what you think of me. I am not the same monster my father was, I am a monster in my own right. So no, I don’t cane my elves or live my life ruled by blood supremacy. But that doesn’t make me any less dangerous. Now, you are here to train under me, not to judge the way I choose to live my life. So, you will keep your mouth shut about my personal life, speak only about work or training with me, and you will do as I fucking say while I train you to not kill me or yourself! Do I make myself clear?”

Granger looked up defiantly, the argument clear on her tongue despite her flustered expression and consistently reddening cheeks.

Draco’s grip on her chin increased to the point he could feel her individual teeth though her cheeks. He leaned in closer, growling in her face. “I SAID. DO. I. MAKE. MYSELF. CLEAR.”

Granger’s arguments died on her tongue, the defiance fading behind her eyes as she nodded.

Draco flung her backwards, causing her to stumble. She caught herself on the wall as Draco turned away from her to compose himself. He caught her eye just before he turned away and found himself surprised by what he saw. The look in her eye wasn’t anger or fear or even defiance, as it so typically was. No. It was disappointment.

Good.

He was glad he had disappointed her.

They weren’t here to be friends. They weren’t here to talk about the intricacies of his life.

They were here to train so she didn’t get him killed or sent back to Azkaban.

That was it.

Whatever she thought was going to happen based on the interaction with Tilly, she would be sorely wrong. Draco would make sure of that.

After taking a few breaths, he exited the main hall into a smaller side room, the back wall lined with training dummies.

When he found himself there alone, he growled, “Granger!”

She entered a few moments later with her chin defiantly in the air and her arms crossed.

Excellent. She’d used the past five minutes to remind herself why she hated him, despite that little faux pas with Tilly, and she was back to her usual defensive self.

This was going to be a long training session.

Draco rolled up his sleeves before producing a piece of parchment with a detailed training regime, which he handed to Granger. She analysed the page, scrunching up her nose, most likely disapproving of his schedule.

Draco cleared his throat. “As you can see, I want to first start with wand combat.”

Granger’s eyes slid up from the parchment, her mouth opening, probably to protest her skills with wand combat, but Draco wouldn’t give her the option. He held his hand up to stop her before she could start.

“As we are limited to two weeks off before you will be back in the field, and you haven’t trained in combat in over four years, I want to ensure you can defend both yourself and me, therefore my primary focus for today’s session is defensive spells and reflex times. I can see the argument on your tongue and no, I am not insulting your defensive skills, nor am I stating you have none, I merely need to see your skill level for myself to create a baseline and work from there. I’m sure you can understand that, considering your field, yes?”

The patronising tone was laid on thick, making the vein in Granger’s neck twitch. “Well actually, you are wrong.”

Draco’s eyebrows lifted as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Wrong?”

Granger nodded, her chin lifted, and her voice filled with as much bravado as she could possibly muster. “Yes, wrong. I have trained.”

Draco smirked. This would be good. “Oh, you have, have you?”

She nodded but offered nothing further.

Interesting.

“Go on then, Granger. Tell me, when was this training? What did you do?”

“Well actually I trained… very recently.” She said the last words as barely a mumble before turning away to study the wall.

Draco paused for a moment before it dawned on him. A grin spread across his face. “I happened upon your Magi-Scheduler earlier today, and it said you had two free hours. For a woman who never gives herself free time, I thought to myself, that couldn’t possibly be correct. Granger would never take a break. So tell me, what were you doing in those two hours?”

She cleared her throat and scuffed her shoe on the floor but said nothing.

Draco smirked and walked around her and into her line of sight. “Go on, tell me. Can’t have any secrets here Granger, especially as it pertains to your training.”

Granger’s cheeks flushed and she looked at the floor, unable to meet his eyes as she spoke. “I was training… today…”

Draco laughed, like actually laughed. “So, let me get this straight, you trained for training? Merlin, Granger, are you really that much of a fucking swot that you trained for fucking training?!”

Granger rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly, seemingly shy all of a sudden. “Well I just like to keep up with my studies.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Sweet Circe, Granger, you really are an insufferable know-it-all. Can’t even trust me to train you well enough, you had to study for yourself before.”

She jutted her chin out defiantly and finally met his eyes. “It’s nothing to do with your training, it’s to do with the fact I wanted to and that’s that. I like to be in the know. Just wanted to check if any fighting styles had developed since I last was in combat.”

Draco smirked. “No, Granger, what you like is to be the smartest person in the room, so the thought of me actively knowing things enough to be training you in them makes you feel weak and insignificant. It’s a shame really, you put so much weight on being the smart one, you can’t handle it when others best you.”

Granger stood up straight and glared at him. “This has nothing to do with ‘being the smartest person in the room,’ I don’t care about any of that—”

He held up a hand to stop her incoming tirade. “Yeah, I don’t care, Granger. I’ll revert back to my previous question before this… interesting revelation…” He couldn’t bite back the smirk on his face. Such a fucking swot. “I need to see your baseline, do you comprehend?”

She sniffed and gave a curt nod, her eyes burning with the need to fight back, clearly put out by his accurate reading of her.

“Good,” Draco drawled. “As I’m sure you are aware, my previous partner was Ernie Macmillan. His… skills … if you could call them that, lay outside the realm of offensive spells or any form of bravery really—”

Granger couldn’t hold her tongue at that.

If there was one thing Granger was, it was fiercely protective over anyone she considered a friend.

“If you are implying that Ernie Macmillan is a coward you would be sorely mistaken, Malfoy , he was—”

Draco huffed. “If you would let me finish, Granger , you would realise that—”

“Let you finish insulting my friends? Oh yeah, good one.”

“I wasn’t insulting him; I was actually going to compliment his defensive skills, but you decided to do the usual Granger thing and interrupt before anyone could—”

“The usual Granger thing? Don’t pretend you know ANYTHING about me—”

“I know enough to make a judgement, based on your actions today alone!”

“ My actions? What about your actions!”

“My actions were perfectly respectable before you decided to throw your prejudice out there and use that to make a bullshit judgement based on the child I was OVER TEN YEARS AGO!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Right, like your prejudiced judgement was so fair.”

“That is not what I was doing, and you know it, you’re just so insufferably insecure that you presume anything anyone says to you is an insult. You never give people the chance to prove they’re good because you already—”

“I wasn’t aware you specialised in therapy Granger, is that something else on your miles long list of Mother Theresa deeds you use to make the rest of us look bad, hmm?”

“Clearly you do not know who I am if you think that is why I—”

“Oh, Granger I know exactly who you are, an annoying swotty know-it-all who—”

“I’D RATHER BE A ‘SWOTTY KNOW-IT-ALL’ THAN A HEARTLESS DEATH EATER WHO HAS TO TALK TO HIS HOUSE-ELVES BECAUSE HE’S TOO EVIL TO HAVE ANY ACTUAL FRIENDS!”

Well. It looked like the lioness had come out to play.

Her eyes blazed with a fury he had never seen in them before, and her words were spoken with such venom he physically recoiled.

Draco tried desperately to scramble around in his mind and rebuild his walls. Pages from books he had long ago chained down in the furthest corners of his restricted section came flying forwards, battering him like a bludger to the head. He had heard insults like that before, but for some reason he didn’t have the energy to analyse, those words coming from Granger hit harder. He looked away as he hastily schooled his expression, but judging by the guilty desperation on Granger’s face, he hadn’t been fast enough to rebuild those walls.

Fuck.

He stood up tall, no emotion behind his cold eyes as he glared at her.

“Malfoy I—” Her desperate plea came with an outstretched hand.

He gripped her wrist tightly and twisted it away from his chest, the venom in his voice matching the venom in hers a few moments ago, however his was devoid of any emotion, unlike hers.

“No, Granger . I see how it is. I am, of course, the evil ex-Death Eater, and no matter how many years I spend working under your perfect saviour of a best friend and his ginger twat of a sidekick, it won’t make any difference, because the choices I made as a child in order to PROTECT MY FUCKING FAMILY can never be undone.”

Granger’s curls bounced as her head desperately shook. “No, Malfoy, that’s not—”

Draco’s grip on her wrist tightened, hard enough to leave bruises. “Oh, but it is Granger. That is exactly what you meant. That is exactly how you and all of your pathetic little friends see me, and nothing I ever do will ever change that. I will forever be the villain in your story.”

“Malfoy, please, listen to me. I wasn’t thinking, it was just—”

Draco yanked her wrist hard, pulling her so close to him their chests touched. He leaned down, his face millimetres from hers, his voice dangerously low. He didn’t miss the way her breath caught in her throat as he pulled her closer, nor did he miss the way her eyes widened with an emotion he was entirely sure wasn’t fear, but couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

Those facts would also be stored away for later, but right now he had to focus on the task at hand.

He whispered roughly, his breath ghosting over her nose. “You all want me to be the villain? Fine. I’ll be your villain. But just remember when your friends come crying to you about what a monster I am, this was your. fault.” He accentuated the last two words with sharp pokes to her chest with his free hand.

She swallowed thickly as he remained in that position, his eyes locked onto hers in a deadly gaze. If looks could kill, Granger would be a pile of dust by now.

He let his words ruminate, their breaths mingling as each of them panted, before finally he threw her backwards, sending her crashing to the floor.

Draco turned his back on her and cast charms on the training dummies.

“Clearly talking will get us nowhere so perhaps a more hands on approach is required.”

Granger cradled her wrist in her opposite hand, nasty red marks in the form of Draco’s fingers burned her skin.

“Macmillan was an excellent defensive partner, therefore whilst you are in training, your job will be to defend both yourself and me. He would cast the shield whilst I would go on the attack. Your job is to do the same.”

Granger stayed in a slumped heap on the floor as though her legs no longer worked.

“I don’t want to hear your voice other than to cast a Protego over me whilst I take the lead in battle.”

He glanced back to see her frozen on the floor. He clenched his jaw, trying to rein in his temper, but couldn’t keep the growl out of his voice as he spoke. “For Salazar’s sake, GET UP, GRANGER! You can’t train from the fucking floor!”

Granger stayed seated on the floor, staring at her wrist, clearly still in shock.

Oh for fu— was he seriously going to have to do everything?!

Draco stormed up to her slumped form, gripped her under her armpits and hauled her to her feet.

That seemed to snap her out of her trance as she tore herself from his grip and took out her wand, pointing it at his neck.

Draco’s irritation faded into humour as he began to laugh lowly, a wolfish grin pulling at his lips.  

“Are you really going to hex me, Granger? Do you seriously want to start that? I’ll give you three guesses as to who the better duellist is. But fine. You want to fight? We can fight. I’ll even give you a free shot.” He tilted his head up to expose his neck further. “Go on. Do your worst.”

Granger pressed the tip of her wand into his jaw, to which he simply smirked and pushed his jaw more firmly into the tip. “Go on, Granger. Show me what the almighty Golden Girl can do.”

Her chin jutted out defiantly but ultimately, she decided against taking his bait, reluctantly lowering her wand to her side.

Draco smirked triumphantly. “That’s what I thought.”

With a flick of his wrist, he activated the training dummies with some wandless magic. They began to move slowly towards Granger, who turned to face the dummies, startled.

“They’re charmed to keep coming at you. Every time you defend yourself from them, they will disappear, reappearing a few seconds later, moving slightly faster. They will only ever appear in front of you for this session, appearing from different places will come in a later session once I have determined just how woefully inept you are at utilising that wand of yours. Use defensive spells only for this session.”

With that, he took a step back to observe the way Granger defended herself against the moving targets. He watched the way her wrist moved, examined how her mouth wrapped around her words, what stance she used and just how fast, or rather, slow , her reflexes were.

Each time she would make a mistake, even if it was the most intricate of details, Draco would raise his hand to halt the dummies, inform her of her mistake, which would typically lead to yet another argument or defiant comeback from Granger, before she would finally shut up, realising Draco was far more stubborn than she could ever hope to be, and applying said correction.

Of course, once the correction was applied, she defended herself more efficiently. But Granger would never admit that, because that would mean admitting Draco was correct, which, judging by the dirty looks she shot him every time he examined her, she would rather stand in front of a rogue Fiendfyre than do.

After a painfully long two hours, and many less than pleasant words exchanged, the training session ended with Granger swiping up her bag, throwing on her jacket and storming through the Floo without a second glance.

Draco would need a fucking drink to analyse everything Granger had put him through over the past two hours. And many, many cigarettes.

Stubborn swotty self-righteous bitch.

Usually, he wouldn’t call a woman a bitch, not even in his own mind, but after today’s events? Granger deserved every letter of it. It wasn’t the first time he had called her a bitch in his mind, and judging by how childishly defiant she was, it wouldn’t be the last.

How in Merlin’s name was he supposed to do that all over again on Wednesday? At least that session would be to do with mental skills. Perhaps Granger’s brain would be easier to deal with when he was actually inside it.

With a frustrated huff, he exited the training room in search of the kitchen.

Winkle could fucking deal with his presence there tonight, he needed the good alcohol.

Chapter Text

​​ Tuesday 17 th March 2009

Pansy’s family gatherings were typically something Draco would avoid like the plague.

Despite most of his friends living together in Nott Manor, they each had separately busy lives and rarely got to spend significant amounts of time together.

Pansy, being the neediest of the group, would often arrange what she had coined ‘family gatherings,’ if only to brag about her latest accomplishments, and demand the attendance of each of their friends.

Draco only went to special occasions, like birthdays or death dates, however, when he received the invitation for that Tuesday evening, he found himself unable to decline.

After Monday night’s disastrous training session with Granger, and a very long evening of drinking, Draco decided he needed a distraction to break up the monotony of his days before his next training session that Wednesday, which was sure to be just as much of a catastrophe as Monday’s.  

Perhaps it would give him the opportunity to pick Blaise’s brain, who was always level-headed and practical and therefore gave impeccable advice, about his troubling working relationship and why the comments Granger made upset him so much.

Draco took the elegant black and gold invitation from between the tawny owl’s claws and scrawled his initials in the RSVP box, making note of the ‘black tie attire’ in bold letters. He chuckled to himself. Pansy always did go all out, even when it was just them. He whistled for Orion, wanting his owl to surprise Pansy with his response to ensure she knew it really was from him and not an impostor.

What he wouldn’t give to see the look on Pansy’s face when she realised he was actually coming tonight.

He petted Orion on the head and gave him a curt nod to dismiss him, watching as both Orion and Pansy’s tawny owl flew in tandem until out of sight. He took a breath and finished his paperwork before heading upstairs for a bath and to find suitable attire that Pansy would approve of.

Despite the luxury price and quality of all of his clothes, Pansy always found something to complain about with the way he dressed.

Perhaps he should call Tilly in and have her decide for him. Pansy was always impressed by the little elf’s design jobs. How different was interior design to clothing design?

He hummed thoughtfully to himself as the large copper tub in his ensuite bathroom began to fill with warm soapy water.

A thousand questions ran through his mind, mostly pertaining to how in the fuck was he going to explain to his friends why he and Granger were now partnered together.

It wasn’t that his friends necessarily disliked Granger, as far as he was aware, it was more that they had all experienced a very different life to the privileged Golden Girl.

Whilst, yes, they could all be described as privileged due to their upbringings, respective wealth and blood status, Granger and her merry band of dimwits were far more privileged in a different way; they were loved unconditionally by both the public and their family and friends. They had the world at their fingertips because people wanted to give them it, not because they had the means to buy their way into it.

Granger could sneeze and the Ministry would fall at her feet, offering her a key to the city just for the inconvenience their dust had caused her nose. A privileged life didn’t always equate to money. Acceptance was a privilege Draco and his friends had never been granted, but one he knew they all sought after desperately. Not even from everyone, as such. Just the privilege to live a normal life without being spat on by passers-by would be nice.

A large family and friends who consistently had each other’s backs was something he couldn’t even fathom having. Their small little family would fill each of their love quotas, of course, but having something as large and stable as the Lupin/Potter-Granger-Weasley clan wouldn’t go amiss.

So no, he didn’t think his friends hated Granger, but he was sure they weren’t entirely fond of her. They weren’t enamoured like the rest of the public by their glamorised war hero/heroine stories. They all knew the reality of that war, because they were forced to fight on the wrong side of it. The golden trio may have given up a lot, but they willingly chose to do so. Draco and his friends had given up parts of their souls without having any other choice. It was survival, something Scarhead and his merry band of dimwits could never appreciate.

With a heavy sigh, Draco sank into the bath, submerging himself fully underwater so all he could hear was the blood rushing to his ears and the occasional bubble floating nearby.

However tonight would go, at least he had now to relish in the peace.

Stepping out of the Floo in the main foyer of Nott Manor, Draco was accosted by the sounds of his rowdy friends, clearly having started the party without him.

He dusted off his formal black suit — which had a gold laced waistcoat and matching bowtie, thanks to Tilly — before following the sounds of loud music, drowned out by Pansy arguing with Theo.

A typical night at Nott Manor.

He entered the large drawing room to find Pansy screaming at Theo as he held her in a headlock, his hand raised tauntingly above her hair, the threat of mussing it up sending Pansy into a frenzy.

Blaise was sitting on a large cream love seat, one arm draped around his wife, Astoria Zabini née Greengrass, who was giggling softly at the scene before them.

For a long time it looked as though Draco was destined to be the one sat in Blaise’s seat, given the marriage contract drawn up the day of Tori’s birth, tying her permanently to the Malfoy family. However, as the war raged on and Draco’s father passed, trivial things such as marriage contracts and arranged dates felt rather unimportant.

By the time the war was over, and Draco had been released from Azkaban, Blaise and Tori were already happily engaged. Not that Draco minded. He had always seen Tori as more of a little sister, so the thought of marrying her in order to produce the next generation of Malfoy heirs never sat right with him.

Blaise and Tori were a much more suited match, and if he was honest, they were utterly obsessed with each other. Disgustingly so. He was happy for his friends, and even happier to find out they had postponed their wedding date to wait until Draco was free so he could perform his duties as best man.

Tori had cried whilst whispering to him, “it wouldn’t have been right without you,” as she embraced him tightly on the day of his release.

Daphne gasped and almost dropped her glass upon seeing Draco hovering in the doorway. She stood furiously from her seat on the sofa opposite her sister and stormed over to Draco before smacking him on the arm, hard enough to leave a bruise.

“OUCH! What the fuck, Daph?!”

Daphne huffed angrily. “You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight! I haven’t seen you in three months, not even a fucking letter asking how I am, and you have the nerve to show up to my house without prior warning?!”

“Well, technically Daph, this isn’t your house, it’s Theo’s.” Draco winced and sidestepped as Daphne raised her fist once more, holding his hands up in defence.

While this estate remained in the Nott family, Pansy, Blaise, Tori, Theo, and Daphne all lived there together. They had all decided long ago, during their days at Hogwarts, that they were a family, and that connection never faltered even as they grew older, which is why, when Theo’s father had an unfortunate accident in the days leading up to the battle of Hogwarts, which Draco could neither confirm nor deny his involvement in, Theo had insisted they all move in together and fill his house of misery with love and life.

Sentimental prat.

The invitation was extended to Draco too, of course, but even though they were his chosen family, and he would, and had, killed for them, even he had his limitations. As much as they wanted him to move into Nott Manor, as they liked to remind him every time they got drunk together, he still had a predilection for solitude.

That solitude, however, did mean he didn’t see his friends as much as they would like. Although he played quidditch at the manor with the boys every Sunday, the girls typically made themselves scarce for it, considering how rough it could get when the losing team decided to drink. Daphne in particular was almost always busy on Sundays. She saved her weekends for her muggle boyfriend, so he almost never saw her anymore.

Draco cleared his throat, “and I did respond, I sent Pansy back my RSVP.”

Daphne’s mouth opened in shock as she whirled around to redirect her anger at the now free Pansy, who took the opportunity when Theo became distracted by Daphne’s rage to slip free from his clutches.

“You mean to say he told you he was coming, and you didn’t let any of us know?!”

Pansy smirked. “I thought it would be a nice surprise. Besides, you were busy all day with your muggle boy toy. I couldn’t exactly send you a patronus or owl, could I?”

Daphne glared at Pansy. “Do not call Henry a boy toy.”

Pansy shrugged but was already busy with engaging in yet another squabble with Theo.

Daphne sighed and turned back to Draco, with only a look of humour on her face. She began laughing hysterically, which, of course, Theo joined in with. “Sorry for the punch, Malfoy, hope the arm is alright.”

Draco rolled his eyes and shoved Daphne with his shoulder.

Like Tori, Daphne was a form of sister to him, but in a different way. Where he sought to protect and defend Tori, his relationship with Daphne came from a place of mutual understanding and humour.

As the eldest members of their group, both Daphne and Draco worked tirelessly during the war to protect their little family, taking on more prominent roles in Voldemort’s ranks to spare their friends from such grief and agony.

While Draco had been condemned to time in Azkaban for his efforts during the war, he had managed to pull a few strings in order to keep Daphne safe from the same fate. After all, someone needed to be around to take care of the others.

Daphne was like the female version of Draco, and something had always clicked between them as friends. Never more.

Daphne was the first to stand by his side after his father’s death, and when his mother began to…

Well. Daphne was family, and she had more than proven that by her actions throughout the years.

Theo grinned widely as he approached Draco with open arms before swerving Draco’s incoming shove and reaching up to ruffle his hair. “Drakey boy! How are ya?”

Draco growled and shoved Theo off before running his hands through his hair to return it to its perfectly styled state, which took him HOURS to do. “Better before you ran your greasy paws through my perfect hair.”

If there was one sure way to piss Draco off, it was to mess up his hair. It was his pride and joy, and he spent far longer than he would ever admit styling it to make it perfect each morning.

Which is exactly why Theo did it. Every. Single. Time.

Theo chuckled warmly and wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulder, leading him to one of the armchairs and sitting down on top of him.

Draco sighed. “Must you?”

“Yes, I absolutely must. Blaise gets my arse all day every day. It’s only fair to give you your share now that you’re finally here.”

Blaise cleared his throat. “Blaise unwillingly has your arse all day, thank you very much.”

“Thank you very much,” Theo goaded before poking his tongue out.

Draco huffed and shoved him off his lap before heading to the bar for a stiff drink… or three.

Theo grinned and shouted across the room as the others settled into their own seats once more. “What’s the matter, Drakey boy? New assignment got you down?”

Pansy frowned. “New assignment? What new assignment? Why does Theo always know about these things before us?”

Draco downed his third glass of whiskey before turning to face them. “Theo only knows everything because he’s always in my fucking house for some unknown reason. Anyone would think he didn’t have a job, oh wait…”

Theo dramatically clutched his heart and sunk back into the chair Draco had recently evacuated. “Oh, you wound me! I’ll have you know, I am the perfect house husband.”

Daphne snorted, “Right, except for the fact you are not married, nor can you keep a man for longer than three days.”

Theo waved his hand dismissively. “Semantics darling, minor details. Besides, if Draco would simply accept my proposal, I would be halfway there.”

“Not happening.”

Theo grinned into his glass. “Yet.”

Draco rolled his eyes and Pansy huffed. “So, what’s this about the new work assignment? I thought you couldn’t progress in your job for another six months?”

Theo jumped up out of his chair. “Ooh ooh OOH pleeeeease let me tell the story, please please pleeeease.”

Draco rolled his eyes and slumped down on the sofa next to Pansy as Theo began guffawing to himself.

“Oh Merlin…” he choked out between laughs, “you guys… are never going to guess… who Draco’s new partner is…”

With that, a fresh wave of laughter consumed his friend, causing him to double over so far he fell out of his chair.

“It’s really not that funny,” Draco huffed.

Theo chortled, “No, really it is!”

Draco rolled his eyes as Theo wiped the tears from his cheeks before finally pulling himself together enough to tell the story.

This was as good a way as any, Draco supposed. At least it wasn’t him breaking the news.

Theo stood on his armchair, dramatically addressing the room with a flourish of his arm. “The new partner assigned to Draco Lucius Malfoy is… drum roll please…”

The others stomped their feet on the floor, enthralled by Theo’s dramatics, as Draco scowled and slumped further back in his seat.

“None other than… mighty war heroine… one third of the golden trio… Golden Girl… HERMIONE GRANGER.”

Laughter erupted from Theo’s throat once more as the others digested the news with varying degrees of shock and amusement.

Pansy’s mouth hung open, seemingly lost for words for the first time in her life. Daphne looked straight at Draco, trying to decipher his perfectly schooled expression, despite the four glasses of whiskey currently coursing through his system. Tori clasped her hands together and looked pleasantly surprised, as Blaise simply observed his wife’s reaction, seemingly unphased by the news.

Theo, meanwhile, was still curled up laughing, his face resembling the colour of the bloody Gryffinprick’s flag.

Draco huffed and stood up, walking over to the open doors leading out to the Nott Manor gardens, and lighting a cigarette, taking a deep drag.

Tori was the first to break the silence. “This is wonderful! I’ve been hoping to find a new girl to join our little group! Oh, I can’t wait to recommend stylists, and she has such lovely hair, I wonder what I could do with it, perhaps she would like—”

Draco’s head snapped around, his eyes locking onto Tori’s, his voice a rough growl. “Who said she was coming anywhere near you lot?”

Blaise’s arm automatically tightened protectively around Tori, his eyes narrowing dangerously at Draco. “Watch your tone, Malfoy.”

Draco noticed the defeated look on Tori’s face and immediately regretted it. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry, Tori. I just… it’s been a stressful few days. Granger is impossible to work with. She’s defiant, self-righteous, a complete know-it-all, unable to ever admit she’s wrong even when presented with facts that explicitly prove it, and the most aggravating person I have ever come into contact with, and I’ve only been working with her for five bloody days, two of which have been the weekend!”

Tori smiled a tired smile, both too forgiving for her own good, and most likely feeling too sick to argue back the way she typically would, Draco thought. Blaise leaned down to whisper something into her ear, to which she rolled her eyes and batted him away.

Meanwhile, Pansy and Daphne shared a knowing look, Daphne snorting into her wine.

Draco narrowed his eyes at them both. “What?”

Pansy smirked. “Oh, nothing much. Just sounds awfully familiar. Like someone we know.”

Draco scoffed. “I hope you’re not comparing me to Hermione fucking Granger. She and I are nothing alike.”

Pansy scoffed and rolled her eyes before heading towards the bar, swaying as she walked.

Daphne grinned. “Oh come on, Draco. You can’t tell me you’re so blind as to not see it?”

“And you can’t tell me your seriously listening to that fucking lush.”

Pansy threw him a crude gesture before pouring herself more wine.

“What was it you said?” Daphne accentuated each point by dramatically using her fingers to count them off. “Impossible to work with — last time I checked that’s why you and Blaise could never go on missions together for the Dark Lord—”

“That’s entirely different, I was not impossible to work with, Blaise just didn’t have the stomach to be as ruthless as I was. A difference in style.”

Blaise scoffed. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Daphne cleared her throat to continue. “Defiant — I’m sure Harry Potter would use the same word to describe you…”

Draco bristled and took another drag of his cigarette.

“… self-righteous — you have the worst superiority complex I have ever come across —  complete know-it-all? Hypocritical coming from the man whose entire Occlumency system is a fucking library—”

“That has nothing to do with being a know-it-all, and that was fucking private Daph. The only reason you know that is because Theo slipped too much Veritaserum into my champagne during his ‘experimental mixologist’ phase.”

Daphne held her hands up in defence as Theo grinned, standing up dramatically now that his laughter had finally subsided. “Speaking of which, I am feeling particularly… restless right now. Who is for another Theo special?”

Tori excitedly clapped her hands as Pansy raised hers.

Daphne continued her assault on Draco as Theo skipped over to the bar. “What else was there, unable to admit she’s wrong? Have you tried telling yourself you’re wrong before? I need to cast a fucking Protego to make it out alive.”

Draco clenched his jaw and dropped the finished cigarette, stamping it out with the heel of his dress shoes before lighting another and stepping out of the doors, needing to be away from his insufferable friends.

Daphne appeared at his side a few moments later, an unnaturally bright blue drink in hand. She held it out as a peace offering. “Theo’s latest invention.”

“What’s in it?”

“Alcohol wise? Unclear. He did mention the use of Alihosty Draught though, to ‘lighten the mood,’” she grinned.

Draco looked down his nose at the toxic-coloured drink. “Uncontrollable laughter? Not my thing, thanks.”

Daphne smiled. “Only a couple of drops. Just enough to pull out a giggle and bring about some happy endorphins.”

Draco sighed before wrapping his elegant digits around the stem of the glass. “Fucking girly glass, couldn’t he have used something more…”

“Masculine? This is Theo we are talking about.”

Draco hummed sceptically before taking a sip.

A few seconds later, he could feel a bubble of something rising up in his throat before finally he could keep his mouth shut no longer. A dainty giggle escaped his lips, a sound he wasn’t even aware he could make. His eyes widened and cheeks flushed as he glanced at Daphne, who was attempting to stifle her laugh behind her hand, but failing miserably.

The initial shock wore off and a grin pulled at Draco’s lips, his shoulders relaxing as he took another drag of his cigarette.

Daphne bumped his shoulder with her own. “I wasn’t trying to insult you, you know. I was merely pointing out your similarities. I know it’s hard for you to work with anyone, especially someone like Hermione, but don’t judge her on her past actions or your initial meetings. I’m more than sure she was met with a hostile front, and an equally frustrating and defiant persona. It is only natural that she responded the way she did.”

Draco sighed but could find no fault in his best friend’s summation. It was true. He had been rather hostile and standoffish.

Sensing her victory, Daphne pressed on. “Besides, it would be rather hypocritical of you to judge her based on her past when all you ever want to do is escape your own.”

Draco frowned, not liking how close to home this conversation was hitting. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but it was also true that he was fed up with being seen as his childhood bully self. He wasn’t that scared little boy anymore, nor was he the ruthless killing machine he had been forced into becoming. He was… well… he wasn’t sure what he was now.

Draco Malfoy had evolved since those days, but he had never settled on an exact identity. He knew who he should be. The perfect pureblood aristocrat, following in his father’s footsteps, and finding a pureblood wife to marry, producing perfect little heirs, and working to further his already insurmountable wealth. But who did he want to be? Who actually was he now that he wasn’t a scared little boy, a pureblood child, a Malfoy man, a Death Eater, a killing machine… who was Draco? That, he wasn’t sure he would ever discover.

Daphne’s soft voice broke through his reverie. “You should let people in more, Draco. How can you expect people to get along with you if you won’t let them see the real you?”

He looked away, feeling far too vulnerable, the drinks lowering his inhibitions as well as his ability to Occlude effectively.

“Just give her a chance to know you, the real you, alright? She’s trying her best, as I’m sure you are. It can’t be easy to be the famous Golden Girl. If you let her in, even just a little, perhaps you will work better together. You’re contracted to be her partner for the next twelve months, right?”

Draco nodded, still avoiding her eye.

“Then you owe it to yourself to have a good working relationship with her. Make this year easier on yourself. Let her in, just enough to find out how you two are similar and how that can work together. You don’t have to let her in all the way. I know being vulnerable is not your forte, but if you open up just enough, you never know, she might surprise you.”

Draco huffed. “Since when did you get all wise? I came here to ask Blaise for advice, but it seems I should’ve just come straight to you.”

Daphne chucked. “Well, I don’t know about wise, but being surrounded by muggles most of the time it… it changes your perspective. Everything you thought you knew, everything you were taught, it all seems like background noise now. Muggles are rather spectacular people, you know. Helps that Henry is a psychologist. He’s rather intelligent with these kinds of things. I guess it rubbed off a little.” She took a moment to glance back at Blaise before continuing. “Besides, I feel like I have to take on the advisory role now. Blaise doesn’t have the time or energy for it anymore.”

Draco followed Daphne’s line of sight to spot Blaise carefully trying to lift Tori, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. “How has he been?”

“Blaise? Oh, you know. Stoic as ever. You wouldn’t know anything was wrong unless you knew exactly where to look.”

“And Tori?”

Daphne sighed solemnly before looking back out over the gardens. “Tori is… coping. In her own way.”

“How bad is it?”

“Yesterday she spent three hours wandering the gardens barefoot before Blaise returned from work to find her asleep in the hydrangeas. The healers said her confusion came from severe blood loss, which none of us were aware of. She’s gotten quite clever at covering up her episodes now.”

Draco sighed and held out his toxic looking drink to Daphne. “You need it more than I do.”

Daphne smiled gratefully and rested her head on Draco’s shoulder before taking a sip, a small giggle escaping her throat.

“She’ll get better, you know. We will find a way.”

Daphne nodded but wasn’t as optimistic as Draco.

Little did she know, Draco was no optimist either. But allowing himself to think the worst, as his realist brain wanted him to, elicited far too many emotions for his whiskey-addled mind to sort through, so instead he settled for empty words of comfort which felt necessary to say.

Draco rested his cheek atop Daphne’s head and they stood in companionable silence, watching the stars. It was moments like this which provided Draco with the peace and clarity he so desperately needed.

That was until Theo rushed out, two more drinks in hand, excitably ushering them both inside for games. Draco grinned at Daphne as she patted him on the arm and accompanied the giddy Theo inside.

He should really attend these events more often, he thought to himself, before stamping out his cigarette and heading back inside to a place which brought him warmth and happiness, with his real family.

Chapter Text

Wednesday 18th March 2009 

A cold hand reached for Draco’s trembling form, lifting him up by the scruff of his neck. He could feel the hard stone under his knees. The chill in his bones didn’t stem from the desolate room, but the bony fingers digging into his skin.

His muscles twitched sporadically as they tensed and released of their own accord. Draco was no longer in control of his own body, submitting to the overwhelming desire to let go, to succumb to the darkness threatening to pull him under.

“I thought you were training him, Lucius. It appears the boy is too weak to even take a small Crucio. Have you been lenient because he is your blood?”

“N-no my Lord, of course not,” Lucius’ voice quivered. “Draco is not the fastest learner. I have tried to instill in him the values you have taught us my lord, but it would appear he has more interest in books than he does duelling.”

His father’s voice wasn’t the strong baritone it typically was. No longer did the great Lucius Malfoy utter pretty words from his silver tongue, words that once swayed the entire Wizengamot in his favour, a tone that used to instill fear in his Hogwarts peers. Now, he cowered before a figure who barely resembled a man.

“Are you saying that you are unfit for the position, Lucius?” The Dark Lord’s tongue wrapped around the syllables of his father’s name as though it were a curse.

“N-no no my Lord! I can do it! I can train him! I will make him obedient!” He had never heard his father sound so desperate so… weak.

“BELLA!”

Draco’s vision finally returned, the Malfoy Manor ballroom-turned-battle-headquarters swimming in front of him. He blinked and looked up to see his father cowering in a half bow, his eyes glued to the floor.

He heard the unmistakable footsteps of his deranged Aunt draw near as Voldemort’s cold scaly fingers tightened around the back of his neck.

“Yes, my Lord?” Bella said with a bow.

“Since Lucius has failed to perform his duties, you shall now be in charge of the young Malfoy’s training. I want him to be perfect before the upcoming battle. If he wishes to serve as one of my generals, he must fight like one. If not, I shall dispose of him myself. Is that understood?” His sibilant voice coiled around Draco’s head as though Nagini herself had slithered up his body, into his nose, and nestled herself inside his lungs, making it harder to breathe.

Voldemort threw Draco to the floor, his fingers still twitching from the lasting effects of the Crucio. His face smashed into the stone floor, his arms too heavy to catch himself. He could feel the trail of warm blood trickling down his lip, could taste the metallic tang on his tongue as he tried yet failed to pick himself up.

His Aunt Bella bowed once more. “Yes, my Lord. I shall not fail you. The boy will become the greatest general you have ever seen.”

Voldemort nodded. “See to it you do not fail me too.”

Bellatrix gripped Draco’s arm and hauled him to his feet. The room spun once more as his body swayed into his aunt’s frame.

When it seemed like they were about to be dismissed, Voldemort held up his hand.

“One last thing…”

The room stilled.

The air became stifling.

Draco could feel Nagini’s tongue tickling his ankles, tasting his sweat. She was sizing him up, feeling him out. She wanted him for dinner, he could practically hear her thoughts screaming at him. He was no Parselmouth but he didn’t need to know her language to understand her hunger. He was on her radar, and he couldn’t escape.

His Aunt was gripping him too tight, his muscles protesting his every move. Even without the lasting effects of the Crucio, he wasn’t sure he could beat her in a duel. She was too erratic to predict, no matter how many books he read on spellcasting, his aunt was so deranged she would always subvert expectations. He couldn’t anticipate her, which made her too dangerous to tackle.

Voldemort turned to where Lucius was knelt. “You failed me, Lucius. No one should ever fail me. Perhaps your boy would benefit from some… motivation.”

The last word was spoken with such delirious fervour, it made the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stick up.

“BELLA!”

Before he knew what was happening, he felt his aunt’s sharp nails dig into his chin as she lifted his face to where Voldemort was stood. He tried to struggle against her grip, but her nails sunk into his skin, keeping him firmly in place.

Lucius looked up desperately, pleading, “please, my Lord, I will do whatever it is you wish. I’ll be better, I will do better—”

Voldemort held up a hand. “Silence! Your purpose can no longer be fulfilled… alive.”

The next few seconds seemed to happen simultaneously in slow motion and all too quickly.

Voldemort raised his wand to immobilise the coward knelt before him. Draco couldn’t recognise his father as he was now. Couldn’t reconcile the tyrant who used to beat him with a cane for daring to be weak with the snivelling, spineless figure begging at the feet of a psychopath he claimed to be loyal to.

The Dark Lord grinned maniacally before he sliced his father’s stomach open, using his wand to pull out his intestines and wrapping them around Lucius’ throat. His father made a horrific gurgling sound but somehow remained conscious, desperately clutching at the strings of life in hopes the monster before him might show mercy.

What his father forgot to account for was that mercy was seen as weakness. And pureblood men never showed weakness.

With a deranged cackle, Voldemort’s red eyes locked onto Draco’s as he flicked his wand once more, strangling his father with his own intestines.

Lucius’ body jerked and shook violently, before his eyes bulged out of his head and rolled backwards.

Voldemort and Bellatrix’s laughs filled the room as Draco tried but failed to look away, the grip his aunt had on his chin unrelenting.

The last sound Draco heard was the one sound that would stick with him forever. A broken, helpless noise which pierced his skull any time he shut his eyes.

His mother’s scream…

Draco woke with a start, his silk sheets drenched in sweat. He bolted upright, panting frantically as he searched for his wand.

Once his fingers connected with the solid wood, the tension in his shoulders softened slightly. He flicked on the lights in one swift motion before sliding to the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he buried his head in his hands, gulping at the air. He closed his eyes, trying desperately not to be sick as he took a few fortifying breaths, running his fingers through his drenched hair.

When he had finally got a hold of himself, he glanced up at the time.

4:55am.

It had been a long time since he had experienced a nightmare so intense it woke him. Probably a result of those less than palatable cocktails Theo insisted he keep drinking last night.

In the years following the demise of the Dark Lord, Draco had suffered greatly with night terrors. His time in Azkaban forced him to confront the demons he had previously ignored, locked away so tightly he couldn’t access them even if he tried.

The first year in prison was the toughest.

The moment Voldemort was killed, it was as though the barrier shielding his mind from his own darkness shattered, years of repression erupting all at once, flooding his senses, and drowning him in emotions he wasn’t aware he even possessed, things he didn’t know he was capable of feeling.

Draco’s trial and sentencing were all a blur. He spent most of the time trying to hold himself together for the few public appearances he had to make.

The moment they dropped him in his cell and practically threw away the key, without stimuli or people to distract himself with, he broke.

Crumbled.

Shattered.

Little Draco shaped pieces spilled out from every direction, coating the floors and walls of his damp and dingy cell. The more he desperately scrambled to gather his shattered fragments, the more they fell away from him, leaving only an empty shell.

He lost weight rapidly. Food was a luxury he hadn’t earned. He could barely swallow it around the acrid taste of bile that lined his throat, a permanent reminder of the sickness he spread to all those who dared to come close to him.

He could barely look at himself in the shards of broken glass which resembled a mirror in the small cubicle they would take him to shower in once a week. The water was freezing, but he didn’t care. His blood boiled with shame, as the flames of destruction rooted so deeply within him lapped at his skin, tearing his flesh from his body piece by piece. The cold water was a relief he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Clumps of his hair began to fall out under the stress of his fingers consistently raking through it. It was the only thing he had to hold on to when the voices of his victims came back to haunt him, deafening his ears.

His eyes became sunken, purple rings taking up a permanent residence under his lashes, and his vision became blurred from all the time he spent staring at the same four walls, willing himself to see a way through, hoping they would reveal the secret to surviving this, when there was none to be found.

The darkness of his cell felt at home with the darkness in his soul.

Draco had to completely rebuild himself from scratch, and it was a long meticulous process.

He didn’t take visitors for three years.

He spent his days meditating, disappearing into the farthest corners of his mind to pull together the fragmented pages and rebind his identity, book by book.

His nights were spent trying (and failing) not to scream as his darkest memories tore from their hiding places to shroud him in darkness and fear.

By the time the third year rolled around, Draco had somewhat of a handle over his fractured mind and had created a routine which felt safe for him.

Each day would start with an hour of meditation to calm himself down from any night terrors and to reform the locks over the restricted section inside of his mind. He would then be served a hearty breakfast of grey slop, which he finally had a handle on swallowing.

After breakfast, he would complete a workout routine which consisted of different variations of running, push ups, sit ups, pull ups on the bars of his cell, and burpees. He would work out until his lungs screamed for oxygen and his limbs trembled so violently, he could no longer stand up.

He would then treat himself to a late lunch of more grey slop before challenging himself mentally, working through his arithmancy, designing and creating inventions which he would meticulously act out creating over and over again until it was so firmly ingrained in his brain, he was sure he wouldn’t forget it.

By the time his brain gave out for the day, it was time for his third helping of grey slop before lying in bed and naming constellations, reciting poetry, or mentally practising the potions his old head of house had taught him until he fell asleep.

Then he would wake up and do it all over again.

Every single day.

Until the end of his sentence.

Despite everything he went through, all the pain, how catastrophically he broke, he never cried once.

He was proud of that fact.

Clung to it when he would feel his eyes sting and throat burn.

He never cried.

And he never would again.

By his fourth year, he finally felt stable enough to allow himself visitors, not that he expected to see any. But then his routine expanded, as he factored in rotational visits from each of his friends every Sunday.

His mother never visited him, and he never wanted her to. She was already so fragile, seeing him in a place like Azkaban may have shattered any semblance of sanity she had left.

By the time his sentence was pardoned in favour of the community rebuilding program, Draco had completely rebuilt himself from scratch as a newer, stronger, better version of himself. He would cling to that strength he found in his darkest times when his night terrors resurfaced from time to time. He found comfort in his solitude, because he knew only he could rebuild himself the way he had so many years ago.

Only he could fracture so extravagantly and piece himself back together without any help.

Only he could rely on himself.

All those years he spent broken and frayed, he didn’t tell a soul.

He suffered a fate worse than death and no one knew.

No one would ever know.  

As he took a few more breaths, he reminded himself of his strength, before returning to the routine so heavily ingrained in his bones, even all these years later. He closed his eyes and took himself into that state of meditation he knew he could rely on and closed the book which held his most recent night terror, before chaining it down and returning it to its space on the shelves in the farthest corners of his restricted section.

He would not let these memories suffocate him again.

He would not break.

He was strong.

He was not weak.

He. Would. Not. Break.

The sound of static filled his ears, deafeningly loud.

“Ouch, what the fuck Granger?!” he roared, as he violently tore himself from her mind.

Their Wednesday evening training session had started less antagonistically than the one on Monday, however, the atmosphere was no less tense.

Draco tried to heed Daphne’s advice as best he could, offering Granger an olive branch in the form of a vision board from Tilly.

It seemed to broker some kind of peace as Granger took the board, albeit sceptically, and stored it in that deceptively small bag of hers, agreeing to take a meeting with the elf so long as Draco was not in attendance.

It was a small step, but a step, nevertheless.

He wanted to argue, to react instinctively to the hurt that comment left him with, but he stopped himself as a show that he was trying, no matter how much he had to clench his jaw to do so. He was already on edge from his episode this morning. If Granger knew just how much he was holding himself back, she would think him a fucking saint.

Draco had led Granger into a smaller room than last time, set out like an interrogation room he had read about in a muggle detective book. He figured muggle familiarities might be a comfort to Granger and show that he wasn’t still that bigoted 11-year-old his father had moulded him into.

That’s when he explained the purpose of today’s training session was to test the strength of her Occlumency. With Draco being a natural Legilimens, even the best Occlumens were often bested by his skills.

Whilst Voldemort had never seen fit to teach his followers Legilimency, due to his and Draco’s natural abilities, that didn’t mean after his downfall they hadn’t taught themselves. He needed to be sure that, should she be captured on any of these missions, she could protect the identity of her partner. Draco’s anonymity in his new role was crucial for them to be able to track the movements of the remaining Death Eaters who were causing trouble.

As he drove punishingly into her mind, that’s when he found himself deafened by a screeching sound, one he had only ever heard from Theo’s bloody wireless.

Granger grinned smugly as she examined her nails.

He rubbed his temple to try to soothe the ache growing across his head. “Seriously, Granger, what the fuck?”

She hummed and finally looked up at him, that stupid smug grin bringing out her stupid fucking dimples. She took her time to tie her hair into a bun atop her head before sitting back comfortably in the chair. She looked like the Kneazle that got the cream.

Whatever she was keeping from him, she obviously thought she was incredibly clever for it. Though he supposed that was a common thought process for the Golden Girl, considering her only use in that damned trio was to read books for the two thickheads too dim to read for themselves.

Draco would soon wipe that fucking grin off her face, of that he was sure. He dragged his metal chair noisily across the floor, shoving the table aside with a loud thud, and slamming his chair down right in front of hers.

She tried to keep up the smug, brave persona, and if he hadn’t been examining her so intently, he might have missed her almost imperceptible flinch.

But he didn’t miss it.

He didn’t miss it at all.

A wolfish grin pulled at his features, causing Granger to straighten ever so slightly, before he drove much more forcefully into her mind. He was met once more with that same piercing static, but this time he was prepared. He pushed through the blinding light and deafening sound so hard he was sure Granger would develop a migraine once they were finished. His body surged forwards, his hand gripping her chin as his knee sat in the space between her thighs.

If he felt her heart rate pick up, or his own breathing grow ragged, he was sure it was from the intensity of his Legilimency, and nothing more.

He pushed harder, unsure if the pained groans were coming from her or himself, until finally something released with a soft pop, and he was falling… 

Falling…

Hard… 

Fast… 

Nothing to stop him until…

Draco landed on the soft grey carpet with a thud. He twisted his wrists. Nothing was broken.

Although he was in her mind, he could still feel pain, even if it wouldn’t be there when he exited.

Legilimency didn’t physically transport the body into another’s mind, rather it took the casters' consciousness inside their target’s consciousness.

The consciousness could feel pain, experience the full spectrum of emotions and view whatever was presented to it, but it could not carry anything physically back into the host's body, much like it couldn’t bring anything physically into the subject’s mind. Mentally, however? Well that was another story entirely.

Checking his limbs was more of a force of habit. He knew he wouldn’t really be hurt on the outside, but he didn’t particularly feel like walking around Granger’s mind with broken limbs.

He finally opened his eyes and got to his feet warily. He felt triumphant to have pushed through her defences so easily, but that victorious feeling quickly dissipated the moment he saw Granger leaning casually on a giant…

What in the fuck even was it?

Draco approached the large, whirring, metal thing cautiously.

Without looking up from her nails, she drawled, “Malfoy. Find what you need?”

He clenched his jaw and his fists, desperately trying not to go over there and punch her.

Hitting women went against everything engrained in him as a gentleman from all his years of etiquette training, but this was Granger. Was she really even a woman? Surely, she could be an exception to that rule. He could separate her gender from his morals because of how fucking infuriating she was.

The clearing of her throat broke him from his inner monologue. “I’ll take that as a no then.”

Draco huffed and glanced over at the big machine stood before him. There were hundreds of buttons all lit up and wires coming from every direction.

“What is it?” he ground out through gritted teeth.

She glanced up, feigning innocence. “What is what?” she chirped sweetly, batting those stupid eyelashes accentuating her honey eyes.

Her stupid honey eyes.

Fucking stupidly infuriating.

And ugly. Most definitely ugly.

That’s what he meant.

“You know exactly what I’m referencing. Don’t play dumb, Granger, it doesn’t suit you.”

She grinned. “So, you think I’m smart?”

“That’s not what I said. Stop trying to change the subject.”

She shrugged and pushed herself off the giant metal box. “Hmmm, I suppose I could put you out of your misery…”

Draco rolled his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He forgot just how insufferable this witch was. Seriously, how bad would it be if he hit her?

“Looks like you’re battling with an ethical conundrum.”

Draco looked up from his hand. “A what?”

She shrugged. “An ethical conundrum. Deciding whether or not to do something which goes against your very morals and which could land you in much trouble. Deciding if the consequences are worth the price of indulgence.”

It was as though she had read his mind once again. He knew Granger was smart, he had always known that, but from what he could remember from school, divination was not a subject she enjoyed, or even believed in. Reading minds was only a skill Legilimens could perform, so unless she was a secret Legilimens and holding out on him, she had to be reading the future somehow.

Draco remembered the disdain on her face the one time Trelawney called her out on her poor skills and lack of ‘proper spirit’ for the art. She also insulted her ‘shrivelled heart’ and ‘dry soul,’ which made him extremely gleeful. The rest of that day was spent laughing with Pansy and Blaise about how the poor Golden Girl finally got bested in a subject she wasn’t good at.

He had been waiting for the day he could finally say he beat Hermione Granger at school. Too bad it was a subject which held little weight with his father, and even himself for that matter. But he wouldn’t admit that aloud to anyone, lest he be compared to the swot. Merlin forbid they have anything in common, even an opinion as trivial as that. That truly would be the end of his days.

Her aversion to divination brought him back to his current question. How the fuck did she know…

She grinned. “Like you said. I’m smart.”

He huffed. “I didn’t say—”

She waved her hand impatiently, as though he were the one causing her any nuisance. Had she met herself?

“Shall we return to the present mystery?”

Merlin, she was fucking smart. It was like she was reading his every thought. How in the fuck could she do that?

He was so lost in trying to analyse her enormous brain that he didn’t notice she had come to stand next to him.

He blinked and shifted awkwardly.

The fuck was that?

He schooled his expression once more and stood up straighter.

Was it hot in here?

Of course it was hot, there was a giant metal machine in front of him. It must have been producing heat.

“That…” Her sudden declaration drew him out of his thoughts once more.

Merlin, he was never usually this distracted. What in Salazar’s name was wrong with him?

Granger’s mind must’ve been playing tricks on him.

That was it.

Of course it was, she was the Brightest Witch of her Age, of course she had some traps set up in her own mind to deter people from snooping.

“… is a muggle computer.”

“A… what?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, as though it were perfectly obvious. “A muggle computer. It holds all the secrets to my mind. Every memory, emotion, thought, everything.”

“A muggle… computer? That is your form of defence? That is what you have spent time practicing Occlumency to achieve? You seriously think some muggle device can keep out people like me? Ex-Death Eaters who might have spent the last almost ten years post Voldemort’s demise practising Legilimency in order to break people who wronged them during the war, people very famously in opposition to them, people just like you?”

Granger flinched at the sound of the Dark Lord’s name on Draco’s tongue. He was sure she must have said it herself hundreds of times, but perhaps it was his deep baritone wrapping around the syllables that unnerved her. As though speaking his name would automatically turn Draco back into his puppet once more, resurrecting him from the grave yet again.

He watched as she processed his words, noticed the noises the machine made as she schooled her expressions, recognised the familiar glaze behind her eyes as she Occluded. Watching it on the outside of someone’s mind was always intriguing, but watching the process of Occlumency within a person’s mind? Now that was something special.

She raised her eyebrows and extended her arm, inviting him to step closer. “If you think you can figure it out, you go ahead.”

He glanced at the huge machine, feeling a little intimidated.

Never one to back down from a challenge, especially one set by Hermione fucking Granger, he stood taller and elegantly glided up to the machine.

Draco cleared his throat. “Muggle machine… open.”

He heard Granger’s stifled giggle and tensed, his eyes darkening.

“Muggle computer activate!”

Her giggle turned into a laugh.

He clenched his jaw. “Muggle computer, show me Granger’s memories!”

The machine stood tall and made no effort to move.

When he kicked it hard, he heard Granger gasp for breath between laughs.

He growled loudly and kicked it again. “OI YOU INFERNAL MACHINE! DO AS I SAY! OPEN!”

A soft thud indicated Granger had fallen to her knees. He whirled around to glare at her, noticing her red face and tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands were clutching her stomach he she struggled for breath between laughs.

“ What is so funny?!”

She wiped her cheeks with unsteady hands before finally catching her breath. “Y-you… trying to shout… at a computer…” she burst into laughter once more.

If he weren’t so frustrated with her, he might pick up on the fact she resembled another curly haired brunette in his life as she laughed so intensely.

He growled dangerously and kicked the bloody metal box again. “WELL WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH IT?!”

As his foot collided with the solid structure, a whirring noise began, followed by some form of musical tune. The giant black glass, which Granger then informed him was a ‘skreen,’ lit up a bright blue. He stared open mouthed as he watched the muggle machine work before a smug smile adorned his features.

“Well, well, Granger , it would appear I have bested your silly muggle contraption.”

Granger, who had finally pulled herself together after her ridiculous laughing fit, was now standing again, arms crossed over her chest. But she didn’t look defeated. She didn’t look angry that Draco had broken through her defences so quickly. Nor did she look upset that she hadn’t managed to best him.

In fact, she looked calm, if still a little smug.

Draco frowned as he tried to analyse her reaction, before he heard another noise coming from the computer. When he turned to face it, the skreen had turned from blue to white, a small box in the middle of it stating ‘password.’

Draco’s face fell, his second victory of the day once again smothered by Granger’s muggle contraption.

Well fuck.

He sighed and turned back to face Granger, who was currently more focussed on wrangling her hair into a plait, her bun having fallen out during her laughing episode.

“Alright, Granger, I’ll admit it. This muggle computer isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. But that doesn’t mean I won’t get in. You seriously need a better system.”

She raised her eyebrow at that, letting her hair go, accepting defeat for that battle. “A better system? What better system is there to defend against magical folk who spit on muggles and everything they have, than a muggle invention which they would never have spent the time bothering to know existed, let alone learned how to work?”

Draco opened his mouth to respond but found himself momentarily lost for words. Because she had a point.

Not that he would ever admit that.

Moment over, he would still respond, even if he wasn’t so sure of his own stance anymore. “Well, I still think you should have a better system. I’ll break through it at some point, even if it takes me weeks of trying.”

“Oh really? What’s yours then?”

He blanched, not expecting that question. “I… Well…” His expression hardened. “I don’t have to explain myself or my system to you .”

With that, he pulled from her brain, just as violently as he pushed in.

When he returned to reality, he found himself panting, and only now came to realise the position he was in.

Granger’s eyes snapped open and focussed on him, her breath hitching as he found his face so close to hers, his fingers on her chin.

He cleared his throat and immediately drew backwards, removing his knee from between her thighs and letting go of her chin, looking away to compose himself.

She reached up to find herself sweating and Draco, being the gentleman he was, the stupid idiotic gentleman he was, automatically reached into his pocket and handed her his monogrammed handkerchief, keeping his eyes focused in front of him, refusing to look at her.

Granger took the square of silk between shaking fingers and dabbed at her forehead. “Thanks.”

Her response was stilted. Devoid of any genuine gratitude, or even any typical Granger fire. Perhaps the pressure he had put on her mind had finally broken her spirit.

Draco glanced at her as she handed it back, but he waved his hand. “Keep it. I have a surplus.” Which, of course, wasn’t untrue. But that didn’t make it any less weird that he had offered to let Granger, of all people, keep it.

He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair to fix it.

Granger kept her eyes fixated on the floor.

For a long while, neither of them said anything.

Draco tried desperately to analyse everything that had just happened, why he had reacted so negatively to Granger’s personal question, and what in the fuck he was doing so close to her. He never had to be that physically close to anyone to read their minds. He could delve into a person’s subconscious from across a room without even looking into their eyes. Why had he needed to be so close to Granger to drive into hers?

He was beginning to worry that the metaphorical olive branch he had extended at the start of the session had now been snapped.

It was Granger who broke the silence first. “Malfoy, I'm sorry for asking about your defences… I know the inner mind is a very private and personal thing, and I know you respect your privacy so I… I shouldn’t have asked and I’m sorry.”

She was apologising. Why was she apologising? It was a perfectly reasonable question, considering the fact he was inside her subconscious at the time.

Draco was lucky to get an apology.

He should’ve accepted it. He should’ve been gracious and tried to apply Daphne’s advice. Let Granger in, just enough to create some form of relationship not born from hatred.

He should’ve.

But of course, he didn’t.

In true Draco Malfoy fashion, he became defensive. Closed up. He slammed his Occlumency walls in place so hard it almost caused him to physically buckle, defending himself in case Granger somehow found a way in. She was an awfully clever witch, and if tonight had taught him anything, she somehow had a way to read his mind which didn’t involve Legilimency, and most likely wasn’t divination.

Granger was quickly becoming a danger to his carefully cultivated persona, and he couldn’t let her win. He straightened up and cut his steely grey eyes to hers.

“I don’t need your pity, Granger ,” he drawled. “And I certainly do not need your apology. Do not pretend to know who I am or what I value. I am here to train you , not the other way around, so you do not need to ask questions pertaining to my own skills. If I was unfit for the job, Shacklebolt would not have promoted me. If you had the necessary skills, he would’ve given you a partner to train and made you the lead. He did not. Do not sit there and pretend to know me. You do not. We are not here to become friends, to chat about our innermost thoughts and dreams and desires. We are here to do a job. Nothing more, nothing less.”

If the metaphorical olive branch hadn’t snapped before, it certainly had now, but as long as Draco was the one snapping it, he didn’t care. He wouldn’t let a swot like her gain the upper hand, and presenting an olive branch made him vulnerable. Draco Malfoy was not vulnerable.

Granger stood and straightened herself before grabbing her bag and brushing past him. “Noted. Rest assured I will not attempt to make any personal connection to you ever again. Our relationship will remain strictly professional. I shall see you next Monday for our next training session. See that you book Tilly’s appointment into my Magi-scheduler. No need to owl me. I will make time whenever you pencil it in for. Goodnight, Malfoy.”

She swept from the room stiffly, purposefully dropping his handkerchief on the floor before throwing Floo powder into the hearth and disappearing.

He sighed and bent down to pick up his handkerchief before heading out of the training centre in search of some alcohol.

Merlin, this witch was going to send him to an early grave at this rate.

And maybe, just maybe, that was partly his fault.

Chapter Text

Thursday 26 th March 2009

After their next two training sessions, Draco decided it was time to give Granger her first surprise test.

Considering she had the same two weeks off as him, he wondered if she had been practising the skills he was trying to teach her, or if she truly spent all her free time being the saint the papers always made her out to be.

Draco glanced down at her Magi-Scheduler. Her Thursday morning seemed relatively free, apart from the yellow marking at 11am which read ‘meeting with Dr Farnborough – University of Cambridge.’ He glanced up at the clock and hummed contemplatively.

There was certainly no love lost between himself and Granger, the tension each time they were in the same room spoke to that, so disrupting her meeting with this Dr Farnborough was something incredibly appealing to Draco.

He was lost for things to do and in desperate need of entertainment. The past two weeks had been torturously long and he regretted having requested them off in the first place. Setting his own hours granted him the ability to have free time whenever he wanted. Taking two weeks off to train someone he had seen all of eight hours total was fucking ridiculous.

The thought of Granger’s face after being attacked mid meeting was amusing enough to keep him going until he apparated outside of Cambridge’s campus. He didn’t know where she would be but apparently luck was on his side that day, considering the moment he landed he saw a mop of brown bushy hair bustling through the crowds, shoving people out of the way, an apology muttered every time she bumped into someone.

Granger was late, which meant Granger was flustered. This would be the perfect time to attack. He could test both the strength of her Occlumency and her defensive wand skills from the previous two training sessions.

Draco disillusioned himself quickly and followed her through the crowds. They were still in the muggle part of the university, and whilst he didn’t mind toeing the line, he figured exposing magic to the hundreds of muggle students currently on campus and breaking the Statute of Secrecy was probably pushing it a little too far.

They weaved and dodged the hordes of students before Granger slipped down an inconspicuous looking hallway. Draco followed, about to make his move, when Granger pulled out her wand and tapped the bricks on the end wall in a particular pattern.

Just like the entrance to Diagon Alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, the bricks began to move, rotating in on themselves and exposing the entrance to the wizarding side of the University of Cambridge.

Draco stilled as Granger glanced around, ensuring no one was watching as she stepped through the gap in the wall. Once through, the bricks began to shift once more, and Draco had to run in order to make it in time. He had heard of the wizarding sides to muggle universities, but it wasn’t an area which interested him enough to learn the passwords. It wasn’t as if the powers that be would offer him those passwords anyways. These days, the Malfoy name took away more than it gave.

The contrast between muggle and wizarding Cambridge felt akin to the contrast between muggle and magical London. The campus had been extended to fit thousands more students, the layout of the classrooms reminding him of the foreboding layout of the offices at the Ministry, though here they felt much more inviting.

The colours were brighter, more vibrant, and the smells more pungent. Magic crackled through the air and he could feel the pulse of power through his veins. The brightest minds of wizarding Britain stood before him in this oasis, and his senses tingled with excitement at being surrounded by so much knowledge. It was as though someone had brought his library to life and presented it before him in the form of a university, each book transfigured into its very own brainy student.

Draco wandered through what was supposed to be an educational institute, finding himself mesmerised by just how magical it seemed. He presumed, as with any educational institute, it would be the same drab brown bricks, students wearing uniforms carrying heavy books as they scurried off to a class they were inevitably late for.

What he found himself facing, the very thing he wasn’t prepared for, seemed to be the social hub of the wizarding campus.

A wide-open green space, filled with trees, magical plants out in the open, each with a preservation order next to them. He could see the shimmer of wards protecting them. It would appear Cambridge’s herbologists did not like to work in the confines of a greenhouse, instead preferring to make their studies a more exciting and hospitable environment.

Groups of students dressed in puffy white suits with nets covering their faces stood gathered around large boxes. When he peered closer, he saw bees flitting around the honeycomb in their hands. His eyes wandered over the flowers and plants, only now seeing some of the bees pollinating them. Who knew bees could help cultivate magical plants just as much as muggle?

A round building stood at the opposite end of the grass, topped by a glass domed roof. Telescopes sat around the edges of the building as a few (what he assumed to be) professors dressed in formal robes prepared some equations, altering the sizes of the telescopes, presumably for some kind of astronomy event that coming night.  

Near the astronomy building, there were rows upon rows of chess tables. There appeared to be some sort of Wizards’ chess tournament going on, judging by the crowd of stragglers gathered around the occupied tables.

Wizards’ chess had never been a popular sport from what Draco could remember of his days at school. Only the invisible swots played it, and though he knew how to, he rarely ever did so in public. That would be social suicide. He had a vague recollection of Carrot Top being rather good at it, which irritated him to no end. The Weasel’s pride when he played only served to fuel Draco’s hatred for him, so in the end it was Draco who created the stigma around Wizards chess in Hogwarts. He couldn't possibly have other students thinking the Weasel was actually good at something. The horror.

Now it seemed people were no longer ashamed of their favourite hobby, but rather proud enough to play against others in public. And they had actually gathered a crowd — what universe had he stumbled into? He didn’t know if this was a Cambridge only thing, or if times had truly changed that much since his days as a young boy.

Food carts stood at the far right of the space, serving cuisine from countries he hadn’t even heard of himself. Judging by the difference in robe styles, and just how many students appeared to be communicating with the vendors in different languages, this university seemed to be incredibly multicultural. Coming out of a wizarding school like Hogwarts, in which 98% of the student body were white British students, the range of different people here had Draco reeling.

He never had the chance in school to show off his deep appreciation of different cultures and his ability to speak an array of languages. His education prior to Hogwarts was far too sophisticated for any of his peers. If he had the choice to attend a university like this, the possibilities of showing off would have been endless! Though now that he was older, showing off was no longer the most important thing to him. He didn’t feel like he had to compete anymore, but perhaps that was because he no longer had his father watching his every move like a damned eagle owl. Merlin, if his younger self could see him now…

Draco could understand some of the languages he heard as he listened in on conversations he walked past. Two French women were discussing the effects of Belladonna on surrounding plants, and there were a group of Italian students musing about their respective hometowns. One Scandinavian student mistook Draco for one of his own, uttering a greeting in Swedish, to which Draco replied in a very broken rendition of the language.

Though he spoke over six different languages, Swedish was not one of the ones in his arsenal. He could, however, muddle through on his limited knowledge, which was more than he could say for most other Hogwarts alumni. 

Alright, so perhaps he did like to remind others of his superiority every now and then, but a boost to the ego was healthy in today’s economy, considering most people sneered at the mention of his name.

At the centre of this social hub sat a lake, benches framing the outskirts, and floating lanterns of all different colours hanging above. The benches were filled with hundreds of students, reading, writing, talking, laughing. Everyone appeared to be happy and friendly. He remembered just how stressed the atmosphere at Hogwarts was during the second half of the year, as exams and deadlines loomed and time for fun, quidditch, and friends drew to a close. He assumed every school operated in much the same way, but apparently at this university, everyone seemed relaxed at all times, despite it being March and therefore the inevitable exam deadlines were looming in the not-so-distant future.

Draco strolled down the path to the left of the green space, trying to keep one eye on the quickly disappearing head of Granger, and the other on the wonders in front of him.

If only he weren’t a Malfoy.

Perhaps in another life he would have attended a magical university like this one. His thirst for knowledge and impeccable grades certainly made him a perfect candidate for a spot somewhere like this.

If only his hair weren’t stark white, and his eyes didn’t tell stories of the demons which haunted his past.

If only his father hadn’t abused him, and his childhood hadn’t been stolen by a giant lizard-man who believed himself to be superior to everyone else.

In another life, maybe Draco could have been happy somewhere like this.

But this wasn’t another life. This was his life. His sad, sorrowful life, and he had to live it.

He had no time for dreams, they simply took up useless amounts of space in his head. They could never come true so there was no point in even thinking about them. He came here with a purpose and he couldn’t be distracted by silly musings of a life that didn’t belong to him. A life he wouldn’t deserve, even if the option was presented to him.

Suddenly attacking Granger felt less like amusement, and more like a necessity to keep him afloat.

Hex the Golden Girl that got the life he always wanted. Hurt the person who couldn’t appreciate the privilege she had. Wound the girl who, had she just looked at him once, spoke his name with kindness, extended her hand instead of extending her wand, could have changed the course of history for the better…

Draco shook his head to free himself from his thoughts and sped up, ducking through the doorway Granger had disappeared through moments ago.

He flattened himself to the wall as the flustered witch approached an office and raised her hand to knock. Before her knuckles hit the wood, a rope slid from his wand and tied her legs together, causing her to topple over.

Granger gasped and scrambled backwards on the floor, tugging at the rope around her ankles with one hand, and reaching for her wand with the other.

“Who’s there?” Her shaky voice echoed down the stone corridor.

Draco smirked as he removed his disillusionment, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “Boo.”

Granger huffed angrily and glared up at him. “Malfoy? What are you doing here? I have a very important meeting which I am already late for. I don’t have time for your games today.”

He shrugged and continued to smirk smugly down at her. “I did notice that on your Magi-Scheduler but quite frankly, Granger, I do not care. Nor would any ex-Death Eater who decided to jump you. Now get to your feet and duel me.”

She frowned. “Duel you? Are you insane? I’ve already told you I’m very busy—”

“And I have already told you that I do not care. Feet, Granger, whilst I still let you.”

Granger grunted and vanished the ropes around her feet before standing up and readying herself. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Malfoy. I have so much work to get done before I have to take a step back since you’re now in charge of my hours. I honestly don’t even know why I thought you’d give me these two weeks to finish what I needed to. Someone as irritating as you clearly knows no boundaries. I was a fool to believe you’d allow me time to sort my life out before I submit to you.” 

Draco paused. 

Submit to him.

That was…

New. 

And disgusting.

Eugh, why did this witch have to ruin his day every fucking time. 

“Oh for fucks sake, Granger, stop being so dramatic. These two weeks weren’t for you to gallivant around as Mother Teresa. They were for you to train. I did warn you that, as part of your training, I would be performing random checks in which I drop in on you without warning.” Draco waved his hand in front of her face to make his point. “Hello, here I am, dropping in on you, without warning. Now shut up with your whining and show me that you’ve been listening.”

Draco shot a stinging hex at her leg, which she narrowly dodged by jumping out of the way. She didn’t put up a shield in defence and Draco tutted condescendingly at her lack of preparedness.

“Granger, seriously, it’s as though I’ve taught you nothing. Casting a shield is your main priority! Now let’s duel.”

“Duel? How am I supposed to duel you when all you’ve taught me in our two — let me say that again, TWO — sessions, is defensive spells and strategies. I cannot duel you if you haven’t taught me how to— OUCH, MALFOY!”

Draco smirked as he hit her with a stinging hex to the chest. “You know for someone with an Order of Merlin, you really are terrible in battle.”

Granger’s face turned red with rage as she ground her teeth, seemingly trying to stop herself from attacking him.

Well, that just wouldn’t do. How could he consciously hex her if she wasn’t going to fire back? There was nothing else for it, he would just have to goad her into fighting.

“That’s it, Granger, get angry. Get mad. You’re supposed to be hitting me back. Use what I’ve taught you so far and apply it to your old combat… training … if you can call it that. You still remember offensive spells from the war, don’t you?”

She flinched at his mention of the war. Evidently she hadn’t buried it as deep as he initially presumed. “Yes, I remember them but—” She jumped to avoid another stinging hex before continuing, “BUT I have been out of practise.”

Draco lazily twirled his wand around his fingers before firing another few stinging hexes her way. “Out of practise is no excuse, Granger, considering these last two weeks were allocated for you to be doing precisely that.”

“As I have already explained,” she fumed, finally casting a shield around herself, “I have been busy!”

Draco hummed boredly and began to circle her, casting hexes at random intervals. “Right, yes, busy . Do you know what I haven’t seen you busy doing, Granger? Training . I check my training centre every day, only to be thoroughly disappointed to find you are not there, practising the things I have taught you.

Whilst no, I do not wish to see your face every day, and a large part of me feels relieved not to have to put up with your fiery temper and goody-girl-holier-than-thou act, an even bigger part of me is furious that by not seeing you there, you are, in fact, confirming my worst fears that you do not care enough about my life — or your own for that matter — to take the initiative and practise. Tell me, Granger, how do you expect to get any better if you do not train consistently? Or is this just a side effect of being known as ‘the smart one’ for so many years. You think because you haven’t had to prove your skills before, you don’t have to work to do it now? That since you have such a big brain, you can read books on combat and that’s enough, without any practical application?

Do you know what makes me such a good duellist Granger? I am not naïve enough to believe that one without the other is enough. My father was naïve to think training without books would make him smarter than others in battle. He failed to realise reading about battle techniques was the precise weapon I needed to surpass his skill level and understand his fighting patterns. He didn’t stand a chance. So tell me, Granger, how do you propose to beat me if you choose one over the other?

No one has ever challenged you before, Granger. No one questions your knowledge because you are the Brightest Witch of Her Age. It would be an insult to question you. You got comfortable in the knowledge that you would never be tested. Well, Granger, the time for being comfortable is up. So you either step up and do as I say, or you fail my test and lose your title as smartest in the world. Are you up for that challenge?”

Draco could see the cogs turning in her head. Watched as the emotions she struggled to sort through warred behind her eyes. She was angry, and sad, excited by the prospect of a challenge, but scared of losing everything she was. What would happen if the great Hermione Granger was bested by the likes of an ex-Death Eater like Draco Malfoy? Who would she be without her smartness? What singular trait would define her identity?

Granger straightened her spine and stood in a defensive stance. Finally, the lioness was fighting back.

Draco cracked his neck before getting into position himself. “Any ex-Death Eaters we encounter won’t wait for you to be ready like I just did. They won’t grant you any mercies. They will attack to kill the moment they spot you. So, you need to get over your existential crisis before the battle begins. One of the greatest weapons, which Death Eaters failed to understand, is the power of the mind. If you believe you will lose, you have already lost. When you fight, you cannot be distracted by silly, insubstantial musings. You cannot have an identity crisis mid battle. Ensuring no one can read your mind with Legilimency is not the only reason I’m testing your Occlumency, Granger. I need to ensure that you will be able to lock any and all irrelevant thoughts and emotions away at a moment's notice, should the need arise. A clear-headed opponent is a lethal opponent. Don’t let them be the smartest on the field.”

He shot a few stinging hexes her way and she shielded them all before firing back an Expelliarmus.

Draco frowned as he easily deflected her spell with a flick of his wrist. “Really, Granger? Expelliarmus is the best you can do against an ex-Death Eater? Merlin, I really have my work cut out for me when we start offensive training.”

“Expelliarmus is an excellent duelling spell, because if you render your opponent wandless, they have no weapons at their disposal,” she said, her head high in the sky as though she held all the answers to the universe.

It didn’t take long for Draco to shatter that mighty perception of herself. “That is where you’re wrong, Granger. If you disarm a Death Eater, they will attack you with any melee weapons they own. If they have no physical weapons, they will use their own body. Tell me Granger, when was the last time you did a proper workout? Judging by your size, I would wager it’s been a while. Who do you think is going to win in hand-to-hand combat: you or a giant brute like Greyback, Rookwood, or Dolohov?”

Granger huffed indignantly whilst jumping out of the way to dodge yet another stinging hex.

It was a good thing this hallway seemed to be deserted. Getting caught attacking Britain’s favourite witch wouldn’t look good on his record.

“I’ll have you know, I do work out. Twice a week actually.”

Draco raised his eyebrows at that as he looked her up and down. “Twice a week? What does this workout consist of, sitting on the floor and reaching for chocolates?”

Granger sniffed and looked away, her voice turning small and unsure. “I do yoga.”

He frowned. “You do what?”

She whirled around to face him, ready to tell him off once more. “Yoga! It is a muggle form of workout and it is actually very difficult, you have to engage your core and use your abs all the time, and I’ll bet you couldn’t get into some of the positions I do if you tried.”

Draco smirked. “Trust me, Granger, I have no issues getting into any positions.”

Her face flushed bright red and he studied her intensely as she avoided his eye at his insinuation.

Draco continued lazily firing stinging hexes at her as he spoke, granting her a small mercy by turning the conversation away from his abilities, and back to hers. “Your best bet in battle is wand combat, Granger. You’re smart, you have an incredibly large memory retention, which is great for knowing a wide array of spells. That is your greatest weapon, Granger. Do not disarm your opponent when you know for a fact if they got their hands on you, they’d snap your neck sooner than you could jump out of the way. Chances are, you know more obscure spells than them and therefore can catch them off guard. Don’t let them get the upper hand.”

Granger finally seemed to be listening to what he had to say, if her nodding was any indication. “Alright. Don’t disarm. Use my wand against theirs to keep the upper hand. Don’t let them get too close.”

He continued to test her reflexes and defensive skills, more times than not landing a stinging hex somewhere on her body. It wasn’t until he hit one square on her arse that she truly went “full on Granger,” her tongue stuck out, her brows furrowed in frustration, her cheeks red from the words of outrage she struggled to bite back.

Now was the perfect time to test that Occlumency of hers.

Draco flung another hex at her carelessly over his shoulder before driving into her mind.

Granger gasped dramatically, and Draco heard a thud, which was probably the sound of her body hitting the floor from the sheer force of his intrusion.

When he had pushed through the piercing noise and blinding light, he landed on his feet in the room with the big machine. Granger appeared to be doubled over in front of it, and the skreen was already on.

This was an improvement.

Draco rolled his eyes at her dramatics and walked up to the machine. “This is lesson number three of the day — never let your defences down. Death Eaters are inherently underhanded. If they have bothered to learn Legilimency, they know their best bet in finding out information is to catch their opponent off guard. The prime time for that is during a battle. You cannot let your Occlumency slip, even when your focus is drawn elsewhere. If you cannot fire spells and defend your mind at the same time, you’re as useless as a chocolate teapot and I may as well start getting my lawyers to find a way out of our contract now.”

Granger grunted and gurgled from the floor but couldn’t seem to form any coherent words or thoughts.

Draco huffed and stepped over her to begin pressing random buttons. Nothing happened for a moment but then, the skreen began to turn grey, little flickers of an image showing behind hundreds of colourful dots and lines. The audio was cut out by the same deafening sound he heard every time he entered her head, but that didn’t matter, because there in her moment of vulnerability, Draco saw exactly what he needed to see.

A flaw.

Draco grinned triumphantly and tore himself from her mind, before hitting her with another stinging hex, which knocked her now frail form to the ground. He stormed up to her, about to rub it in her smug Gryffinprick face, when he was stopped by the presence of blood running from her nose.

“Granger…” he said tentatively.

Oh fuck, maybe he had taken it too far.

Granger reached up to wipe her nose and stared down at the blood accumulated on her fingers.

For a long moment neither of them said anything.

Of course, Draco hadn’t actually intended to truly hurt her. Yes, this was training, but he knew if he did any severe damage, he would be castrated by Tonks. And that would be the least of his worries, considering the entire country would queue up to murder the man that dared to make the country’s sweetheart bleed.

Perhaps he didn’t know his own strength. The stinging hexes weren’t enough to cause damage like that, but the strength of his Legilimency had been known to break people before. Maybe the combination of the two was too much for the witch laying at his feet.

But she wasn’t just any witch. She was Hermione fucking Granger. She was a war heroine. She had been tortured in the damned war by his own flesh and blood. Surely she was tougher than this, right? Surely, a little bit of Legilimency wasn’t enough to harm the almighty Golden Girl.

A disgruntled sound broke him out of his thoughts as his eyes focused on the witch below him once more. The dazed expression on her face had been replaced by something far darker.

The lioness was ready to show her claws, it seemed.

Draco stood back and resumed his duelling stance. “Get up, Granger. No time for breaks.”

She huffed and got to her feet, vanishing the blood from her face with a swift flick of her wand before shooting off a deep purple curse, one he didn’t recognise, but knew was something the Order would not have approved of her using all those years ago.

“Fine, Malfoy . You want a real duel? Let’s have a real duel.”

Ah, so she was ready to get dark. If that was what she wanted, darkness was his specialty.

Draco switched from stinging hexes to a flaying curse. One of his own inventions again. It combined that nasty little Sectumsempra he was once caught off guard by with a targeting charm. The curse, when cast correctly, would target a specific area of the body. Wherever it landed, it would burrow deep, and for a radius of five centimetres, it would flay the skin layer by layer, before moving into the muscle, and eventually the bone. The hole it created was big enough to be painful, but small enough that it wouldn’t kill for a long time. It was a rather effective torture method and made for much more thrilling executions.

The spectacle was everything Voldemort wanted. He was more concerned with how inventive the death was than the actual loss of life itself. To make an example out of people by a simple Avada Kedavra removed the fear, which truly was the entire point, wasn’t it? Fear makes people follow. Obey. If his followers thought they would be granted a merciful death by a swift curse to the chest, they wouldn’t do all the  unreasonable things he asked them to. If they feared that parts of their body would decay layer by layer as they remained conscious and alive? Now that was an incentive to perform even the deadliest of deeds.

Draco sharpened his aim and they duelled for a further thirty minutes. He landed precisely three of his curses on her skin, two on her legs and one on her arm. He wasn’t aiming for anywhere vital, lest he accidentally murder the Golden Girl in broad fucking daylight. He was bold but he wasn’t an idiot. But, Merlin, did it feel good to see her skin start to decay before his eyes.

It wasn’t until a very frustrated looking man in a lab coat exited the door Granger had almost knocked on an hour ago that they actually stopped.

It would appear, without the adrenaline of battle coursing through her veins, the reality of his curses hit her as she let out a wail of pain.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!” she screamed, as she stared at the little holes forming on her skin.

Draco shrugged and twirled his wand between his fingers. “You’re a healer. Figure it out.”

She hissed as she began casting spells over her wounds. “I haven’t seen anything like this since—”

She stopped herself from speaking her next words, but he knew what her silence said. Since the war. She hadn’t seen injuries like that since the war.

Granger could barely even bring herself to speak about that period of time, but Draco couldn’t fathom exactly what it was about it that troubled her so deeply. He knew the war had been tough on everyone, of course it had, it was a fucking war, but what exact demons haunted Granger so profoundly that she could barely get her mouth around the words.

She was on the right side. She had the privilege of spending her days with her best friends, and it seemed that all they did in that last year before the Battle of Hogwarts was frolic around the UK, camping in sites the snatchers were always too late to get to.

If anyone had any right to be traumatised by the words, it was him. War had been a cake walk for Granger and the golden trio. They didn’t even know the true meaning of demons.

The voice of the man who he presumed to be Dr Farnborough cut through his thoughts. “What exactly is happening here? Miss Granger, do you need me to call campus security?”

Granger huffed and leaned against the wall, still attempting to heal her wounds. “No, no I’m fine. This was just a… training exercise. My partner here just gets a little too invested.”

Dr Farnborough didn’t look convinced but nodded anyway, before disappearing back into his office, leaving the door open for Granger to follow.

Before she disappeared, she turned to face him, having finally sealed the wounds. “Make me late for a meeting again and decaying flesh will be the least of your worries.”

Without another word, she pushed her hair over her shoulder, held her nose high in the sky and flounced off into Dr Farnborough’s office, slamming the door behind her.

And they call Draco stuck-up.

Granger seriously needed to get her priorities straight. He had hit her with a flaying curse which decayed her skin before her eyes and the thing that irritated her most was the fact she was late for a fucking meeting.

Clearly the Gryffinprick swot hadn’t changed all that much from her days at school. He could remember almost every time her idiot friends did anything, she would practically turn feral in reprimanding them, reminding them that “death was not nearly as terrible as expulsion from the finest institute for wizarding education in the whole of Britain!”

He had thought she was dramatic then, but brushed it aside as childish behaviour. Clearly dramatics was something ingrained in her blood.

Perhaps it was a curly haired brunette thing. Was there some kind of club for them all?

Theo would have a run for his money against Granger’s theatrics.

As he began to walk away, his brain couldn’t help but analyse their duel.

Merlin’s saggy left bollock. He hadn’t meant to get that invested in the fight, but Granger’s face alone was enough to piss him off. How in the fuck was he supposed to keep training her like this if he couldn’t control his murderous urges?

Though he tried to convince himself otherwise, he knew he would have hit her more with that spell had he been given the opportunity. He knew he would have targeted it at her heart had that poncy man not strutted out of his office as though Draco had kicked his pet puffskein. Had he hit her in the chest, the hole would have burrowed deep enough to puncture the organ before she even noticed it was there.

The thought of doing that thrilled him.

He hadn’t had any issues with controlling these urges before she came along. Since Azkaban, his violent persona had sat dormant, and he was more than capable of controlling himself.

What was it about this infuriating witch that forced the darkness out of him?

Draco huffed and stormed away from the magical campus, a new list of reasons to dislike Hermione Granger forming in his head as he walked.

Fucking Granger .

Chapter Text

Monday 30th March 2009

Walking into the Auror offices after two weeks off felt weird.

Weirder still was all the eyes burning a hole into the back of Draco’s head.

Draco was no stranger to negative attention, but he was sure he hadn’t done anything to warrant it this time.

He stopped in front of his cubicle only to find it already occupied, and by a child no less.

Draco cleared his throat. “What are you doing in my seat?”

The timid teen jumped at Draco’s gruff tone and swivelled around. “I-I’m sorry? I was… this is… Miss Tonks said…”

“Ah, Malfoy.” As if on cue, Tonks appeared from her office. “I see you’ve met our new recruit.”

“New recruit? He looks about 12.”

Tonks nodded, covering her smirk with the paperwork in her hands. She gestured with her free arm for him to follow her and began to lead the way through the cubicles. Draco frowned in confusion before falling into step next to her.

“He’s not quite 12, but you’re not far off. Fresh out of Hogwarts. Barely 18, the poor kid.”

Draco’s eyebrows raised. “18? Merlin, does that mean you’ve lowered the age limit again?”

“Me? No. Kingsley, however, believes there is no need for the two-year training requirement because obviously we have enough staff and resources and funding to train them on the job. That’s not at all dangerous to both them and my more experienced Aurors.”

“So similar to what I’ve been forced into then.”

Tonks gave him a sidelong glance. “Hermione is not freshly out of Hogwarts and has years of battle experience. But yes, I do see your point. And I would like to remind you that it was not my choice.”

“Hmm. I seem to have gathered that. I wasn’t aware the Minister had this much power or was that invested in our department.”

“After the fall of Voldemort the public lost faith in the Ministry. The Minister position almost became eradicated completely. But then Kingsley stepped in, hero leader of the Order, and the public seemed to turn a blind eye to it because of his self-proclaimed narrative that he was, in fact, the reason the war ended so soon. Since then, Kingsley has been gradually allowing himself more and more power, in minimal doses so the Wizengamot and public are none the wiser. As for his sudden increased interest in our department, that’s a mystery I haven’t quite cracked yet. I may not agree with his decisions, but I have to give the man credit. He is one smart cookie.”

Tonks stopped abruptly in front of a door and tapped the sign. Draco’s eyes slid up to see his name and new title, ‘Head of Death Eater Division’, on a gold plaque.

He paused, not quite believing it. He was sure this had to be another one of Kingsley’s tricks.

Tonks grinned. “Don’t worry. Kingsley had nothing to do with this. This was my stipulation for your job offer. A personal office with an adjoining meeting room. I figured you could use the privacy due to the nature of your cases.”

Draco grinned smugly. “And Granger?”

Tonks smirked. “You didn’t really think I’d give you an office and not her.”

He rolled his eyes but figured he would still take the win.

“I’ll leave you to explore and organise your office in your own way. I know how OCD you are about your things. Anything that was left in your cubicle has been put in a box just inside.”

Draco stared at the door a moment longer before turning to Tonks once more. “Tonks I…”

Tonks eyed him suspiciously and he caught himself. He did not get sentimental with anyone. Especially not his boss.

What the fuck was wrong with him?!

This had never happened before.

He slammed his walls into place once more and held out a stiff hand.

Tonks seemed to relax, only after a brief pause to most likely analyse his momentary lapse, before taking his hand in a firm shake. She nodded before disappearing back towards her office.

Draco cleared his throat, opting to analyse that uncomfortable interaction later, before opening the large oak door.

The office was spacious and classy. Black marble flooring was topped with the occasional Slytherin green rug. Scarhead’s hilarious input, if he had to hazard a guess. A black leather sofa sat in front of an ornate fireplace. Floor to ceiling windows, charmed to look like whatever the viewer wishes to see, stood behind the main feature of his room — the large oak desk with accompanying black leather chair.

Large double doors led into a meeting room, decorated in the same way as Tonks’, minus the sage green walls. His walls were a classic dark wood with black accents.

He breathed in the scent of fresh wood and freedom before walking over to his Floo and calling the Manor. He knew Tilly would be upset with him if he didn’t allow her to put her finishing touches on the space. Luckily, the Floo was already connected to his house.

Clever that Tonks was.

Tilly’s little head popped into view through the fireplace. “Master Draco! Tilly is not expecting yous!”

“Ah, yes, sorry about that, Tilly. I actually have a project for you.”

Tilly’s eyes lit up. “A project, sir?”

Draco smiled. “Yes, a project. Please gather whatever you need and join me in my new office as soon as you can.”

Tilly gasped and clasped her hands over her mouth. “New office? Is Tilly to be decorating Master Draco’s work office?”

He chuckled, endeared by her excitable response. “Yes. I’ll see you soon.”

The call ended with a high-pitched squeal from Tilly’s end.

Before he could turn away, his Floo turned green once more. He chuckled fondly. “Did you forget something Till— Granger?!”

His eyes widened as his lips curled in disgust.

Who the fuck connected his Floo to Granger—

Tonks. Brilliant.

Granger frowned as she stepped out and dusted off her… were those muggle jeans?

“You seem surprised to see me. I’m guessing Tonks didn’t tell you our Floo’s are connected?”

“It would seem she left that part out.”

She folded her arms and looked him up and down, analysing him as though he were the one intruding on her otherwise peaceful day. “Hmm. Then I suppose she also didn’t tell you my home Floo is connected to your office too?”

“Your home Floo? Why would you ever need your home Floo connected to my office?”

“Considering we will be working odd hours, dependent on what you want, sometimes I may be busy elsewhere, so it would be easier for me to Floo straight from home to here if needed.”

“Right. Because Flooing to your own office and then walking here would be far too difficult for you. Would you like me to roll out a red carpet next time you arrive? And what in Merlin’s name are you wearing?”

Granger shrugged and ignored his jab. “I threw my old mediwitch uniform out when I started my sabbatical. This was all I had. Robes would get in the way too much. Muggle clothing is far comfier.”

“And you think jeans are suitable wear for missions?”

“I fought in the Battle of Hogwarts in jeans, so yes, thank you very much, I do think they are suitable.” She stuck her chin in the air and walked further into his office.

Draco sighed a long sigh and rubbed his hand over his face. “Well, you can’t wear jeans any longer. I’ll ask Tilly to pick you up some suitable combat clothing.”

She frowned, not fond of this idea. “I am already wearing suitable combat clothing—”

“You are my subordinate and therefore you will wear whatever the fuck I tell you to, without argument!” Draco snapped.

Granger sniffed and looked down at her nails to steady herself, though the uptick in her breathing gave away the rage that simmered barely below the surface. She schooled her features into looking as nonchalant as possible, though Draco knew she was anything but.

“I am a healer first, duellist second, don’t forget. I don’t want anything I cannot move or breathe in.”

“Salazar’s beard, Granger, what do you think of me?”

“I saw the female Death Eater uniforms. Corsets and heels for Merlin’s sake! I will not be subjected to such forms of torture. I already have to work with you, that is torture enough.” She pierced him with accusing eyes, as though he had any say in the Dark Lord’s demands.

Draco shot her a withering glare before walking over to his desk and slumping down in his chair.

Granger took it upon herself to sit in one of the seats opposite him, leaning back and crossing her legs.

“By all means Granger, please do make yourself comfortable,” he drawled, using his hand to gesture at her lazy posture.

She smiled sweetly. “I will, thank you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m offended that you think so little of me as to assume I would force you into the same uniform as my aunt.”

Her body stiffened at the mention of Aunt Bella.

Shite.

One of the most haunting nightmares he had, and he forgot that the woman it happened to was sat right in front of him. And he spoke about her assailant right in front of her.

Sweet Circe there really was no hope for this working relationship.

Good job he didn’t give a shit about her, else he truly would feel bad…

Before he could shove his foot any further into his mouth, Tilly appeared by the sofa with a soft pop.

Thank Merlin for his wonderful little house-elf.

Draco stood to greet the tiny elf, who could barely be seen behind the hundreds of fabrics, cushions and vision boards in her hands. He took most of the things from her and walked her over to his desk.

“Do whatever you like with the space, Tilly. I trust your taste.”

Tilly grinned as she dropped her things in a pile and began to survey the room.

She let out a soft yelp as she noticed Granger sitting there. “Oh, Miss Granger! Tilly is not expectings you!”

Granger smiled and stood, holding out her hand. “Hi Tilly. How are the new vision boards for my kitchen coming along?”

Draco had done as Granger had demanded, if only to placate Tilly, and arranged a meeting for them the Thursday before last. He was not in attendance, as requested.

According to Tilly, the meeting had been a raving success, in which Granger had somehow been coaxed into letting Tilly redesign her entire home. She had returned to the Manor late in the evening with a half-eaten box of cookies under one arm and three diaries full of notes from a Quick-Quotes Quill in the other.

Apparently, Granger was paying her in sweet treats. She had offered money, but Tilly had declined, never having been interested in money when she found her enjoyment in her craft far more gratifying. Granger being Granger, however, would not allow Tilly to work for free, so they settled on a compromise. One box of cookies per day.

So far, Tilly had returned home with three boxes of cookies.

Draco had no idea they had been meeting so frequently, but Granger had apparently given Tilly a copy of her Magi-Scheduler so Draco wouldn’t need to be used as a middleman.

Tilly merely used a handprint in the space in which she wanted to see Granger, seeing as she had never been taught how to write.

Draco cut in, much to Tilly’s annoyance, by clearing his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but Miss Granger and I have much work to discuss, and you are here to do a job, Tilly.”

Tilly glared at Draco, a look shared by Granger also.

He smirked and held up his hands. “Alright, alright, no need to get murderous. Tilly, you can arrange a meeting with Miss Granger on your own time. Right now I need you to add some finishing touches to my office. Oh, and please pick up Miss Granger some suitable work attire. Something not too restrictive so she can perform her duties, but not as casual as… jeans.”

Tilly frowned but reluctantly nodded.

Draco sighed and turned to Granger. “Tonks hasn’t supplied me with our first mission yet, so I have no use for you for now. Perhaps you could accompany Tilly in shopping for your new uniform so you cannot complain when you inevitably hate whatever I have agreed to.”

Granger opened her mouth to argue but was caught off guard by Tilly’s excited gasp.

“Oh Tilly would love to be bringing Miss Granger shopping!”

Granger glanced at the small elf and Draco knew her bleeding heart would never be able to resist. He smirked as Granger nodded before holding out her hand to Tilly.

Before they disappeared with a soft crack, she shot him a look which said, ‘you owe me’. He simply chuckled and waved them off.

Granger didn’t strike him as the sort who liked to go clothes shopping.

Tilly, however, loved to go clothes shopping.

He smirked to himself as he began to unpack his belongings from his old cubicle. Granger’s face was priceless.

Today was going to be a good day.

Granger didn’t return until past lunch, by which point Tonks had already dropped off their first mission brief and Draco had sorted through all of the paperwork and begun to formulate a plan to gather further intel.

Their first job appeared rather simple. They were to investigate the increasingly suspicious actions of Jugson — i.e. find him doing something that warrants his arrest and get him detained as soon as possible.

While the Death Eaters posed no threat in the sense of world domination, they were still clinging to their criminal pasts, unwilling to let go of their prejudices against the Ministry and wizarding world as a whole. They had become accustomed to a certain way of life during the year-long reign of Voldemort, and they had no intentions of giving it up, even almost ten years after his death.

Despite knowing they had been reduced to low level criminals now, the Ministry still seemed to be anxious with the amount of Death Eaters roaming free, hence the sudden creation of Draco’s new post.

For some reason, the Ministry, or perhaps the Minister himself, given his sudden investment in the Auror department, saw Jugson as a threat, which meant Draco would need to look for what the files weren’t saying. Legally, all they had against him was that he used to be a Death Eater and had evaded Azkaban by being in hiding for the past decade. Unofficially, from what Draco could gather by reading between the lines, Jugson had been flagged on their radar for doing something suspicious, but without any hard evidence, legally they could not file a report. It was Draco’s job to now find that hard evidence in order to make a case.

Granger stepped through his Floo with an exasperated huff.

Draco barely noticed her arrival, too engrossed in the case file in front of him.

“If you ever try to get rid of me by sending me off for a shopping trip again, I swear to Merlin, I will hex your balls clean off!”

He smirked, ready to return her frustration with a witty quip. “My my, Granger, I wasn’t aware you—” as his eyes slid up to her form, now dressed in her new uniform, his words died on his tongue, his throat suddenly becoming dry.

His eyes surveyed her from head to toe, taking in her black fitted trousers, accentuating every dip and curve, the ends of which tucked into her thigh high dragon hide boots. He stared at her small fingers as they untied the ribbon holding together her black capelet which had pockets sewn in serving as both her wand holster and potions storage, each with undetectable extension charms and, knowing Granger, feather-light charms to ensure she could carry all of the medical supplies she needed without being restricted in movement or speed.

As the capelet fell away, it revealed the black dragon hide V-neck jacket, accentuating her chest beautifully and hinting at the black lacy bralette underneath. Her hair was tied neatly off her face in two plaits wrapped into a bun at the base of her skull, a black ribbon weaved throughout her curly locks. Of course, even a hairstyle as neat as this couldn’t fully tame Granger’s mane, a few loose curls breaking free to frame her dainty face. Curls that Draco had to physically clench his hand to stop his fingers from reaching out to touch.

Being a Malfoy, he thought the colour black was made for him. Paired with his white-blonde hair and severe angular features, the stark contrast made him even more striking. He wore the colour every day as though it was a part of him, part of his armour, part of his defences.

That was until he saw Granger in all black, and suddenly it felt wrong to see anyone else in it. As though it should be illegal for any other person to dare to don the colour black.

He thought black was his, but now it belonged solely to her.

He tried desperately to make this mouth move once more, to stop staring at her like a fucking idiot, but nothing worked.

Luckily, Granger was too lost in her frustrated rant to notice his eyes piercing through her.

It wasn’t until Tilly appeared with a crack that he finally tore his eyes away, reaching for the glass of water on his desk in hopes it would help him to discover his larynx once more.

Thank Merlin for Tilly, at least Granger didn’t—

As the thought crossed his mind, it halted almost as quickly as it formed.

Granger was looking at him.

No.

Not looking.

Studying.

Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes slightly narrowed, her brows knitted together as she tried to riddle him out. There was only one reason she would be studying him so intensely right now…

Fuck. She did catch him staring.

But why wouldn’t she say anything?

And why the fuck was he even staring in the first place?!

No. No. Far too many conflicting emotions for him right now.

Draco looked away, took another sip of water, then closed his eyes. He stored this entire interaction away for analysis later, before slamming his walls in place once again.

Since when was it this bloody easy for his Occlumency to slip?

When he looked back, Granger was still watching him, but something in his eyes must have startled her, as the moment they locked eyes again, she jumped and looked away.

Tilly interrupted his thoughts with a delicate cough. “Master Draco, Tilly is needings you to leave so Tilly can start decorating.”

Granger snorted into her bags.

Draco’s eyes hardened on her. “Something funny, Granger?”

She bit back her smile and shook her head. “No, nothing. We can move to my office if you’d like to run me through the plan for our first mission?”

“How did you know we have a—”

“I’m not an idiot, Malfoy. Your head has been buried in that paperwork since I returned. I know Tonks dropped off our mission folder whilst I was gone. Now, do you want to figure it out in my office or shall we go out into the cubicles and shout aloud all of the confidential information in that folder?” She stood up tall and folded her arms, cocking one hip out to the side — which Draco most certainly did not look at.

He huffed and ran a hand over his face but before he could respond, Tilly had levitated the folder into his hands and was shooing him —- literally fucking SHOOING HIM!!! —- from his office. He turned to glare at the small elf over his shoulder, who sweetly smiled and waved before snapping her fingers, causing the door to slam in his face.

Draco opened and closed his mouth a few times but eventually relented and began to follow Granger, who had already marched off in the opposite direction, towards her office.

Draco had tried to focus. He really had.

But every time Granger leaned forwards over her large meeting table to point at the files spread out in front of him, he would catch a whiff of her perfume or accidentally steal a glance down her top.

Sweet Salazar, someone was testing his self-restraint today.

By the time the meeting ended, Draco wasn’t entirely sure exactly what he had agreed to, the plan for their reconnaissance mission ready for the moment they got enough intel foggy in his mind at best. He would have to sort that out later with a focused meditation session.

When he returned to his office, Tilly had just finished her redecorating mission.

He walked into the smell of old books and leather and was finally snapped out of his daze and back to the present. He smiled softly at the small elf, who was standing precariously on a step ladder adding the finishing touches to the ivy wreath which now wrapped around the top of his mantel. He glanced around his office feeling comforted by Tilly’s additions: a few silk cushions from home and the standard picture frames which held looping images of the photos Pansy had forced him into posing for with the rest of his friends.

It was the perfect balance of personal and professional.

Draco hated to expose any part of his life to the outside world, preferring to keep his personal life much the same as he kept himself — inside.

Tilly, however, understood the need to make Draco seem a little more… human. If he appeared too clinical, his subordinates would fear him too much, and never listen to his orders, assuming he had no care as to whether they lived or died.

Of course, that was mostly true. But he couldn’t let them think that. They would never take orders from him if they assumed each mission would be their last.

Anything too personal made Draco himself uncomfortable but more so than that, people would never take him seriously.

Tilly had always found the perfect balance of personal and professional in her designs, dependent on the individual she was designing for. That’s what made her so good at it. And she hadn’t failed to do so this time either.

The main event of his office were now the windows, which Tilly had charmed to look out onto the Malfoy Manor library. His sanctuary.

Usually, he would find this too personal, but as Tilly watched his eyes fall on the rows of books, she explained how only he could see into his library. Anyone who entered his office who he felt should not have access to that sight, which was determined subconsciously by him, would see something different. Tilly left that choice up to him. He settled on the depths of the Black Lake, the same view the Slytherin common room looked out onto.

Two could play that game, Scarhead.

After surveying the room and spending almost an hour convincing Tilly her work was done and that she could actually go home, Draco spent the rest of the workday trying to battle the confusing emotions attempting to overwhelm him as he buried himself in paperwork, catching up on all he had missed from his two weeks off.

By the time he stepped through the Floo to the Malfoy Manor library, Draco was exhausted.

All he wanted to do was to have a long bath, a warm dinner, and an early night.

Unfortunately, something much more pressing demanded Draco’s attention, forcing its way through his carefully cultivated walls and threatening to tear apart that library in his mind.

He removed his leather wand holster, throwing it onto his desk before finding that hidden cabinet, grabbing a bottle of firewhiskey and slumping down in his desk chair. He poured himself two fingers, which he immediately downed in one gulp, before pouring himself two more fingers and setting the crystal glass on the table. After taking a deep breath, he relaxed back, closing his eyes and opening his mind the way he used to for so many years.

Immediately, the memories of Granger in her new work uniform came hurtling towards him, threatening to knock him over.

He took another breath and focussed harder. He would not let Granger be his undoing. He was going to analyse this. There would be a reason it gave him such pause. He just had to figure it out. He examined the memory over and over again, watching the way Granger moved with new confidence in that outfit, a confidence he wasn’t sure she was aware of. He watched the later memories of him smelling her perfume, stealing glances at her instead of focussing on their strategy meeting. He broke down every thought and feeling that seeing Granger dressed that way had elicited, and allowed those feelings to consume him so he could better understand them.

After almost two hours of breaking it all down, Draco had come to a conclusion which both satisfied his logical mind and stilled his confusing emotions. He had it broken down into 3 parts:

Number 1 — Objectively, yes. Granger was a rather attractive woman. Where she had once been a scrawny child whose hair was too big and ego even bigger, Granger had now grown into both her hair and personality, which made her objectively attractive to most any man.

Her curves were something many women could only hope to achieve, therefore by the standards of many modern witches, Granger was a beautiful curvy woman.

Number 2 — Draco was a man with natural urges and instincts. Of course, an objectively attractive woman, by both the standards of men and women alike, wearing an outfit which accentuated the figure Granger so often hid would make him feel a certain way.

It was more a moment of shock which caused his words to falter and throat to run dry than any actual attraction towards Granger herself.

Number 3 — Draco had not been laid in a long time. His apparent obsession with Granger’s scent was a biological response to the pheromones in Granger’s new perfume — which he had finally been able to pinpoint the scent of after thorough analysis, discovering it was a floral perfume with a drop of a pheromone potion the expensive perfume shop often incorporated into its blends. Tilly must have bullied her into purchasing such an extravagant bottle without telling her what was in it. He would have to do the honours to ensure Granger didn’t start to attract the wrong sort.

Not that it would bother him if Granger was with other men, he would just hate for her to feel crowded by men obsessed with her scent without knowing why.

Therefore, Draco’s momentary lapse in judgement and brain function was born from a combination of all of the above factors, making a typically mediocre woman like Granger appear suddenly attractive enough to distract him from the more important matters he should have been focussing on.

With that conclusion firmly planted in his mind, coupled with the relief of being able to extract the information he had missed during their meeting by watching the scene on repeat for so long, Draco finally opened his eyes to find he only had ten minutes left before Granger would arrive for their Monday evening training session.

Perfect. An excellent time to prove his conclusion further by seeing Granger and not feeling any of those pesky emotions again.

With a deep breath, he cleaned his inner bookshelves, rebuilt his walls, strapped on his leather wand holster and headed for the training centre, feeling rather confident.

That was until Granger stepped out of the Floo in that bloody dragonhide uniform again and his mind went blank.

What was he supposed to be telling himself?

Fuck.

FUCK!

Draco wracked his brains for his sensible conclusions, trying to run himself through them once more, but they felt shaky now.

There was only one thing for it.

One way to remind himself that Granger was still… well… Granger.

He straightened up and marched over to her, schooling his features before greeting her with his usual drawl. “Granger. I’d say it’s nice to see you, but having heard your shrill voice all day, I fear it’s the opposite.”

She sighed, folding her arms. She wasn’t taking the bait. “Malfoy, do you ever give it a rest?”

That was fine. Draco had a particular affinity for finding exactly which buttons he needed to push to get people to crack. Granger was no exception to this.

He straightened and peered down his nose at her in that same condescending manner he typically reserved for Carrot Top. “Do you ever stop trying to prove you’re the smartest in any room? Rather arrogant for a girl who gives up her weekends to help the less fortunate.”

The slight tick of her jaw notified Draco that he was finding the cracks in her armour.

Excellent.

Before she even had the chance to respond, Draco ploughed on. “Ah, that’s right, it’s good for the Golden Girl’s image to help those less fortunate. Tell me Granger, is that why you’re friends with Scarhead and his pet Weasel?”

A twitch at the corner of her eye. He was getting to her. Time to drive the final nail into the coffin.

He leaned in closer. “Is that why you take care of Scarhead’s poor little offspring? I’m sure the papers love to see the Golden Girl help runts in need, considering she’s never been able to secure a man long enough to have kids of her own. Is that why you’re wearing pheromone perfume? Need to use magic in order to secure a man?”

Sure, bringing up Potter’s offspring was a low blow, but he knew he had to get to her, and nothing means more to a bleeding heart like Granger’s than friends and children. Combine the two and you have a deadly concoction, sure to make anyone blow. Add in a sprinkle of a reminder of her own mortality, and the only area she has ever failed in, and to a perfectionist like Granger, you have a lethal dose.

She seemed to falter when he mentioned her inability to secure a man, but for what reason, he didn’t know. He didn’t have long enough to analyse it before her chin jutted up in defiance, that typical rebelliousness burning behind her honey eyes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean about my perfume, Tilly showed it to me today and I… Tilly…” She paused, lost in thought for a moment.

Draco watched as the pieces clicked into place and she set her jaw once more, most likely resolving to never wear said perfume again.

“I’ll have you know, Malfoy, I chose not to have children until I am ready. I broke up with Ronald…” she paused for a moment, a slight crack in her confident façade. He should have known the Weasel was a sore spot, considering she couldn’t make it work between them even though he practically threw himself at her feet.

She recovered quickly and continued on. “I broke up with him because I did not believe he was the correct man to father my children, amongst other things, not that it is any of your business. No, I did not fail to secure a man, I chose to love myself rather than stick with what’s comfortable and lead a life never fully content.

As for Harry’s children?” Her eyes burned as her pupils dilated further, the honey disappearing behind a cold blackness that almost made Draco flinch. “If you ever bring my godchildren into anything again, Azkaban will be the least of your worries. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco swallowed but kept his defences up. An odd feeling took hold of his stomach, the taste of bile in the back of his throat.

Yup. There was definitely nothing there between him and Granger but hatred and animosity. He had certainly proved that and found, after all the hours he spent inside his own mind, he simply didn’t have the energy to waste on arguing with her any further.

After a tense and drawn-out silence in which the two of them played a game of ‘who will stop staring at the other first’ — which he won, by the way — he finally pulled away and led them towards the room with the training dummies.

“Offensive wand combat. Go.”

He wandlessly charmed the training dummies and swept from the room without another word, leaving Granger to train alone for the night.

Why he felt the need to leave was yet another mystery, but this new sensation curling around his abdomen and pulling so tight he felt like he couldn’t breathe was something he couldn’t investigate in front of the likes of Granger.

That bloody witch must have cursed him wandlessly and wordlessly. Perhaps something from that Weasel shop, what were they? Vomiting pastels? Some kind of curse which had the same outcome. She had made him sick somehow, judging by the way his stomach roiled and gurgled, growling angrily at him any time he moved.

He sat in the main hall of the training centre for the next two hours and didn’t bother to look up when Granger stormed through at precisely 9pm sharp. She didn’t say a word to him as she threw the Floo powder into the hearth and disappeared.

Draco stayed sitting there for another hour after she left, wracking his brains for what this mysterious illness was. How could she do this without him even noticing? What even was the counter curse? Didn’t it go against everything in her bleeding heart to curse him and then not heal him?

As the sensations worsened, and he spent time analysing the moment over and over again only to find she hadn’t cursed him, the only conclusion he could come to sickened him more so than the feelings in his stomach. There was absolutely no way he would ever feel like that because of Granger.

Besides, he had said far worse to her before, surely now, today, bringing up Scarhead’s offspring couldn’t be the one thing that pushed him over the edge. He shook his head. He was the man that used to murder children last so they had to watch their parents suffer first, there was no way he could develop a moral compass now. Granted, he had never wanted to do it that way, but what choice did he have? 

No, it wasn’t to do with Scarhead’s children, he concluded. Perhaps instead it was the way Granger’s eyes lost their sparkle the minute he spoke those words to her. Perhaps it was the way she disappeared into herself for a moment, faltered so obviously in front of him before she could rebuild her walls. Because he had never seen Granger weak. He had never seen her defeated. Never seen her… scared.

This was Granger. She was fiery, spiteful, emotional, but never did she ever lose her spark. She had looked at him as though she had expected him to say something that would crush her, but had hoped so desperately that he wouldn’t.

Why should that bother him though? It shouldn't. 

It didn't. 

It most certainly did fucking not. 

She could lose her spark and retreat so far into her own brain that she ceased to exist and he wouldn't care at all. She could expect the fucking world of him and he would fail to deliver every single time without a damn care in the world. Because this was fucking Granger, and he didn’t give a single shit about her.  

But the knot in his stomach wouldn’t loosen and the sweat on his palms only increased as he continued to deny what he knew he was feeling.

Guilt.

Chapter Text

Tuesday 31st March 2009

Draco Malfoy had always been destructive by nature.

It was an inevitability from the moment he was born, his white-blonde head of hair sealing his morbid fate. Destruction had haunted the Malfoy name for generations, attaching itself to any flicker of light and smothering it, snuffing it out, swallowing it whole, and shrouding the bearer in darkness, leaving them hollow, forever incomplete, doomed to succumb to the abyss.

Evil is not born; darkness is not innate. They are both created in the absence of light — an absence which is profoundly felt by the Malfoy bloodline.

If you were to trace it back, you would find identical copies of his father: cold, detached, dark, destructive beings, devoid of hope, devoid of happiness, devoid of light.

Babies are born light. Pure. Malfoy babies barely have time to blink before that innocent brightness is snuffed out. The moment the umbilical cord is severed, they are torn from their mother by their father, and forced to learn the first, most valuable lesson: Destruction is not just inevitable, it is destiny. To survive as a Malfoy heir, one must either embrace and master their darkness, or let it consume them.

At first, Draco believed his father had mastered it. He wondered how the man wielded such destruction as though it were a tangible weapon in his hand, slicing down anything that dared to shine. But as Draco grew, and the cracks in Lucius’ facade began to show, he realised the truth — his father had never been in control.

The darkness had been slowly consuming him all along, year after year, bite by excruciating bite.

Lucius’ last veiled attempt at wielding his destruction had been Draco himself. Destroy the purest thing in the Malfoy family, a brand-new baby, and perhaps it would be enough to prove he was still in control, stronger than the evil that lurked within.

But as Draco aged, he learned to control his emotions, his darkness, his destruction, and felt at ease with the power he wielded. Where Lucius had been devoured, Draco bent the darkness to his will. With every milestone Draco reached, his father unravelled further and further. The more Draco learned to control himself, the more Lucius resented him. The more Draco surpassed him, the further into fear and madness Lucius sunk.

Ultimately, Draco was his father’s undoing. He was the catalyst that began Lucius’ descent into the abyss.  

His father’s destruction then turned inward, hollowing him out until he was a shell of the man he had once been. It pulled and twisted and decayed his insides, causing him to rot before Draco’s very eyes. By the time Voldemort killed him, Lucius was barely a quarter of the man he once was — a fractured, pitiful thing clinging to the last threads of his miserable existence.

His death was a mercy killing, though the Dark Lord never knew. Had Voldemort spared him, the darkness would have finished the job, swallowing him whole and taking down everything and everyone close to him.

In the moment, it felt as though his world had come crashing down before him. Watching that half-man brutally murder his only male role model felt excruciating, as though he could never come back from it.

In hindsight, the Dark Lord had saved him — had saved both Draco and his mother.

Despite his denial, Draco knew he was more similar to his father than he ever wanted to be.

He tried to be different. He really did. He swore his upbringing would not affect him so greatly that he would grow to follow his father’s exact footsteps, passing on his destructive nature to his own son. He knew he had a better handle on his darkness than anyone in his entire bloodline.

The year he had served as Voldemort’s right-hand man, he wielded his destruction like a beautiful sword, a magnificent weapon coveted by his peers, cutting down everything in his path. His ruthlessness, born from his hunger for knowledge and profound control over his destructive nature, made him the most enviable Death Eater, climbing the ranks effortlessly and surpassing the likes of his deranged aunt and her husband within the first month of Voldemort’s reign.

He was the only Death Eater, and perhaps the only wizard ever, able to cast an unlimited amount of killing curses in a row, without feeling the consequences of his soul being ripped apart. He was experimental, combining ancient dark curses with modern wand techniques, creating his own unique spells, more deadly than anyone had ever seen before.

When Draco was on the field, the Order scattered, breaking their ranks out of fear his destruction would consume them as it had their peers. He revelled in the smell of fear rolling off of anyone he came face to face with, bathed in their blood, feasted on their screams. He was a monster, and he knew it, but this monster curbed his destruction’s appetite, taking it out on the world around him, rather than allowing it to turn inwards.

Perhaps that is why, following the demise of a master he never truly believed in, once captured and unable to wield his destruction any longer, his defences crumbled and his darkness turned inwards, causing him to shatter in his first few years at Azkaban.

He still refused to give in, fighting off the destruction, learning to control it once more in new ways, using it as a means of control for his Occlumency, destroying others with words rather than physical violence, and harnessing its power in the way he held himself, in the tension in his back, in his ability to become entirely unflappable, and in the energy he had to train his body and build his muscles.

Now, he was so in control of his destruction that he had become cocky in the belief that it would never harm him again.

But as he laid in bed early Tuesday morning, sleep evading him, peace a distant memory, Draco Malfoy knew he had done the one thing he promised he never would.

He had become his father.

The sneer his voice adopted when insulting Granger was identical to the man who told him her name was filth.

The way he looked down his nose mimicked the way in which his father looked at everyone around him.

The need to cut down anyone in his path resembled Lucius Malfoy’s desperate attempts to control what he ultimately succumbed to.

His need to stamp out any unfamiliar emotion or uncomfortable thought by snuffing out the brightest thing in the room — and Merlin, Granger was always the brightest thing in any room, both in name and nature — reminded him too closely of the way his father used his destructive nature to cut down Draco himself at every turn.

It was scary to see his father in himself. Even scarier to recognise the beginning of his decline.

For his father, it was Draco.

For Draco? He was sure his decline would be Granger.

His only saving grace? That giant knot that still weighed heavy in the pit of his stomach, causing his limbs to feel like lead, his brain to continue whirring past midnight, and his walls to fissure, crack, splinter.

Guilt.

Guilt in itself was a destructive emotion, one that was the catalyst to Draco’s entire breakdown that morning.

But he was also sure that it would be the one emotion that could save him.

His father never felt any guilt. He was proud of the destruction he caused, resentful over the child who surpassed him in every way, and terrified of a master who ultimately saved him from an excruciatingly slow deterioration and painful demise.

Guilt was not an emotion Lucius Malfoy possessed. Meaning guilt, no matter how destructive it felt, could be the one thing to save Draco from his father’s fate.

Typically Draco would run. Close off his walls and ignore his feelings until he was able to analyse them further. But that was his father’s way, and Draco could not run from Granger. Whether he liked it or not, Granger was going to be part of his life for at least the next 12 months and if he was going to stop her from being his downfall, he needed to cling on to that guilt and use it to change his path.

In order to do that? He would need to apologise to Granger.

Well.

No one ever said salvation was easy.

He glanced at the clock on his bedroom wall.

4am.

He sighed a heavy sigh, finally accepting that sleep would not be kind to him that night, and stood up from bed. He performed his usual morning routine and brewed a particularly strong cup of coffee, much to Winkle’s dismay. He held the coffee cup with two hands just to prove to the disgruntled elf he would not spill it in his kitchen.

After a tense staring match with the eldest elf, Draco disappeared into the library to gather his things before stepping through the floo and into his office. He set his things down and glanced at the clock once more.

4:45am.

No one would be around this early.

He sighed and was about to settle in at his desk to run over the notes from yesterday’s strategy meeting when he heard mumbling from outside his office door. He stood, smoothing down his shirt and taking his wand out of its holster, before creeping over to his door, and pressing an ear to it to decipher the source. He was unable to determine exactly what it was but it appeared to be travelling, getting louder then quieter then louder again in a loop.

Footsteps accompanied the noise — pacing. Who would be pacing at work at this early hour?

Finally he opened the heavy oak door, stepping outside and into a very flustered Granger. She gasped and stumbled backwards as Draco’s solid frame collided into her.

Draco shook his head as Granger steadied herself and then silence descended.

Long, drawn out silence.

A silence as suffocating as the guilt twisting in his stomach.

Draco took a fortifying breath and finally raised his eyes, which were much too interested in an invisible thread on his sleeve, to meet hers, only to find she too was looking anywhere but at him.

He cleared his throat and reminded himself of why he came to the office so early in the first place.

An apology.

Just say the words and it was over with. Easier said than done.

How did one start an apology? Did they simply barrel straight through it, or should he ease into it? How would one ease into something so mortifyingly awkward?

He cleared his throat again, readying himself for his second attempt. “Granger…”

Yup that was one way to start it.

Standard greeting from Draco Malfoy. Made sense.

“Malfoy.” Granger’s voice sounded tired, but not angry.

That was good. Standard Granger response. Progress from last night.

But why did she sound so tired? Had she been up all night torturing herself the same way he had?

She had nothing to torture herself over though. She had done nothing wrong. As painful as it was for him to admit, the aching sensation, which had now developed into sharp stabbing pains in his abdomen, proved that Draco was the one at fault.

He persevered, despite how uncomfortable he felt, and clenched his hands into fists as he spoke. “You uh… you’re here early…”

Ganger nodded. Her voice sounded distant, but not in the same way he had last night. It wasn’t a distance born from coldness; it was a distance born from defeat. A lack of fire he had come to associate only with Granger. It was… unsettling…

“Hmm. As are you.” Her words were blunt, devoid of emotion. Her eyes lacked their usual defiant passion.

Draco had to force himself to look away in order to get his next words out, lest the shell Granger seemed to have become suck him into her abyss.

“I… Granger… look… about last night, I—”

Granger held a weary hand up in front of his face. It trembled slightly, a clear indicator of her lack of sleep and perhaps too much coffee.

He glanced up at her once more, taking note of the bags under her eyes and the way her hair seemed to be less tamed than usual, if that was at all possible.

“It’s fine, Malfoy. It’s over. We are never going to get along and that’s fine. I’ve accepted that. I think it’s best if we just stop talking altogether, other than to discuss mission details or communicate in battle. Other than that, we can keep our distance. Like you said during our first training session, I don’t know you, and it would appear I have been treating you the same way I would an old friend. But we are not old friends, we are barely even acquaintances, so my approach was wrong — I’m not afraid to admit that. So, after consideration, I have decided I agree with your initial request to only talk about work or training, and I will simply follow your lead for the next 12 months until the contract runs out and we can both go our separate ways.”

Draco blinked.

Granger had just agreed, no, offered up willingly the deal he originally demanded of her. It was exactly what he wanted.

So why did it feel so wrong all of a sudden?

Guilt.

That was why.

That pesky little emotion he couldn’t keep from spilling over his walls and consuming him.

Shit. This would be harder that he initially thought.

He should have fought her on this. Should have told her he was wrong. Should have apologised. Should have prodded her until she regained that fire and bit back at him.

He should have done something.

Anything.

But instead, he swallowed thickly and simply nodded, unable to give Granger the response she deserved.

She straightened and nodded in return. “Great. I’m going home now, assuming you don’t need me for anything today. Please fill in any hours you need me to work on my scheduler. I shall be taking on call shifts at St. Mungo’s in between working hours so please do try to update my Magi-Scheduler with as much notice as possible. Send me an owl when you get any leads on Jugson, and I shall do the same should my research reap any benefits.”

Draco just stared dumbly at her, his mouth slightly open, wrestling with his thoughts, trying to find the words to say something… to argue… to apologise… to say anything at all… but his brain seemed to have switched off and all he could do was offer curt nods.

The stabbing sensation in his abdomen spread, swooping up and curling around his arms, his legs, his throat, and leaving him rooted to the spot.

Granger muttered a swift goodbye before briskly walking back towards her office, most likely to Floo home before her shift at St. Mungo’s.

He stood in the empty Auror department for a moment, his eyes following where she had just disappeared around the corner, unable to will his feet to move.

Finally, he turned and walked back into his office, slumping into his chair, feeling more exhausted now than he had all night.

As his eyes began to droop, his mind replayed their conversation, or rather Granger talking at him, on a loop.

She seemed so tired.

The stabbing pain increased. Guilt.

So defeated.

He felt himself flinch. Guilt.

Had his words really struck her that deep?

A thud in the back of his head. Guilt.

He thought Granger was stronger than that.

Guilt.

They’d had countless arguments before now.

Guilt.

Why had this one caused her such grief?

Guilt.

Had he really snuffed out Granger’s light so easily?

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Wednesday 1st April 2009

By the time his Wednesday evening training session with Granger came along, Draco had experienced every repressed emotion he had avoided since his breakdown in Azkaban.

Apparently, guilt was an incredibly crafty emotion, burrowing deep into his brain, smashing through his barriers, picking his locks, tearing through his chains, and opening and devouring almost every book in his mental library, shrouding them all in a darkness which tainted each memory, distorting them so when he called them forth, all he could hear was a running commentary of how terrible he was, picking apart each miniscule moment he should feel terrible about within that memory.

He couldn’t meditate anymore. Each time he tried to find that state, it was as though his own mind would kick him out, denying him access to anything real, supplying only the false, self-deprecating narratives which threatened to disrupt his control.

With his sources currently out scouting for him, and his paperwork all up to date, Draco could not distract himself with work and found himself drowning in the silence of his Manor, which was once a comforting solitude, but had now been soured by the swirling mass of shame that hung around his head.

He didn’t dare attempt to enter the Manor library. He didn’t want to taint the room with his internal destruction.

Without his place of sanctuary to escape to, Draco found himself wandering the halls of the Manor, not quite sure where to rest, unable to settle in any room. He took long walks around the grounds, attempting to find solitude in his mother’s favourite place, but found his similarities with his mother ended with their outward appearances and shared love of reading.

He attempted to sit in quiet with Winkle, watching the elf work to reorganise the kitchen for the third time that March, but found his disgruntled glances bothered Draco more than usual, so he quickly gave up on that.

Tilly tried to amuse him by discussing possible redesigns for the West Wing, but he found himself unable to focus and entirely bored, distracted only by the ever-present pain in his abdomen which seemed to only grow the more hours that passed.

That boredom evolved into crippling anxiety as he tried to read, and as he was eating his dinner, all of the emotions seemed to bind together, swirling in a dark bubble of unresolved feelings which eventually burst, showering down over him and settling into one residual emotion: anger.

Anger at himself for allowing his destructive nature to consume him.

Anger at the situation Shacklebolt had put him in.

Anger at the argument he had with Granger.

Anger at the guilt which seemed to be trying to physically tear his stomach apart.

But most of all, the dark, heavy mass that blinded his senses and took over his muscles focussed on one particular target.

Granger.