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Chapter Text

For Hermione Granger, one of the greatest tragedies of modern times was the fact that owning a penis was still considered more valuable than owning a fully functional brain as a woman.

In 1918, British suffragist Emmeline Pankhurst achieved the introduction of women's suffrage in the Muggle world, which was less than 100 years ago. In the magical part of Great Britain, women still had to fight against outdated worldviews, and the proportion of women on the Wizengamot Council was only a third.

Hermione knew it would take a long time before the outdated world views of the wizarding society would finally disappear, and the old families in particular were proving an obstacle. Yet she also knew she could use those very structures to her advantage, at least for now.

Fighting against them head-on wasn’t an option. Not yet. Hermione had goals. She wanted to become Minister for Magic, to turn the wizarding world upside down, to bring about change.

Even as a little girl, Hermione had imagined what it would be like to be Minister Granger. With wax crayons, she had written laws and decrees, presenting them to the council of her stuffed animals. Now it was time to make that little girl proud.

The war had taught Hermione a great deal, most of all about herself and the ways of the magical world. She had never expected her role in it to become so important. Nor had she anticipated the price that would come with it.

She hadn’t only had to cut the little girl out of her own heart, but out of her parents’ hearts as well. After the war, Harry and Ron had helped her to restore their memories, but some things had been lost forever.

Memories, those small, seemingly insignificant moments that turned out to be the most precious: family game nights, trips to her grandparents, her very first steps.

There were gaps in her parents’ minds that Hermione could never fill, no matter how hard she tried. Every time she visited them, her heart broke all over again. She loathed herself for what she had done to them, and yet it had been necessary.

Without it, they might be dead, and Hermione couldn’t have lived with that reality.

Hermione Granger had never thought that playing her part in the war would cost her so much, both mentally and physically.

Now, years later, she wasn’t even sure who she truly was anymore, when all that remained were memories and scarred tissue on her arm.

Only one thing was certain: she was far too ambitious to let the chance of becoming Minister for Magic pass her by.

Hermione worked hard, taking a degree in Law at Oxford. She wanted justice, she wanted equality, and she wanted to show the wizarding world what it meant to be Muggleborn.

She wasn’t content to rest on the laurels of being a war heroine; she wanted to earn the respect of the wizarding community. The position of prosecutor was just the next step in her plan.

Hermione had an eight-point plan, one that no one would ever know about, and she would never allow anyone to ruin it. Of course, not everything was set in stone, but a plan was never a bad place to start, or so she believed.

At least, she hoped so.

And when Tonks was appointed the new Head of the DMLE, Hermione allowed herself to hope that things might finally start to change, that she wouldn’t be fobbed off with minor cases, but trusted with the large and significant ones.

Another step on the path to becoming prosecutor. But one man was standing between her and the possibility of becoming the youngest prosecutor in wizarding history, at just twenty-five.

Hermione was fairly sure that Hansel Balfour’s parents must have hated him. She couldn’t think of any other explanation for cursing a newborn with such a dreadful name.

He was every bit as repulsive as his name suggested: a man in his forties with a receding hairline and an ego vastly inflated beyond his worth.

Hermione could hardly put into words the unease she felt whenever he was in the room, the way he pressed too close, laughed far too loudly at his jokes, monopolised conversations, and shamelessly talked over her.

Hansel embodied everything Hermione wanted to change.

She hated him with a conviction she’d only ever felt towards two others, discounting Voldemort and his band of lunatics, Skeeter and Umbridge.

The worst part was that Hansel Balfour was after the very post of prosecutor, and the current one, Pinsley, strongly favoured him.

Pinsley and Balfour’s father had studied together once, and to Hermione the whole thing reeked of nepotism. Hardly the kind of justice that barristers were supposed to uphold.

Balfour was shameless, convinced that the position was not only his right, but already his by default.

Absurd, if you asked her, but of course, nobody did.

From the moment she knew the post would be opening, Hermione gave her absolute best. Admittedly, she always did, for justice’s sake, but now she demanded even more of herself. Yet Hansel was older, with many more cases under his belt.

Hermione couldn’t fathom how anyone could value the mere possession of the male sex over genuine talent or intelligence.

Most of the time, it was men themselves who perpetuated such views, and she was certain those opinions were biased and outdated. She had goals, and she would not let a man destroy them.

As if it weren’t disadvantage enough, in the Council’s eyes, that she was a woman, there was also the issue of her record. Yes, all her cases had been decided in her favour, but they were too minor to count for much. And then there was her youth. The Council didn’t trust her, didn’t respect her enough, and that had to change.

And so, Hermione sat in her office at nine o’clock on a Friday evening while her friends were already out at their favourite pub, scribbling yet another strategy. Her fifth sheet of parchment was already full.

Her fingers were stained with ink after one quill had given up entirely, and she wasn’t sure she’d even be able to read her handwriting the next day.

The letters on the page began to blur and dance before her eyes, the ink seeming to form words she knew she hadn’t written. She wasn’t sure if her mind was playing tricks on her, or if fatigue was finally winning.

She had promised herself not to go on much longer. She had assured her friends she would join them soon, knowing she mustn’t overwork herself. The past years had already taken so much from her, and only now was she beginning to notice.

The nightmares still plagued her, robbing her of sleep. Too often, she woke in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, her screams echoing in her ears, unable to tell if she was dreaming or truly back at Malfoy Manor.

Her therapist had suggested returning to the scene and creating a positive memory there, but Hermione wasn’t convinced.

Nonsense, she thought. She would never willingly step into that dreadful room again. The only thing that gave her peace was the knowledge that Bellatrix was dead, gone forever, never able to hurt her or anyone else again.

And then there were the daydreams, when her thoughts began to wander. Not often, but when they did, Hermione rarely managed to claw her way out alone. She was lucky to have friends who supported her through it all.

Still, that knowledge did little to ease the guilt that haunted her. A voice often whispered in her ear that she was a burden, that her friends had lives of their own to live. Harry and Ginny were expecting their first child, Ron was finally dating again, Luna was pouring herself into her magazine, and Neville had found happiness with Pansy Parkinson.

That last one ought to have shocked their group of friends, but after the war, many things had changed. Hermione had learnt that people could change if they truly wished to. She would never have imagined Parkinson could make Neville happy, and yet after two years together, he seemed freer than ever.

Hermione wished her friends nothing but happiness. And it was precisely because of that that she refused to burden them with her problems. She would manage. She always had. Giving up was not an option.

Once, she had wondered if she was broken, if it was her fault her relationship with Ron had fallen apart. Now she knew they had both been in no state for such things, perhaps they still weren’t.

She was convinced she was too broken to love, and too broken to be loved. Truthfully, she couldn’t even imagine being loved. She wasn’t sure her parents truly loved her anymore, after everything.

How could they?

What she had done to them bordered on betrayal, even if it had been born out of love and a desperate instinct to protect. They had never accused her of it, of course, but Hermione often reflected on her decisions, and she was certain there must have been another way, one that didn’t so deeply damage her parents’ lives. There was always another way, if you searched long enough.

And yet, every time she left her desk, guilt came to claim her. It whispered that she wasn’t researching enough, that she dismissed cases too quickly, that she failed to see the ordinary witches and wizards she was supposed to be fighting for. If she was here, there had to be a solution.

She couldn’t help herself, so she helped others.

She always told herself that justice was her driving force, but sometimes she wondered whether she was still fighting for justice at all, or simply fighting against herself.

The young witch let out a weary sigh. Her thoughts were spiralling, far too heavy for the late hour. The light of her desk lamp seemed to grow harsher, her quill scraping at her nerves. It was time for a break. She was exhausted, yet she couldn’t stop.

Not when clients were depending on her, their futures resting in her hands. Perhaps her headache also stemmed from the fact that she had multiple cases lined up for the coming week.

People and creatures alike depended on Hermione. Not only her clients, but her parents, her friends, and Crookshanks.

Just last week, Kingsley had summoned her to his office. To her surprise, he told her that the Council had been discussing her, debating her suitability for higher office. Kingsley had long known of her ambitious goals, and she valued the gesture of friendship in him informing her.

And then came the part that still made Hermione grimace when she remembered it. Kingsley had fumbled, hedged—despite knowing Hermione always preferred the truth, plain and clear.

At last, he admitted that the Council, and perhaps even he considered her ambitions too high.

Kingsley had told her her work was impressive, yes, but that she was not yet a candidate for Minister. He had even suggested, carefully, that she might think of starting a family first, and perhaps later, at an older age, consider the post.

Hermione wasn’t angry. It was, perhaps, the next logical step for wizarding society: she was a young woman, and the world expected certain things of women of childbearing age.

But instead of disappointment, the words had only burned her determination deeper. She didn’t need Kingsley’s approval. He didn’t need to believe in her. Hermione knew that she could only rely on herself.

That very evening, she had pulled out her eight-points plan, altered point seven, and resolved: she would become the new prosecutor. She didn’t yet know how, and the uncertainty left her staring down at a crumpled piece of parchment on her desk.

With a flick of will, she let the parchment burst into flames. It was safer if no one found traces of her plan. Hermione would have to rely on the element of surprise, after all, Hansel Balfour didn’t even see her as competition. That would change.

The following week, she would present herself to Pinsley for the position. Only then would Balfour realise she was in the race at all. Likely he wouldn’t believe her capable of such a step.

All the better. Let him grow comfortable in his nepotistic safety. Hermione only needed to wait for the right moment, and everything would fall into place.

She switched off her lamp before it overheated, pulled on her coat, and looked out the window. The autumn wind swept through the streets outside, tossing brightly coloured leaves through the air, London had well and truly sunk into the season.

Hermione Apparated to her friends’ favourite bar, which on a Friday evening was, of course, packed with both Muggles and wizards out for revelry.

No sooner had she stepped through the door than Ginny came rushing to meet her halfway, arms already outstretched.

“Where have you been? We thought you weren’t coming!” Ginny’s voice carried the faintest hint of reproach.

“It’s lovely to see you too, Gin. I just had to finish some research for a case and lost track of time,” Hermione smiled and shrugged, unwilling to admit she’d been plotting her future again.

She had told Ginny once, in the early days after the war, and though Ginny had promised her support, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling she’d only be told she was overworking herself, or aiming too high too soon.

So the decision to keep her plans to herself was an easy one. Being underestimated might even work to her advantage. Her father had once told her it was better to be underestimated and then surprise people.

It wasn’t easy for Hermione to surprise those around her, after all, she had such high expectations for herself, but she had learnt to hide more of it now.

Ginny led her back to the table, chatting about some drama in her Quidditch team, while Hermione forced herself to stay present and not drift back into her head.

“Hey, how’s everyone?” Hermione grinned, sliding onto the stool between Harry and Parkinson.

“Granger, we thought your desk had swallowed you whole,” Parkinson quipped, taking a delicate sip of her dark drink as the ice cubes clinked softly against the glass.

“I managed to escape at the last moment, thank you ever so much for your concern,” Hermione replied sweetly, as a waiter appeared out of nowhere. She ordered a mojito, while the poor man glanced uncertainly between the two witches. Neville only shrugged and gave a crooked grin.

The evening passed in a pleasant flow of conversation. Every so often, Hermione caught Harry watching her with concern when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She had the nagging sense that Harry knew something, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what, not if it left those worried lines etched in his face.

To her surprise, Parkinson was rather well-behaved that evening, refraining from her usual barbed comments and attempts to stir trouble. Hermione couldn’t decide if this was a general Slytherin trait or something exclusive to the dark-haired witch beside her.

Eventually, Neville, ever quick-witted, drew Parkinson to the dance floor. Luna and Ginny followed shortly after, and Ron wandered off to the bar. That left Hermione alone with Harry at the table.

The lines of worry across his face had deepened as the night wore on. Hermione thought the expression didn’t suit him one bit. She was certain it wouldn’t be long before he spoke up, and she was right.

“Hermione, I shouldn’t be telling you this. You could probably recite to me all the regulations I’m breaking. But I think you deserve to know.” He slid a little closer, his voice low, eyes flicking around the crowded bar.

By now the place was filled to bursting, bodies brushing past one another, sometimes far too closely. The door opened every so often as someone slipped out, letting the warm air spill into the cool autumn night.

“Balfour’s being placed on probation in the prosecutor’s office. He’ll be representing Pinsley’s next case for the Ministry.”

Hermione’s breath caught. Her mind whirled. That changed everything. She hadn’t foreseen such a development, certainly not that Balfour would be given a trial run.

Naïve, she thought bitterly. She’d been naïve. Come Monday, she would march straight to Pinsley’s office with her application. But would it even matter now?

She turned to Harry, sensing the sympathy in his eyes.

“Harry, what do you know about this case?” Her mind was already racing. Normally, office gossip reached her quickly, yet she’d heard nothing of a new case on Pinsley’s desk. That meant it was either highly classified or very new.

“There’s not much I can say, it’s all under wraps. I only heard because it crossed into one of our cases. Freya Eldric murdered her husband. She’s been charged, and it looks airtight. No doubt about the outcome.” He paused, frowning, as if the thought unsettled him.

Hermione grew restless. A case like that, simple and secure, would guarantee Balfour the position, and ruin all her plans.

“But?” she prompted. She could see it in his face.

“Malfoy’s reopened it. On his own. He thinks it’s too neat. Or maybe he’s just being paranoid. I don’t know.”

A stone dropped in Hermione’s stomach. Malfoy’s case. She had hoped Harry was still involved, but no, he’d handed it off.

“What else do you know?”

“Nothing more. I’ve got my cases, and I couldn’t dig deeper. I don’t even know what makes this one so special,” Harry admitted, taking a long sip of his beer.

Hermione’s mind was running at full tilt. She needed a solution.

She and Malfoy had spent years perfecting the art of avoiding one another, weaving carefully around each other’s paths. It was almost a dance.

Could he be her solution, or just another problem?

She wasn’t even sure how he might be a solution, but there had to be a way. She doubted he would help her willingly; he was still Malfoy, still not the most selfless of men.

The thought of having to speak with him made her skin prickle. At once, she was back on the floor, his mad aunt above her, gripping her wrist in an iron hold, carving those hated words into her arm with a cursed blade. Hermione pinched her skin sharply to pull herself back into the present.

It was over. She had survived. Bellatrix was dead. She would never harm anyone again. That thought brought a sliver of calm, and allowed Hermione to focus on the urgent matter at hand. Balfour would claim her post if she didn’t act.

In the years since the war, Hermione had sworn never to back down without a fight. Giving up was not an option. She would find a way. She had to. Balfour would not destroy her dreams.

And so it was, on an otherwise unremarkable Friday night, that Hermione Granger scrapped her old plans and let a new idea take shape in her mind.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy was a well-off young man from a good family who did not shy away from taking appropriate measures if the situation called for it.

Unfortunately, there were still problems in his life that could not easily be solved with a bit of bribery. These problems became particularly irritating whenever they were tied to the ego of a pureblood.

And so Draco found himself on a Sunday afternoon in the pavilion of the Greengrass estate with his mother, Astoria Greengrass, and her utterly delightful mother, whose charming character could probably give the Dementors in Azkaban a run for their money.

He never would have thought that there were forces more evil and conniving than Voldemort, until he met the mothers of the pureblood families, who were more than willing to auction off their daughters like cattle to the highest bidder.

Much to Draco’s misfortune, he had no interest in bidding or buying a wife; in fact, he didn’t want to get married at all.

However, his parents had never once considered before his birth that their precious son might one day want to make his own decisions, and had therefore bound him to the youngest Greengrass heiress with the help of a magical contract, what joy.

While Draco was busy trying to find loopholes in the contract and slither out of the affair like the animal of his house crest, his mother seemed utterly fascinated by the idea that grandchildren might soon enrich her life.

To Narcissa Malfoy’s great disappointment, Draco had chosen to withdraw from society rather than eagerly build connections, which was probably why the idea of an engagement still appeared to her as a good one; after all, a wife might improve his reputation.

At this thought, Draco couldn’t help but smirk slightly; he had money, and what he couldn’t buy with money, he most likely didn’t need. At least, he hoped so, and so far, no one had crossed his path who wasn’t for sale.

The Greengrass family, too, was for sale, which for young Malfoy was almost a disappointment.

He would much rather have seen what would happen if, for once, a woman wasn’t after his inheritance. But that day would probably never come.

The far greater disappointment, however, was that Astoria was utterly boring to him. She was intelligent, but not too clever, and always knew how to hold a polite conversation.

Her manners were flawless, and she reminded Draco of a doll.

What did he want with a doll for a wife?

Sometimes he wondered if, for his parents, only the continuation of the Malfoy line mattered, or their son’s happiness. Though one had to note that Draco himself didn’t even know what happiness really was. Perhaps he shouldn’t long for it then.

He did anyway.

Astoria was so boring to him that he preferred to watch the butterflies in the garden and thus missed her question about whether he still remembered her or her sister Daphne from their school days.

Of course he remembered Daphne; she had fire. She had probably received all the temperament while Astoria was left with kindness and patience.

By now, Daphne was having an affair with his mate Blaise Zabini, something her charming sister most likely knew nothing about.

After all, Daphne was actually married to Marcus Flint, which was a perfect arrangement for Blaise.

He had sworn never to marry, likely thanks to his mother. Daphne, on the other hand, longed for marriage. Both longed for sex. And since Flint knew nothing of the affair, everyone was happy, at least as far as Draco could tell.

He shouldn’t even have known about the affair, but when he and Theo had unexpectedly dropped by Blaise’s one Thursday afternoon and unwillingly witnessed the affair firsthand, its existence could no longer be denied.

Draco would have much preferred to remain blissfully ignorant. Never in his life had he wished to go blind, until he saw his best friend enthusiastically fucking Daphne Greengrass.

Draco didn’t care what Blaise did or with whom, as long as he didn’t get caught. That would mean chaos and unpleasant consequences, though, of course, Draco would support Blaise in such a case.

For Draco, happiness was a concept he had yet to fully grasp. He had made some observations but had not yet reached a final conclusion.

Happiness was what the family of a kidnapping victim felt when he returned their little girl to them. Or when he recovered a stolen piece of family jewelry.

But happiness could also be destroyed, the sight of Mister Hensley when he learned of his wife’s murder and broke down in tears.

Happiness was dangerous; it could be beautiful, but it could also destroy everything.

Not all knowledge could be captured in textbooks and taught at Hogwarts, and perhaps the concept of happiness was simply part of that.

Draco had come to the conclusion that it was something to be experienced.
If he had to capture it, to put the idea into words, it would be the moments on his broom in complete silence and freedom.

At present, Draco was still pretending to show interest in Astoria’s hobby of gardening, though secretly he longed to return to his usual Sunday ritual.

Apparently, his mother finally decided that they should not test the Greengrass family’s hospitality any longer, just as Astoria was about to ask Draco more about the manor’s gardens.

Narcissa gave her son an encouraging nod and rose gracefully from her seat on the pale blue chaise lounge.

He jumped up a little too abruptly and enthusiastically, earning a suspicious glance from his hopefully soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law.

“Thank you very much for this delightful afternoon. As my mother already hinted, we have a social obligation we unfortunately cannot postpone.”
Ever the gentleman his upbringing demanded him to be, he kissed the Greengrass ladies’ hands and gave a slight bow.

“My ladies.”

“I hope to see you again soon?” A shiver ran down Draco’s spine at Astoria’s hopeful look.

Officially, he was already courting her, and they were going through the various steps that would lead to engagement, all set out by contract. Unofficially, Draco hoped he could soon put an end to this farce.

He forced a stiff smile and avoided giving a direct answer. Then he followed his mother back into the house.

Only once he had stepped through the fireplace into Malfoy Manor could Draco finally breathe again.

“Draco, really. You act as if Astoria were an unbearable troll and not a charming young lady!” his mother said, looking at him reproachfully.

“Perhaps she would be even more charming if you weren’t forcing me to marry her,” Draco replied, biting back any further comment, for he hated arguing with his mother.

He knew his parents, in their twisted way, had only ever wanted the best for their son. And since Draco himself didn’t even know what was best for him, it was hard to hold it against them.

Narcissa sighed heavily but said nothing more about her son’s behavior, as if it were just another ordinary Sunday. Without another word, she ascended the stairs toward her wing and disappeared.

Draco exhaled deeply. He hated this whole circus, and even more, he hated that he had not yet found a way out.

He decided he would deal with the problem later, though he wasn’t sure there was even a solution.

It was much the same with his current case, and before he could get any more frustrated, the young man shut himself in his office and bent once more over the files.

_-_

He loved Mondays. Especially since Potter seemed to suffer through that particular day of the week in a constant foul mood, regardless of the weather.

Naturally, Draco had made it his personal mission to make Harry’s Mondays even worse. His current strategy consisted of dumping even more paperwork on his partner, and unfortunately also superior, than he already had.

Over the past years, he and Potter had actually developed a rather tolerable working relationship. Still, Draco would never miss the chance to irritate the war hero whenever possible. He needed his hobbies, after all.

And besides, a grumpy Harry Potter was the perfect target. One couldn’t ignore that Draco Malfoy was still, through and through, a Slytherin.

It also distracted him from his own misery in the form of the Greengrass heiress, and for Draco, that was nothing but convenient. How could he have known his Monday would take such a turn?

Draco was seated at his desk in the office he shared with Potter. He still couldn’t understand why Potter hadn’t been given his own office by now. It was long overdue.

Draco wanted peace and quiet. He remembered all too clearly the argument that had erupted when he refused to use the Ministry-issued desk and instead had one imported at his own expense.

Potter had tried to claim it violated Ministry regulations, but since Draco had paid for the desk himself, there was no problem at all. If anything, it had just meant more paperwork for Potter. The memory made Draco grin.

He cast another critical look over the crime scene photographs spread out before him. His colleague Muldoon had botched a case, and now Draco was supposed to help fix the mess.

He sighed heavily. Other people’s incompetence weighed on him like a curse. He couldn’t help being competent, and for that he was punished with even more work. A tragedy, really.

Though Draco had to admit, more work for him meant less time with Astoria. That was, of course, utterly tragic, but nothing to be done. He couldn’t very well pick a fight with his superior.

His gaze lingered on the severed hand that had been left at the crime scene as the only trace of the missing CEO, when a sharp knock sounded on his office door. That kind of purposeful knock could only mean one thing: someone wanted something from him. Which in turn meant more work. Or, hopefully, that Potter would be the unlucky one this time. Oh, how Draco hoped it was about Potter.

“Come in,” Draco’s voice was rough as he took another sip of tea.

A mistake. Because when Hermione fucking Granger swung the door open, he choked on it. By Merlin’s holy underwear, what had he done to deserve this?

Suddenly, Draco wasn’t so fond of Mondays either.

“Granger,” he nodded at her and turned back to his case files.

He had learned it was best to pay the witch as little attention as possible. Surely, she would leave soon enough, especially since Potter wasn’t around.

His hopes crumbled when she cleared her throat in front of his desk. So much for his good mood.

Why couldn’t Gryffindors ever grasp when they weren’t wanted?

Malfoy glanced up from the crime scene photos, and sure enough, Granger stood before his desk, expectant. That could only mean trouble.

She had been avoiding him consistently for years now. A little part of him had taken it personally, after all, he had dug deep and summoned his hidden Gryffindor courage to apologize. He’d meant to keep it clinical, short, and painless, like ripping off a bandaid.

And then he had seen the tears in her brown eyes. Granger had tried not to cry, tried not to show weakness, and Draco hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard.

He had never learned how to be someone’s emotional support, and in his line of work that had already been a problem more than once. He’d improved somewhat, but when Granger stood there with watery eyes, he had been utterly lost.

Awkwardly, he’d offered comfort from across the room, keeping a careful distance. He hadn’t wanted to overwhelm her, nor did he know what kind of reaction to expect. When she had then thrown herself into his arms, he had been completely undone.

He didn’t know what etiquette, or common sense, demanded in such a moment. So Draco had done what his mother always did: he had held her until the tears ran out. And still, to this day, the pain in her eyes haunted him.

They had never spoken of the incident again, and both silently agreed to avoid one another. At least, until now.

And here was Granger, throwing everything off balance.

For her, he put on his best mask.

“Granger, what can I do for you?” he asked with his most confident smile.

“May I sit down?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she sat.

Rude. Draco made a mental note to remind her of her nonexistent manners.

“I see you’ve answered your own question. So then, to what do I owe the honor of Hermione Granger’s presence?” Draco folded his hands neatly in front of him on the desk.

He wasn’t sure what to make of this peculiar situation, but he had to admit, it intrigued him.

The young witch cleared her throat.

“As you may know, I currently work as a defense attorney. I’ve handled a few smaller cases at the Ministry, but none of yours or Harry’s.”

Granger looked nervous. Draco wasn’t yet sure how to interpret that, so he simply nodded. Of course he knew she hadn’t been involved in any of their cases, those usually involved bigger fish, mandatory defense, and the prosecutor’s office.

A horrendously complicated and, in Draco’s opinion, irritating process.

“As luck would have it, a position has opened in the defense team—”

“And what exactly does Pinsley’s retirement have to do with me?” Draco cut her off, growing impatient. A hundred better ways to waste his time came to mind than this conversation.

Granger looked annoyed, and Draco suspected she was suppressing an eye roll.

“As I’ve already said, I haven’t yet had the chance to work on larger cases, which is exactly what’s expected of someone applying for this position.”

Draco almost wanted to call her insane, but he knew this was only part of the bigger picture.

He was perfectly aware of how incredibly rude he was being when he cut her off again.

“No.”

“No?” she asked, confused, and he almost pitied her.

“Discuss that with Potter. I’m not getting myself tangled up in these complicated Ministry affairs.”

Draco was about to return his attention to the crime scene photos.

“Malfoy,” the young witch’s voice carried anger. Good. Let her be angry, the whole time, if possible. He welcomed it.

Still, Draco ignored her. Her constant presence was irritating, intrusive, and unwanted.

Apparently, Granger had practiced patience in recent years, because Draco heard her sink back into the chair in front of his desk, crossing her legs in a relaxed manner.

Apparently, she intended to wait him out.

So Draco decided to ignore her.

When his stomach growled around midday, he stood up without a word and took his lunch break.

When he returned, Granger was still sitting there, waiting, shattering his hope for peace.

Draco wasn’t easily rattled, but that day, his capacity for Gryffindors was severely limited.

Annoyed, he snapped the file shut and glared at her.
“Well?”

“As I can see, you’ve finally decided to grant me some of your precious time. How lovely.”

Draco inhaled deeply, twice. This woman was driving him mad.

“Granger, what do you want?” His patience was running thin, and he was planning to leave for his well-deserved evening off in less than an hour.

“Your case.”

Of course. Nothing with Granger was ever simple.

“Would you care to elaborate? As you can see, I’m constantly working on different cases. And frankly, I doubt you’d make much of an Auror.” He took a sip of his tea.

On closer inspection, Draco noticed how relaxed Granger seemed now. She was leaning back comfortably in his chair, her hair tied in a loose bun with stray strands framing her face. Her expression radiated calm. If not for the tapping of her foot under the desk, he might have believed her.

But Draco was an Auror. He knew when someone was bluffing. Granger was a good actress, but not as good as she thought.

“While you were at lunch, I wrapped up my cases in court. Impressive, isn’t it? Unfortunately, not nearly impressive enough for a bunch of old purebloods with too much gold in Gringotts. Which means, in short, I need more cases, the hardest ones the DMLE has to offer, to be precise.”

Granger wasn't a delicate flower after all, Draco concluded.

He could already tell that a plan was forming in her head. And much to his own misfortune, he was fairly certain it involved him.

From years of experience, Draco knew it was often better to remain silent and let the other person talk. Sure enough, Granger soon broke the silence.

“I want your case. Freya Eldric. Assign me as defense counsel against Balfour.”

Draco could hardly believe his ears. Her plan was mad. He let out a low whistle. The little Gryffindor was braver than he thought, or maybe just suicidal.

So that was why she’d been so nervous. She wasn’t even supposed to know about this case. It was supposed to be secret, strange, really, considering how little sense the Ministry’s secrecy made in this particular instance.

The case itself was fairly clear, at least to anyone except Draco. He simply couldn’t believe Freya Eldric had killed her husband.

Yet his investigation had stalled. Eldric refused to speak to him, and Draco had the sinking feeling time was running out.

He actually knew that her time was running out since her defense attorney would be assigned in a few days from now. The Ministry wanted to close the case as fast as possible.

He needed to investigate faster in order to succeed and held Freya Eldric.

He hated not being able to think a proposal through before making a decision. And Granger had caught him off-guard.

But what could Granger possibly want with this case? Was she pursuing her own agenda?

He had to admit, he was intrigued.

“You want to go up against the Ministry? That’s risky, even for you. You don’t even know the case.”

“Exactly.”

Granger leaned back in her chair, self-satisfied. She knew she had piqued his interest.

Draco knew she was intelligent, too intelligent, perhaps, and that was exactly why he wondered what was going on in her head. This was too great a risk, even for her.

She didn’t even know why the Ministry had placed such a high priority on the case.

Hell, he didn’t even understand the Ministry’s interest, and that only made him more suspicious.

But right now, he had other problems, in the form of the young woman sitting at his desk.

“Why?”

He knew she’d hoped he wouldn’t ask that. Granger’s leg bounced faster now, and she seemed to be resisting the urge to twist a strand of her hair.

“Don’t we all have our sense of justice?”

Lie.

She was lying, and she knew he knew it. Granger couldn’t possibly understand what justice meant here, what it had to mean. Granger lacked the knowledge, though Draco had no doubt she’d find a way to acquire it.

Maybe she could help Eldric? Maybe she was her best chance? Draco had to think about her future, too. It seemed logical in some aspects, other than having to work with Granger.

Potter's sense of justice had definitely rubbed off on Draco, and now he had to live with this disaster. He hadn't let Freya Eldric walk into the lion's den anyway, and now Granger had given him a glimmer of hope for their future.

How could he decide whether Freya Eldric deserved that? How could he reject Granger's suggestion? Even he wasn't that cold-hearted.

For now, he let the lie stand, but he made a mental note of everything she’d said. It had to be about Balfour.

Draco disliked the man, arrogant, loud, and an idiot. A dreadful combination.

So Draco shifted tactics.

“And what’s in it for me?”

He was almost certain Granger had expected that question but hadn’t yet found a satisfactory answer.

She couldn’t read him, and that was just how he liked it. If Draco had learned one thing from his father, however unwillingly, it was this: always remain inscrutable.

And, as a side effect, it worked rather well with women.

“What do you want?” Granger asked, her tone skeptical, almost cautious.

She was venturing into unfamiliar waters, and Draco was far too comfortable in them.

Then it struck him. A solution to his Astoria problem had just walked right in and presented itself. Risky, yes, but not if he phrased the conditions carefully. After all, he was a Slytherin.

And Granger was still Granger. Brilliant, but still a Gryffindor.

“Legal counsel.”

“That’s it?” Hermione sounded surprised, and Draco had to admit he’d managed to surprise himself, too.

She was probably suspicious, but she wanted the case too badly. And suspicion was good, only a naïve or stupid person wouldn’t be, and Draco hoped Granger was neither.

“How familiar are you with pureblood contracts?” The question had been burning on his tongue for some time.

He knew Granger was one of the best, maybe the best. But he needed more than just her brilliance to get out of his life-altering predicament.

“That depends on the area,” she answered vaguely. A small part of Draco hoped she really could help him. Still, he wasn’t ready to reveal his problem just yet.

“I’ll make you a deal. Tonight you’ll receive an owl carrying a contract that needs to be nullified. Find a way to do it, and the case is yours. I’ll even have you officially appointed as defense tomorrow, if you can confirm you’ve found a solution.”

The young witch considered this, and Draco could practically see the gears turning in her head.

“And how exactly do you plan to have me appointed as defense? The trial is nothing but a farce, and even you don’t have that much influence.”

“Granger, leave that to me. You just worry about the contract, and I’ll uphold my end of the deal.” Draco hated when his competence was doubted.

By Merlin, he was Draco Malfoy. If there was a world where that no longer meant anything, he’d rather vanish into thin air.

Granger looked at him for a long, silent moment. In the background, the clock behind Potter’s desk ticked unbearably loud.

Then she stood and walked to the door without a word. He hadn’t even thrown her out, though she’d certainly taken advantage of his hospitality.

At the door, she paused and turned back to him.
“I’ll expect your owl.”

Before she could leave, Draco let one last question slip out.
“And what if you can’t keep your end of the bargain?”

He knew she probably already had a plan. Still, he was certain that part would be a massive challenge.

“Oh, Malfoy. And here I thought you were a Slytherin.” With those words, and a nearly diabolical smile, she finally left his office.

To Draco’s dismay, she left behind even more chaos in his head than before. He’d always believed Granger thought herself too righteous to bend her precious rules and regulations. But maybe she had more bite than he’d given her credit for.

He waited two days for her answer. Draco wasn’t used to waiting. He despised it, almost more than Potter’s insufferably cheerful days. He was a Malfoy. Malfoys didn’t wait. People waited for them.

And when the owl finally tapped at his bedroom window with her reply, Draco already knew: he had played right into Granger’s hand.

But as long as he got what he wanted in return, everything was still going according to his plan.

Chapter Text

Hermione knew that Malfoy did not shy away from the occasional bribe. Perhaps the word occasional was already stretching it a little too far, but he was, after all, still a Malfoy.

That was precisely why the young witch had decided to keep a close eye on him and his tricks. One never stopped learning, and knowledge was always a strong weapon.

Later, Hermione would need support in the Ministry, and the idea of finding it in the Malfoys no longer seemed so far-fetched after this week. The family was probably corruptible as well.

Hermione would never voice such thoughts in public, but her public persona had goals she could never achieve without secret plans drawn in the glow of her candle.

Directly after the war, Hermione had overestimated her own influence and Harry’s as well. Now she stood there, working to undo that mistake.
And then there was that contract.

Hermione knew she only needed to find a loophole, yet for the moment, everything seemed watertight and not easily declared void without dirty tricks.

Malfoy would likely agree to such tricks, but Hermione wanted to succeed differently. She wanted a genuine solution, not just any old loophole that required deceit.

Since her visit to his office, Hermione had been thinking about the case, and numerous notes were scattered across her bedroom-office. At moments like these, it was truly inconvenient that she did not actually possess an office in her flat.

Moreover, she did not know who was affected by the contract, since Malfoy had probably withheld that information from her deliberately. For that reason, she did not want to work on the contract or any related documents in her Ministry office.

Caution was required, for she did not want to reveal her cards any earlier than necessary.

Accordingly, she had written Malfoy only a short and very cryptic reply, telling him that she would take on the contract and thus the case as well, and that they would therefore have to discuss it together in the near future.

Secretly, the young witch suspected that Malfoy himself was bound by the contract and was now trying to find a way out of an engagement and a marriage. Hermione had no idea, however, who the second party might be.

There were certainly enough pureblood parents who would happily barter their daughters of marriageable age to the wealthy Malfoy heir, but she was still surprised that it apparently was not Pansy.

In recent years, if the gossip press was to be trusted, Malfoy had kept his love life private and thereby fuelled a great deal of speculation. More than once, he had been named the most desirable bachelor.

From time to time, there had been photographs of him with various exceptionally pretty young women, who had usually accompanied him to different events. Yet now, as Hermione thought about it, she realised there had been no such pictures for quite some time.

That must have been a great disappointment for Witch Weekly and its readership. A tragic turn indeed.

Hermione knew that Ginny always sent her the magazines once she was finished with them, so they had to be lying around somewhere in her living room. After a brief search, the witch found one and held an older issue in her hand.

Malfoy had, in fact, made headlines with a Russian beauty at his side only half a year ago, and since then, almost certainly not again. Hermione did not believe Malfoy’s future bride had ever been seen with him in public, which made the magazine rather useless.

Still, out of sheer curiosity, she studied the wizard more closely. She wanted to understand what made him so desirable, aside from his bank account, of course. He was handsome, as far as she allowed herself that judgement.

One might almost say that the last few years had been kind to Malfoy, if he had not been Malfoy, that is. He had grown taller and now filled out the sharp lines and features that, together with his unnervingly pale hair, had often made him look sickly as a boy.

He seemed to have gained muscle as well, his broad shoulders filling out the black robes in the photograph. Hermione knew Malfoy occasionally played Quidditch with Harry. But he was still Malfoy, and she was not sure what to make of this information, so she turned her attention back to Freya Eldric.

In her leather notebook, after a first read of the admittedly rather thin file, Hermione had written down the necessary next steps. It felt as though the investigation had been cut short, since all evidence pointed to the widowed Miss Eldric as the perpetrator.

And now Hermione was her appointed defence lawyer, tasked with mitigating the sentence.

Normally, the process of assigning legal defence in criminal cases at the Ministry was organised arbitrarily, and Hermione was convinced it would be too conspicuous to volunteer directly as counsel.

It was permitted, certainly, but seldom done.

She needed a way to adapt the process to her own needs, and, oddly enough, the solution had come in the form of Malfoy.

What had shocked Hermione, however, was that he had offered his help voluntarily, and at the very latest, at that point she had been certain he was not helping her out of pure altruism.

Hermione almost expected Malfoy to set further conditions beyond his absurd contract. When she had reached page nine and read about the seed of the first party, she had lost her appetite and had to push her pizza aside.

What was wrong with these purebloods? At times, it seemed to Hermione as if they were all sexually overactive for the preservation of some bloodline, almost to the point of obsession. The sex-obsessed purebloods, she thought with a grin into her tea.

For all the disturbing paragraphs and additions Malfoy had given her, she had to admit that he was keeping his side of the bargain. And he had managed it.

Malfoy had written that he would take care of it before the weekend, and before Hermione knew it, she received an official letter from the Ministry announcing her new client.

Only when the young witch’s eyes fell upon the name Freya Eldric could she truly believe it, and she had to remind herself that this case was not only about her future, but also about her client’s.

Hermione was curious to learn how Malfoy had put her plan into action, but her pride outweighed her curiosity. She did not ask him, for she was sure she would find out somehow.

She was, after all, a lawyer.

Satisfied, she ticked off the first point on her list in her notebook. Now came the official and, to Hermione, somewhat tiresome part.

She had to appear before the judge and swear that she was not personally involved and therefore not biased.

It was precisely this official formality that would guarantee Balfour learned of her involvement in the case. She particularly looked forward to his bewildered expression and laid out a black trouser suit.

Even though she was not Pansy’s greatest fan, she had learnt from the Slytherin that one must always dress well when going into battle.

Moreover, it was important to Hermione to present her client with a professional image, since they would be meeting for the first time and the young woman would not know what to expect.

She needed a strategy. Hermione sat on the floor of her office, the documents from Malfoy’s file spread out before her. A curly strand escaped her loose bun as she wrote the word Motive? on a note and underlined it once more.

The young witch had assumed there must be something striking about the case if Malfoy would not let it rest. At first glance, everything seemed clear; everything pointed to Freya as the perpetrator, and in that case, Hermione would have no choice but to argue for mitigating circumstances.

Hermione felt uneasy; her instincts told her it all seemed too perfect. And then there was the fact that Freya had not spoken, only silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

Hermione leaned back on her thighs with a sigh. There was no way around a meeting with Malfoy. She should have known that Balfour would pick a straightforward case. He would have an easy time of it, and that unsettled her.

Could Freya Eldric really have killed her husband? If so, why was there no obvious motive? Why did she not speak, and why was this wretched case so important and so secret?

Altogether, none of it made sense to her. It seemed inconsistent, almost unnaturally perfect. Calculated.

The perfect murder that was nonetheless solved.

Hermione knew there was no such thing as a perfect murder. There was always a mistake, or several, starting with the lack of a motive, of which she was certain.

According to the Ministry, the motive was obvious: Eldric had had an affair, and her husband had been in the way. Problem solved. And the identity of the lover was unknown, since Eldric would not speak.

But how had they then concluded that Freya had been unfaithful?

Especially as the two had been married only five years, and there was also the matter of the age difference. Why would one begin an affair after only five years? Why murder, instead of simply divorcing?

What kind of person would consider murder the more reasonable solution in such a case, and why was this blasted case so important to the Ministry?

Unanswered questions in a case were never a good sign.

Before she could overthink and overanalyse her decision, Hermione scribbled a message to Malfoy and sent it with an owl. She needed answers, and quickly.

She did not have to wait long, for her owl Weebles returned remarkably swiftly with a cream-coloured envelope clutched in its talons.

Granger,
Eldric confessed the affair herself; we knew nothing beforehand. That was the only time she ever spoke.
Write to me when you have time for a meeting, and I will show you my memories.
Malfoy

Malfoy was already getting on Hermione’s nerves. The witch had clearly expected more from his reply, even if he had answered her as late as ten o’clock at night, as a glance at the clock revealed.

That clock had been a gift from Molly and Arthur after Hermione’s break-up with Ron had become public. They had assured her that she would always have a place in their family and at their table.

It was an unusual choice of present, but Hermione appreciated the gesture.

The Weasleys were her family. They had chosen her, welcomed her into the magical world, and given her a home. They had been there for her, and still were. Molly and Arthur even invited her parents more often now and were slowly reintroducing the Grangers to the magical world.

Hermione knew her parents would never be quite the same again, and though their memories had returned, the emotional bond was broken and could not be restored. But she also knew she was not alone.

The young witch resolutely packed up the case file and the contract, shoved everything rather unceremoniously into her bag, and set off towards the fireplace. She needed her answers now, if she was to face Freya Eldric the next day.

Malfoy Manor was a cold place, in the truest sense of the word. Even in early autumn, the sun seemed unable to warm the manor house, and Hermione was certain it was always dark there. She could not quite judge, however, since it was already pitch black outside and in.

“Miss?” piped a nervous voice behind Hermione, and she turned in confusion.

“Granger,” the young witch said automatically.

Before her stood a very young house-elf in a smart black suit of Muggle fashion. With a pop, an older house-elf appeared beside him, dressed in a pale blue frock with a matching bow.

“Miss, may I help you?” the new elf asked sternly, and Hermione doubted whether her hasty idea had really been such a good one.

“Granger,” squeaked the first elf again, and the stern one’s eyes grew wide.

“You are Miss Granger? To make your acquaintance is a great honour for Missy and Tifty.” Both elves began to bow, and Hermione knew it was better not to stop them, so as not to confuse them.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Missy and Tifty. Call me Hermione. I am looking for Malf… Draco,” Hermione quickly corrected herself, since there were several Malfoys in this household.

“Master Draco is in his study,” Tifty reported, sounding less uncertain now.

“We shall take Miss Granger to him at once,” Missy said busily and seized Hermione by the hand.

“Should you not inform him first?”

“The Master will learn of Miss Granger’s presence when Miss Granger is standing in his study.”

Now Hermione was confused.

Tipsy took her other hand and continued on Missy’s behalf. “Master Draco has said that we are always to bring nocturnal visitors to him immediately, without announcement.”

Before Hermione could clear up the misunderstanding, she already felt the familiar tug in her stomach and was whisked away with the elves.

Chapter Text

Something or someone popped into existence in front of his desk. The house-elves ought to have been asleep by now, or doing whatever it was they did in their spare time. Their shift had ended, and Draco simply wanted some peace.

He tried his favourite strategy: do not react, and hope the problem resolves itself.

Missy cleared her throat, and Draco looked up. He definitely needed a new strategy. Then he had a flashback to Monday and decided it was best to hate Mondays altogether.

Granger stood in front of his desk. Again. She was holding a house-elf by each hand, who vanished with a synchronised pop, leaving the two of them alone.

Draco leaned back in his leather chair and studied Granger. She looked as though she had been set on a comfortable evening on the sofa.

She must have realised as much herself, because she followed his gaze and her cheeks turned faintly pink. Otherwise, she gave no reaction.

"Well, Granger, I assume you have either solved my problem with the contract or you simply misunderstood my message, in which I asked you for a suitable appointment."

"And the third possibility? That I am here as your nightly visitor?", Hermione wanted to rile him up, he was far to calm for her liking.

She seemed to have recovered and raised an eyebrow. Oh, those blasted elves.

Draco knew he ought to feel embarrassed, but he preferred to ignore the emotion.

"Have the elves been gossiping?" Now it was the Malfoy heir’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

"It seemed rather obvious, given the confusion." Granger crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"You should take it as a compliment, Granger. Contact with the Malfoys is always to one’s advantage."

"I am not sure I want to take that as a compliment. Is it not a bit too ordinary for you to keep such contact at all?"

The question slipped out of the young witch before she could stop it. She had not meant to ask.

"Careful, or I might think you are truly interested in my private life," Draco could not help but grin.

The whole situation amused him more than expected, and so long as Granger did not know that such nightly visits were rare, everything was fine. She needn’t know anything about it.

"And we do not want that," Granger said, seating herself uninvited in the other chair in his office. Again. Draco really needed to prevent this from becoming a habit.

He could already picture Theo’s face if he learnt of it. It meant nothing, yet Theo would find a way to make Draco’s life miserable with that piece of information, purely for his own entertainment.

His best friend clearly needed a hobby, a pet, or someone to fuck regularly.

Draco examined Granger more closely as he circled his desk and leaned against its edge opposite her.

"So, why are you disturbing my evening?"

"It hardly looks as though you were spending your evening at leisure," the witch before him noted, glancing at the desk where the day’s files were still spread out.

"Granger," he growled impatiently.

Draco only wanted peace. And yet, the women in his life never allowed him that. It was a tragic fate he was forced to endure.

"I want to see your memories. I assume Malfoy Manor possesses a Pensieve?"

"How terribly rude. My etiquette teacher would have a fit if she saw your behaviour. Could this not have waited until tomorrow?"

"No."

Draco was startled. He did not often hear the word no, and if he did, it was usually from Potter. Perhaps it was a Gryffindor thing, to make his life as difficult as possible on principle.

The thought was not far-fetched, especially after Potter had sent him on a mission with Weaselbee only last week.

To Potter’s fortune, Weasley was not quite as incompetent as before, and Draco still had all his limbs. Normally, that was the minimum requirement for a mission, but still, it was Weaselbee.

"No?" Draco asked again, to make sure it was not simply his lack of sleep affecting him.

"No. I begin my post as duty solicitor tomorrow and need all relevant information."

He sighed. So much for a relaxing evening.

Draco walked to the towering bookcase and pulled on one of the volumes. The heavy sound of stone grating against stone echoed through the room as the bookcase slid aside, revealing his Pensieve.

Granger, fortunately, required no further instruction. In this respect, she was several steps ahead of Weaselbee and moved to stand beside Draco.

With a precise flick of his wand, he pulled the memory from his mind. It swirled orange through the air, and Granger frowned.

"Why is your memory orange? Memories are bluish, whitish."

Her gaze became absent, and Draco could practically see the cogs turning in her head.

"I assign different colours to my memories," he said. She would receive no deeper explanation. Granger did not need to know everything.

And if she truly cared, she would find a book to look it up. If such a book even existed. He smirked. Who would have thought he might one day be more knowledgeable than Gryffindor’s know-it-all? Perhaps his evening would not be wasted after all.

He looked at the dark-haired witch, who was biting her lower lip thoughtfully as she studied the memory. She was probably restraining herself from asking more questions, knowing full well he would not answer.

At least she was not naïve.

With a graceful movement of his hand, perfected by hours of practice, Draco guided the memory into the Pensieve, and before he knew it, they were both drawn in.

He felt Granger’s presence beside him as the Ministry’s conference room sharpened around them. Blurred colours became lines, outlines gave way to structure, and suddenly they were standing in the middle of his memory.

Draco knew exactly what had happened and therefore preferred to watch Granger and her reactions. She had pulled a leather notebook from somewhere and was observing the events before her intently.

‘Good day, Miss Eldric,’ the Draco of the memory entered the room, and Draco could not help admiring how infuriatingly good he looked.

He even managed to make that dreadful uniform resemble haute couture.

No wonder Pansy always begged him to model for her. Not that he would ever agree. He was a Malfoy; he did not model. But it was satisfying to know the world was blessed with his looks.

The young woman opposite him did not react to his entrance. She seemed almost dissociated.

The Draco of the memory sat down opposite Freya Eldric at the table. Her hands were bound by cuffs that also suppressed a witch’s or wizard’s magical core. It was a mixture of barbaric and necessary for safety, and Draco hoped never to wear them himself.

Eldric still wore her wedding ring, pale gold and the only piece of jewellery in that colour, while the rest of her adornments were silver. It was a striking combination; he would have to look into it further.

Her gaze seemed to pass straight through the Draco of the memory, her eyes almost empty, as though the light had been extinguished in the green depths, as if someone had stolen Freya Eldric’s very essence, as if the love of her life were dead, which he was.

Draco could not believe this woman had truly killed her husband. Something about it unsettled him, though he could not put it into words. It was a feeling he could not shake. And her eyes in particular haunted him.

The Draco of the memory cleared his throat, and Hermione took notes vigorously in her leather-bound book.

‘So, Miss Eldric. You know why you are here. For the record, this is the fifth interrogation, as you refused to respond to any of our questions in the previous four.’ Draco flipped through the file before him and pulled out a photograph of the crime scene.

‘Miss Eldric, am I correct in assuming this is your residence at 9 Abby Street?’

No reaction. Not even the shake of her head.

‘Miss Eldric, where were you on the night of the 3rd of September?’

No reaction.

‘Miss Eldric, do you insist on your right to legal counsel?’

Still no reaction.

Draco knew what came next. He flinched inwardly, for this was his least favourite part of the memory.

Now came the moment Robards had insisted upon. If Draco failed to get answers, he was to present Freya Eldric with photographs of the murder victim.

At the time he had been relieved that they used Muggle technology for crime scene photographs, which meant the images were mercifully still.

The Draco of the memory hesitated, and Granger stopped writing, watching him more closely. Once again she pulled her lower lip between her teeth, gnawing on it thoughtfully.

‘Miss Eldric, as you know, the victim has been identified by his sister as your husband, Samuel Eldric.’

Draco watched as his past self faltered, then slowly slid the photograph from the file and placed it in front of Freya Eldric.

He thought he saw a flicker in her eyes. She blinked, and for a moment it was as though life had been breathed back into her. The first real reaction. Something genuine.

And then it began.

Tears streamed relentlessly from Freya Eldric’s eyes, carving paths down pale cheeks before dripping onto the wooden surface of the table.

Draco did not need to study the photograph again; he knew the victim’s condition all too well. Merlin, he had even been present at the autopsy. Still, he could understand why the image continued to torment her.

The photo showed her husband lying in the dining room of their flat. The dining table had been shoved aside, and in the background, a chair lay overturned beside a spilled wineglass. A dark red puddle had spread across the pale carpet, looking unnervingly like blood.

Around the man’s head were scattered cutlery, a plate, and the remains of a meal.

Samuel Eldric was barely recognisable, and Draco felt monstrous, even now, for forcing his widow to face that sight, to relive the horror.

The man’s eyes were swollen, as though from an allergic reaction. His skin was covered in red welts and scratch marks, spread across his entire body. In some places, the skin had been clawed open and bled freely, while a thin line of blood ran from his left nostril.

The worst of it was not even captured in the photo: the ripped-out hair and bald patches on his scalp, the foaming mouth, the blue lips. Draco could not imagine bearing such a sight of a loved one.

And he knew why he let few people into his heart. Love destroyed. He saw it over and over.

Freya Eldric seemed shaken to her core by the sight of her husband. She rubbed her arms, her eyes no longer so blank, her entire presence seeming more alert. As though she had awoken from a nightmare that was, in fact, her reality.

Draco observed her closely. She still said nothing, and he waited patiently. Silence was his tactic, and often his success.

‘The loose floorboard in the bedroom creaks so loudly. Samuel hates the noise. I really must call a workman.’

Her words seemed rambling, yet her eyes were clear.

Only now, in hindsight, did Draco realise what unsettled him. Nothing about it fit together.

And he began to wonder whether Freya Eldric was truly innocent, or simply an excellent actress.

When Draco and Hermione returned to the present, the young witch snapped her leather notebook shut and cleared her throat.

"After this conversation, we searched beneath the mentioned floorboard and found evidence of an affair. Love letters, secret meetings, notes, gifts. No photographs, though," Draco watched Hermione carefully as she processed the information.

She nodded, though her thoughts seemed elsewhere. Perhaps still lingering in the memory.

"That was very enlightening. Malfoy, when do you have time for a meeting to discuss the case?" She sounded businesslike, gathering her belongings.

"I would have been content with a simple thank you." Draco thought, not for the first time, that Granger had either lost her manners in Gryffindor or never possessed them in the first place.

"I thank people when I consider it necessary. That is part of the agreement. I expect your owl with a date and time."

And with that, Granger turned once more and left his office. Draco felt a sense of déjà vu, but he did not follow. Granger would find her own way home. She was Granger, after all.

Draco wondered why she had come to the Manor in the first place. He knew how invested she was in the case, but he also knew her past.

By now, his mother had made it her mission to renovate as much of the Manor as possible, yet parts of the memories still clung to the place.

Granger’s presence hardly helped, for Draco knew he would dream of her again tonight, and with that dream would come the helplessness.

He knew Granger would likely be working with him more often now. And he also knew it would help neither of them if their cooperation took place at the Manor or the Ministry. One carried old memories, the other sparked fresh rumours.

Draco knew he needed a solution.

_-_

Hermione hated Malfoy Manor, and if it hadn’t been for the case, she wouldn’t have set foot in this place again so soon.

She refused to let Malfoy see this weakness, but her skin still prickled whenever she thought of that room, of his aunt, and of the night she had nearly died here.

At times, she even imagined the words carved into her flesh were burning once more, and all she wanted was to leave Malfoy Manor as quickly as possible.

She quickened her pace, the sharp echo of her heels bouncing off the walls, chasing after her like a reminder.

At last, fortune was on her side: the fireplace in the entrance hall came into view. Without a backward glance, Hermione threw in a handful of Floo powder, spoke her address, and disappeared in a whirl of green flames.

As an attorney, travelling from appointment to appointment was part of the job. She was grateful that most of her obligations were within the Ministry itself, though it no longer surprised her when she found Floo powder clinging to the inside of her robes.

The next morning was no exception. Hermione stepped out of the Ministry’s fireplace, dusted the ash from her sleeves, and hurried toward the court’s meeting chambers.

To her relief, she managed to squeeze into a lift, though it was crowded as usual with Ministry employees.

She pressed the button for the tenth floor, where the courtrooms were located.

Her own office was on the second floor, in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; why the courtrooms had been placed so far away, she would never understand.

“Good morning, Miss Granger,” a deep voice rumbled beside her. Hermione tilted her head slightly and found herself face-to-face with Pinsley.

She forced a smile.
“Mr Pinsley,” she greeted politely, then realized who was standing at his side.
“Good morning, Mr Balfour.”

Hasel Balfour stood next to Pinsley, eyeing her far less discreetly than was proper. He gave her a curt nod.

“And who will you be helping on this fine morning?” Pinsley chuckled at his own remark, as though it were the wittiest thing ever said.

Hermione resisted the urge to sigh audibly.

“Oh, you know, there’s always work to be done. How is your wife?”

“Excellent, I’ll give Isabelle your regards.”

Hermione smiled faintly, but before she could turn away, Balfour joined in.

“Miss Granger, we’ve already passed the second floor. Shouldn’t you be getting off?”

Idiot.

“I happen to have a court obligation today, but thank you ever so much for your concern. Might I ask what business keeps you occupied?”

Hermione loathed small talk.

“We’ve an appointment in the Department of Mysteries,” Pinsley said with obvious pride.

“Something new always comes up there, as you surely know. And there’s also this new case Balfour will be taking over for me…”

“But we don't want to bore you with the details,” Balfour cut him off smoothly. “All highly interesting work, as I’m sure you can imagine, Miss Granger. Now, if you’ll excuse us, this is our stop.”

Without another word, the two men left the lift. Oddly, it was only the Ministry’s entrance hall, Hermione realized with irritation that she had stepped into the wrong lift, one headed in the opposite direction.

Still, she now knew Pinsley had boarded on the second floor, and Balfour on the third. What was he doing in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? The thought was unsettling, and already she felt the beginnings of a headache.

Gradually the lift emptied, and Hermione could breathe again. She hated crowds, the press of bodies, the noise, the heat.

Fresh air was a rare luxury in such moments. She exhaled and stepped back until her shoulders touched the wall, granting her a better vantage point and a moment’s distance.

“I wonder how Balfour managed to wrap Pinsley around his finger.”

The familiar voice nearly made her jump. She turned her head and, of course, found Malfoy standing there.

“Balfour knows how to suck up to people. Never a tactic I had much faith in. Though I suppose that sort of thing is taught in Slytherin, isn’t it?”

Malfoy smirked. “Oh, Granger. You think we needed to be taught that? Shameful how little credit you give us.” He laughed softly under his breath, and Hermione fixed her eyes firmly on the lift doors.

Her body tensed in his presence, as if her instincts defaulted to fight rather than flight.
Malfoy leaned against the wall, legs crossed casually. He wore a dark suit that resembled Muggle fashion more than wizarding robes, his pale hair slicked back, hands resting loosely in his pockets.

Why was he always so relaxed when she felt strung taut as a bow?

“Do you think Balfour already knows about the court appointment?” she asked, hating the uncertainty in her voice. Why did she even care about his opinion?

“Balfour is a conceited fool, but not an unintelligent one,” Malfoy replied smoothly. “If he hasn’t figured it out yet, he will as soon as he steps into his office. Potter told me just last week that Balfour has ears and eyes all over the Ministry — or at least he tries to. Unfortunately, we can’t prove it. And suspicion alone won’t get you far in court, as you of all people know.”

Balfour had spies. Hermione hadn’t expected that, and though she was rarely caught off guard, it unsettled her now. Perhaps she had underestimated him. That mistake could cost her dearly.

“Relax, Granger,” Malfoy drawled, still leaning against the wall. “Balfour is still an idiot. We’ll find a way for you to get that promotion — and with any luck, Balfour will finally get what’s coming to him.”

Her heart stumbled over the word we.

“How do you know about that?” she asked sharply. For the first time in years, she felt her confidence slip in his presence.

“Granger, not all of us are idiots.” Malfoy’s grin widened. He shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. Then, leaning closer, he added in a low voice, “I’m almost offended you didn’t think I’d notice.”

Before she could retort, the lift dinged. Malfoy pushed off the wall and strolled out as though he had all the time in the world, leaving Hermione momentarily stunned.

Point to Malfoy.

Her pulse still racing, Hermione hurried toward the courtroom, where Judge Campbell and Freya Eldric were already waiting.

“Miss Granger,” the judge greeted her with a nod. Campbell was an older witch, hair pulled into a severe bun, though the fine laugh lines around her eyes softened her features. She reminded Hermione of Professor McGonagall — stern, yet with an undercurrent of maternal patience.

“Good morning. Thank you for arranging this at such short notice,” Hermione said, taking her seat at the defence’s bench.

At that moment, the heavy doors swung open. Freya Eldric entered, shackled at the wrists, flanked by Malfoy and Harry.

“Miss Eldric,” Campbell addressed the young woman with pale blonde hair.

She gave no reply.

“Very well.” Campbell turned her gaze to Hermione. “Miss Granger, you’ve been informed you have been appointed as court-assigned defence. Do you accept?”

Hermione nodded.

“You know the procedure. I’ll need your magical signature.”

With a flick of her wand, Campbell summoned a contract, which floated onto Hermione’s desk. Hermione had read it so many times in the last twenty-four hours she knew it nearly by heart. She drew her quill and signed with a practiced flourish. The parchment dissolved into thin air.

“Now that that’s settled, Miss Eldric, since you have refused cooperation thus far, Hermione Granger is hereby assigned as your counsel,” Campbell declared.

Again, no reaction.

For the first time, however, Freya’s gaze seemed to settle on Hermione, her eyes oddly hollow as though looking through her.

Campbell’s patience was clearly fraying. “We’ll reconvene next week for trial,” she announced before rising and leaving the chamber.

Hermione cursed inwardly. She had known the trial was imminent, but so little preparation time left her uneasy. Miss Eldric had been given ample opportunity to choose representation, but her silence had forced the court’s hand, and those decisions had not worked in her favour.

Harry and Malfoy lingered nearby, but Hermione had no room in her mind for them now. She turned to her client.

“Miss Eldric, is there anything you want to tell me?”

At first, nothing. Then Freya shifted, slowly turning her head toward Hermione. Her voice was faint, detached.
“I loved him.”

Hermione studied her carefully, unable to read sincerity in her expression. The words rang hollow, like a rehearsed line.

She waited for more, but none came. With a curt nod, Hermione signalled to Harry and Malfoy, who helped Freya to her feet.

“I’ll come by for a proper conversation. Until then, take care,” Hermione said, forcing a polite smile. She watched as Freya walked away, each step hesitant, fragile.

When Hermione finally stepped into her fireplace that evening, one thing was certain: she did not trust her client.

And she trusted even less that this case was anywhere near as simple as it appeared.

Chapter Text

Hermione disliked sports, or at least most versions of them. Athletes, on the other hand, were something Hermione Granger was quite a fan of. In particular, broom tights had caught her eye, and Viktor Krum’s were in a wholly professional league.

Sometimes the young witch regretted ending their arrangement a few months ago, because she longed for sex, or at the very least for an orgasm that was not brought about by her own hand or her vibrator.

Her newest distraction from work was jogging. As already mentioned, Hermione hated sport.

It was Friday morning, and Hermione had exactly one week left to come up with a strategy for the Freya Eldric case.

Recently, she had bought herself a new MP3 player and downloaded some new music in the hope of making her new hobby somewhat more bearable.

Unfortunately, that had not been the case, and when Hermione arrived at her front door dripping with sweat, she knew she needed another solution besides sport or sex. She really had to work on her work–life balance, which meant it would hardly be wise to cancel her evening with friends.

Apparently, Pansy had suggested a new bar as a meeting place, and Hermione knew better than to end up on the wrong side of that witch.

Exhausted, the dark-haired witch unlocked her door and set the MP3 player down on the hall table. Crookshanks came racing round the corner and purred insistently around her legs. He was hungry again, though Hermione was never quite sure when her Kneazle was not hungry.

Hermione pulled her wand out of her bun and, with a quick flick, refilled the bowls in the kitchen before finally allowing herself the luxury of a shower.

The problem that had driven her to run in the first place was that her thoughts never truly stopped. And it was that very problem that haunted her again in the shower. For once, she was not dwelling on her current case but on Malfoy’s contract. The whole thing was trickier than expected, and Hermione was not yet sure whether she would find a way out.

There were only a few reasons to interrupt a betrothal. In her head, Hermione listed the fundamental possibilities:

1. Financial or economic concerns. That was no issue for the Malfoys, though one could deal with the other party in such cases.

2. Social standing and class. Hermione knew of no valid rumours for this case.

3. Character, morals, or scandals. Unfortunately, she was certain that Malfoy neither gambled nor drank excessively.

4. Family interests. Perhaps one might bring inheritance disputes into play?

5. Health concerns, though she did not know of any.

It was maddening, for although there were plenty of potential reasons, the contract had a clause or exception for each of them. At the moment, Hermione saw only a scandal as an option, and of course, that was out of the question.

The witch was almost disappointed in herself and had to admit the contract was far more complicated than she had first thought. Malfoy would hardly have sought her counsel otherwise.

Hermione watched a bead of water make its way slowly over her bathroom tile, land beside her foot, and disappear down the drain. Quickly, she rinsed the conditioner from her hair and stepped out of the shower.

She simply could not accept that there was no other solution. At the same time, she doubted Malfoy would ever admit to health concerns on his part, if such existed.

Hermione glared at her reflection as she began her curls routine. Soon, the scent of the products filled the air with a rich fragrance, and the witch came to a decision.

Before she would admit to Malfoy that she had failed, she would find another way. Yet before inspiration struck, she wrote out the possible loopholes with comments, then sent them to Malfoy by owl.

It was perhaps not surprising that even in 2006 marriage contracts still existed, at least among the circles of the magical elite, yet Hermione could not comprehend why parents thought they were doing their children a favour with such antiquated ideas.

The very thought of marrying against her will gave her gooseflesh. She wondered whether Malfoy felt the same, or whether his frustration lay more with his parents’ choice of bride.

In general, the young woman could not picture what was expected of a potential wife in wealthy families. Most likely, the old pureblood houses kept entire lists of expectations, talents, and required traits.

The day dragged on, and although Hermione knew she ought to be working on Miss Eldric’s case, she could not let go of the contract dilemma.

There had to be a solution she had not yet considered. She was growing nervous too, as Malfoy had simply not replied, and so she lacked further information. It felt as though she were going round in circles: whenever she thought of an idea, a clause immediately rendered it void.

Hermione was on the verge of sending Malfoy another owl to request access to his library, though that might be going too far.

What she did not know was that Draco Malfoy, in his flat in central London, felt much the same.

After work Draco had decided he could not endure yet another spontaneous society function of his mother’s, and far less another minute at the Greengrass estate.

If Draco was not staring at the wallpaper in an effort not to fall asleep, having already counted the books on his shelves and the floorboards beneath his feet to the point that he could probably help with a renovation, his thoughts kept straying.

Only yesterday Astoria had been reminiscing over breakfast about her schooldays, and suddenly in his mind he had recalled the moment when her sister was moaning beneath Blaise, pressed against his desk. The memory had unsettled Draco so much that he had instantly invented a forgotten court appointment.

Of course, to maintain the pretence he had to floo to the Ministry, and there he ended up in the same lift as Granger, Pinsley, and Balfour. It had been a lucky coincidence that Granger had her appointment with Eldric, though perhaps he had simply let that detail slip on purpose.

The result was the same: Draco did not have to explain to his betrothed why he refused to kiss her sister’s hand, who knew where else it had been with Blaise, and instead had escaped to the Ministry before Daphne arrived at the estate. In truth, Daphne Greengrass ought to thank him for his quick thinking, of that he was certain.

Rationally, Draco would not have refused Daphne a hand-kiss; he was still a gentleman, if a disturbed one. But he was not sure he could look her in the eye and act as though nothing had happened, not in front of her family. To him, it was simply an odd situation.

When they had been younger, spending time together in Slytherin, such things would not have mattered. Especially in the year before the war and the year after, the Slytherins had allowed themselves certain excesses. Everyone needed a distraction, and his friends, sometimes even he himself, had chosen not to be alone.

That had been the worst part of the war: the idea of being alone. Even when Draco lay in bed at night, he sometimes felt himself drawn back to those cold moments. Nagini had delighted in sliding over his body in the dark, and he still shuddered at the thought. He would likely never be rid of that feeling.

The flare of his fireplace pulled Draco from his thoughts, and without turning, he already knew who was stepping through.

“You can tell at once there’s a foul mood in here. That’s quite a talent, mate,” Theo dropped himself onto Draco’s sofa.

“Theo’s right, Dray. I always say you should look into Feng Shui. It would do wonders for your mood,” Pansy clicked her tongue and studied him closely.

“Anyone want a drink?” The clink of glass and decanter came from behind as Blaise, of course, helped himself at the trolley first.

“Darling, you already know the answer,” Pansy sat beside Theo and crossed her legs.

“You could all at least greet me properly. Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean you must abandon your manners on my account,” Draco raised a pale brow and turned fully towards them.

“Please, Blaise, do help yourself to a drink.”

Blaise only grinned.

“Draco, you know the saying. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is none of your business,” Blaise handed out glasses. As always, Pansy received a cocktail, while Theo and Draco made do with whisky.

“So, to what do I owe the honour?”

“We’re going out,” Theo clinked his glass with Pansy’s and raised it towards Draco.

“Cheers, mate.”

“We?” Draco had not yet heard the plans, though it was hardly unusual for his friends to scheme and drag him along.

“Dray, I need moral support,” Pansy sighed, tracing the rim of her glass with a red lacquered nail. The ice clinked inside.

“Pansy has agreed to organise an evening for the Lions,” Theo explained.

“I know, I know. It’s just that they go out every Friday, and the establishments they choose leave much to be desired. And I promised Neville I would integrate.”

Blaise whistled and received a glare from Pansy.

“Now you will, of course, ask why this is our problem, my good friend,” Theo smiled devilishly.

“We’ve made it our problem. We’ve been frightfully bored of late, so we thought it was high time to show the Gryffindors how to party,” Blaise said, already sounding weary.

“Aren’t you busy enough?” Draco already knew he could not escape the evening, and perhaps a distraction at the Lions’ expense would not be so bad.

“Daphne’s away, back tomorrow. You lot won’t be seeing me for the next week. We’ve much to catch up on.”

“Blaise, you’re an idiot.”

“I know, Pans. But an idiot with a large cock.”

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion. I’ve seen more impressive specimens.”

“Pansy means me, Blaise,” Theo smirked.

“If you say so. Look at Draco, he knows full well he needn’t join these childish comparisons. Although you could all learn a thing or two from Neville, I’m sure.”

The situation was getting too much for Draco. “Pansy.”

“I’m only stating facts.”

“Our Dray is just sensitive because he knows he still has room to improve. With our Casanova and me, it will always remain an open question, at least for you,” Theo teased.

“That’s too much information. If you want me to face your gardener this evening, you had better change the subject,” Draco warned. He did not need any lessons from Neville Longbottom.

“You know perfectly well he’s not a gardener,” Pansy snapped. Whenever it came to her partner, her friends had to mind their words.

“Easy, Pansy. Where are we going tonight?” Blaise asked, taking another sip.

“The Cascina, the new bar in West Brompton. Tonight’s a jazz night with a live band.”

“Ah, so you want to civilise the Lions,” Draco leaned back and studied Pansy. She was already dressed to impress.

Her bob was adorned with a golden hairpiece, and she wore a black fringed dress reminiscent of the twenties. Draco was sure it was from her new collection.

“Sounds like a difficult mission, but if anyone can manage it, it’s you,” Blaise said seriously, while Theo burst out laughing.

“So, Dray, get changed. I won’t be late for my own evening.”

“Yes, Dray, dress up for the Lions,” Theo clinked glasses with Blaise.

Both Theo and Blaise were clearly ready as well. Blaise had gone for the Casanova look again with a black shirt, the top buttons undone to show skin. Theo looked like a man on a mission, Draco did not understand, with a waistcoat and matching trousers. Perhaps Pansy had dressed him. Best not to ask.

Draco rose and rounded his desk, his hand on the door handle, when with a pop, Missy appeared.

“Master Draco,” he turned towards his elf.

“You must reply to Miss Granger. Master Draco knows how rude it would be otherwise.”

There was another pop.

“And you should not ignore it, not after Miss Granger’s visit the other night. It seemed important,” Tipsy’s eyes widened as he nodded busily.

The elves popped away together.

Draco did not need to turn round to see the looks awaiting him.

His friends were all staring with raised brows, as though rehearsed.

“Ah, Master Dray, did we have a nocturnal visit from a Miss Granger?” Theo grinned, and Draco cursed his elves.

“We’re working on a case.”

“At night?” Pansy tilted her head.

“Tell us more, it sounds terribly interesting,” Blaise leaned back with a suggestive look.

“And why haven’t we heard of it yet?”

“And why hasn’t it been in the Prophet?” Theo clutched his chest in mock shock.

“Hiding things from us? Draco, I don’t know if our relationship can survive this,” Theo sighed dramatically.

“It’s all under wraps,” the young Malfoy almost growled.

“Of course, same with Daph and me,” Blaise winked.

“And we know how that ends,” Pansy shook her head, earning a glare from Blaise.

“What, one doesn’t cheat, that’s all,” Pansy shrugged and clinked her glass against Blaise’s just to irk him.

“But isn’t Granger single?” Theo licked his lips.

That was too far, too unprofessional.

Draco had had enough. Without another word, he opened the door and disappeared towards his rooms to change. Hopefully, by the time he returned, his friends would have found a new topic. He was certain his elves had done it on purpose. They loved to rile him.

“Dramatic exit,” Draco heard Theo whistle softly behind him, but chose not to rise to it.

_-_

It felt as though they were stepping into another world, one where time did not exist.

The smell of cigarettes hung heavy in the air, laced with jazz music. Not even the brief gusts from the opening and closing of the door could clear it.

Draco glanced around as he helped Pansy out of her coat and slung it over his arm. The witch’s heels clicked on the wooden floor as they stepped fully into the room.

Theo gave a low whistle. Whistling seemed to have become his new hobby. Draco considered it just as well that Theo had found one, for when occupied, he was less likely to cause chaos. And as long as he had hobbies, he would not mimic Blaise by embarking on affairs with married witches or wizards. With Theo, one could never be sure.

The floor was parquet, though the sound of their steps was drowned by the jazz.

Blaise cast his eyes about the dimly lit bar.

“Looks like the Lions are late.”

Behind the bar stood countless bottles of spirits and mixers, neatly ordered glasses, and three barkeepers working swiftly to fill orders. It was hot, crowded, and loud, exactly what Draco needed this Friday evening. A change of scene.

The young man ran a hand through his pale hair as Pansy led them to a half-moon booth of plush velvet with a small lamp on the table. The group sat, leaving room for the Lions to join. Exactly as it had to be for Pansy’s night, perfect.

He took in the room properly. It was stylishly decorated. Grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light glinting off dresses of every colour: red, gold, silver, black, blue, and more besides. Light from the fabrics danced across the velvet curtains on windows and walls.

A saxophone blared. Couples danced, chatted, and laughed, while others sat at tables. From time to time, someone took a glass from the towering champagne pyramid. The atmosphere was exuberant, the crowd intent only on the here and now.

For the first time, Draco’s gaze lingered on the stage. A singer and jazz band performed. An old piano stood to the left at the front, bordered by small spotlights. A microphone stood in the centre, at which a young woman was singing.

Behind her, a drum kit stood near the piano, while to the right was a double bass and other instruments, all blending perfectly. The song faded with a few final deep notes before the next began, led by the slightly husky voice of a young woman with long dark-blonde curls. She did not seem to belong to this time.

She wore a blonde bob wig and a fringed dress of gold and black sequins, a striking contrast to her alabaster skin. Long gloves adorned her arms and she held a simple feather boa. She was a beauty, as though she had stepped straight from a silent film.

Draco was so fixed on the stage that he did not notice Pansy had already ordered drinks. Something about the woman gave him pause. There was something almost Veela-like about her.

Before the Slytherins could raise their glasses, Pansy shot to her feet and rushed towards Neville Longbottom. Draco had to admit, time had been kind to him.

“Hello,” Neville smiled warmly at the table, tapping the wood.

Draco honestly could not fathom how this man could handle Pansy Parkinson.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Our party has arrived,” Theo spread his arms in mock delight as the rest of the Gryffindors appeared behind Longbottom.

“Nott. As ever, a pleasure,” the Weaselette grinned as she sat beside Theo, Potter trailing her like a lapdog.

Draco knew Theo had once been involved with a player from Weasley’s team, which explained their easy rapport. Nor did he miss how Blaise’s eyes lingered on the red-haired beauty. That could only spell trouble.

He nudged him with an elbow and tilted his head towards Potter, but Blaise only rolled his eyes and grinned roguishly.

Could Draco not have one evening without complications?

And speaking of complications, why was Granger on the arm of the male Weasley? That promised nothing but chaos and frayed nerves, a dreadful combination.

Draco gave Potter a curt nod and Granger one of his trademark smirks along with a wink, purely because he knew it would irritate Weasley.

His evening was already overpopulated with Weasleys.

Granger inclined her head coolly, while Weasley frowned at her and muttered something in her ear, to which she only shrugged.

To Draco’s dismay, Weasley sat down right beside him. A dream come true.

“So, Ginny, our Theo here says you’ve become quite fit,” Blaise leaned over the table with a suggestive look, earning Draco an irritated glance from Potter.

“On first names already?” the Weaselette only smirked at Blaise before turning to Potter.

Naturally, Blaise would not give up.

Mercifully, Longbottom and Pansy arrived back with a tray of shots.

“As you know, I insisted on hosting one of your nights. Neville and I also have an announcement,” Pansy raised her glass and smiled diplomatically at the group.

“You’re pregnant!” Theo blurted, and Draco nearly choked on his drink, Blaise having to clap him on the back.

“Yes, obviously, and that’s why I’m drinking alcohol, Nott,” Pansy shot him a glare.

“It was only an idea.”

“What Pansy meant was, we’re moving in together and planning to buy a place of our own,” Neville kissed her cheek.

Draco felt relief wash over him. He had braced for anything, but cohabitation was harmless enough. The world was hardly ready for a child of Longbottom and Parkinson, and Draco was far less ready to see more Gryffindors.

The couple was flooded with congratulations, and the toasts finally began.

The evening eased into comfort. Though the conversations had started oddly, mostly thanks to Theo, the group found a rhythm.

Soon, Pansy dragged Longbottom to the dance floor, and Potter followed with the Weaselette, who eventually, to Blaise’s displeasure, offered her first name.

“Where are you going?” Draco muttered to Blaise, who had been staring at the floor for some time.

“To relieve Potter.” Blaise started to rise, but Draco held him back.

“Don’t. Don’t ruin this for Pansy. When have you ever seen her this happy?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. So be a good friend and don’t flirt, or sleep with, Potter’s girlfriend. Don't even think about it", Draco sometimes truly did not understand Blaise. Perhaps it was better that way.

The blond Slytherin’s gaze swept the room again. The atmosphere was light, and his eyes caught once more on the singer.

“Malfoy, are you hunting for a new victim for your midnight trysts?” Draco had not noticed Granger was now seated closer, following his gaze.

“Jealous?” He arched a brow at her and turned.

“No, more pity really.” She grinned impishly and took a sip of her drink.

Draco was about to retort when, of course, Theo interfered.

“Ah, Miss Granger. What a delight. Theodore Nott, always at your service. We have not had the pleasure.” He overdid it as always, kissing her hand.

Draco was not sure if it was only the poor lighting, but Granger seemed to blush.

“Theo to friends,” he winked, and Draco had to suppress a groan.

“Theo,” she repeated, as though testing the sound of it, and Draco wondered how his own name would sound if she tried it that way.

“Our Draco here tells us you’re working together on a case,” Theo said. Draco felt the urge to strangle him.

“Oh, really?” Hermione turned to Draco, one brow raised. He could only shrug.

“And since I’m naturally interested in my good friend Draco, and he tells us far too little, I was hoping you might share a little.”

“Oh, Theo, it’s dreadfully dull, believe me. An old lady had her handbag stolen.”

“And?” Theo edged closer, and Draco felt the impulse to pull him back.

“That’s it. Utterly boring, as I said.” Granger shot Draco a knowing look.

“Pfft. I’d expected more. Draco never tells us about his cases; now I see why. But Granger, may I call you Hermione? Tell us something about yourself.”

“I’m probably just as boring as our case.” Draco knew that was a lie.

“I’ll be the judge of that. So, tell me, do you have a hot lover at the moment, or is Weasley still number one?”

Was this the point to intervene? Draco was not sure. Granger could handle him, and Draco was curious to hear her answer.

He took another sip, scanning the room. Was it his imagination, or had the singer winked at him? He smiled back and raised his glass.

“Theo, you don’t need to know everything. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll join Ginny and Pansy on the dance floor,” Hermione nodded towards them.

“Splendid idea. Did you know Draco here?” Theo clapped him on the back harder than necessary, “is a marvellous dancer?”

“Really?” Granger eyed Draco, and he felt an increasing urge to hit Theo.

Was that normal? His therapist would say violence was never the answer. His therapist also did not know Theo.

“Oh yes,” Theo’s eyes glowed with mischief. Granger had fallen right into his trap.

“You really ought to see for yourself.”

And with that, Theo pushed Granger and Draco towards the dance floor.

“Enjoy yourselves, but not too much,” Theo called after them, and Draco was already plotting his death.

Granger gave a resigned sigh and, to Draco’s astonishment, let herself be led to the dance floor without protest.

Chapter Text

“Would you say Theo’s a bit… peculiar?” Hermione tried to phrase her words as carefully as possible while Malfoy steered her onto the dance floor.
She wasn’t entirely sure how she had ended up in this situation; it was all highly bizarre, that much was certain.

Never in her life had Hermione thought she would dance with Draco Malfoy, and yet here they were, in a jazz club, about to do precisely that. Then again, she’d never expected to work alongside him either. Life was full of surprises, apparently.

“With Theo, it’s always better not to ask questions,” Malfoy shook his head, and Hermione was convinced that, at the mention of his best friend, a genuine smile had slipped onto his lips.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They reached the dance floor, where Malfoy gave a slight bow. Then, with his trademark smirk, he held out a hand.

Hermione placed hers into it. His palm was warm, his grip firm yet unexpectedly gentle. He guided her other hand to his shoulder, resting his own lightly against her waist.

Malfoy began to move with the rhythm, and Hermione felt as though she were floating. He spun her lightly, and she couldn’t suppress a smile.

The air was stifling, and Hermione’s hair clung to the back of her neck. She was acutely aware of Malfoy’s hand resting against her back.

At the edge of the dance floor, she caught sight of Ginny and Pansy, who seemed to be deep in conversation before both turned to grin in her direction.

Malfoy’s hand, she could feel it far too clearly. Hermione couldn’t remember ever having been this close to him before.

“They’re watching us,” Hermione murmured, forced to lean even closer to Malfoy so he could hear her over the music.

“Better get used to it,” he replied, his tone suddenly grave. “In court, and outside it, all eyes will be on you from Friday.”

The shift in his mood startled her. “It just feels… strange.”

“What about this situation isn’t strange or new, Granger?” Malfoy gave a soft, amused laugh, and a shiver ran down her arms.

Hermione found herself at a loss for words. For a moment, she simply focused on the music, on the press of his hand against her back. A change of subject seemed safest.

“I hate to admit it, but Nott wasn’t lying, you’re a passable dancer,” Hermione said, deliberately choosing a word she knew would irk him.

“Passable? Granger, from anyone else I’d call that an insult, but from you it almost sounds like a compliment.” Malfoy looked her directly in the eyes, and for the first time, Hermione noticed just how intense their colour really was.

“Of course, I assumed you purebloods spent years practising.”

Malfoy drew her closer, spinning her so that her back pressed against his chest.

“No comment. Thank you for the dance.” Malfoy leaned forward, his lips brushing against her ear.

It was utterly unprofessional, and before Hermione could do something foolish, like lean into the touch, the song ended. Malfoy stepped back, bowed once more, and led her back to the table.

“I’d expected more,” Theo said, pulling a mock pout. Malfoy shot his best friend an exasperated look.

Hermione rolled her eyes, unable to hide a small, involuntary smile. “Honestly, you are unbearable.”

“Ah, Miss Granger, that’s not very professional,” Nott clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.

“And pray tell, why exactly are we on a professional basis?” Hermione tilted her head, a spark of challenge in her voice.

“Obviously, I’m volunteering to be the PR team for our future Minister,” Theo declared with a grin. “Although, I wouldn’t mind dropping the professional act. ‘Minister Nott-Granger’ does have a pleasant ring to it, don’t you think, Draco?”

Theo’s grin stretched ear to ear as Malfoy gave him a stare so sharp it might have cut through steel.

“If anything, it would be Granger-Nott,” Hermione said briskly. “And thank you, but I’ll pass.” She didn’t trust Nott as far as she could hex him.

“We can work on that. How about we start with a drink?” Before Hermione could object, Theo had already steered her toward the bar, his hand resting lightly against her back, a touch nothing like Malfoy’s steady, warm hold from earlier.

Malfoy’s grey eyes followed them, unreadable, but he made no move to join them. “Enjoy yourselves,” he said evenly, before taking a seat beside Parkinson, who had just returned from the dance floor with Ginny and immediately drew him into conversation.

“Oh, we will,” Theo said cheerfully, winking at Malfoy before leading Hermione through the crowd of swaying, sweat-slicked bodies towards the bar.

When Hermione next looked over towards her group, Malfoy had company. Sitting next to him was a stunning woman, the singer, Hermione realised.
So, perhaps there was truth to the rumours of Malfoy’s nightly rendezvous. She turned her attention to a conversation with Harry and Blaise, who had joined them at the bar. before she could dwell on it further.

The pounding was relentless. With a groan, Hermione dragged a pillow over her head. Even with her eyes squeezed shut, the light was unbearable. She’d drunk far too much the night before, especially considering she had a case to prepare.

Damn. The case!

She shot upright, heart racing, and glanced at the clock. Vaguely, she recalled silencing her alarm in a half-sleep haze.
It was already midday, and she knew at once she should never have drunk that much.

Luckily, she wouldn’t be Hermione Granger if she hadn’t left a set of restorative potions and a glass of water on her bedside before going out.

Still, she cursed herself. She wanted to become the first female Minister for Magic in Britain’s history, and instead of dedicating herself to the case that could help her get there, she had gone out, drunk, and danced the night away.

She remembered dancing until dawn, and even forging a peace pact with Parkinson of all people. What a night.

A successful one, in some respects. In others, decidedly strange, like Zabini’s repeated attempts at flirting with Ginny. Hermione still couldn’t make sense of that.

Rolling out of bed, she landed ungracefully on the floor, where she downed the potions and water before leaning her head against the mattress, waiting for the pounding to fade. She had definitely underestimated the cocktail mix and now had to suffer the consequences.

Once the nausea eased, she dragged herself into the kitchen. After a belated breakfast — technically lunch, given the time she began to feel more human again.

And then came the owl.

While she was finishing up in the bathroom, a loud tapping rattled the window in her sitting room. A beautiful dark-feathered owl was perched there, eyeing her suspiciously with its head cocked to the side.

Hermione opened the window and smiled at it.
“Thank you,” she murmured, offering it a treat. With a dignified shake of its feathers, the owl departed, evidently not expecting a reply.

Sighing, Hermione unfolded the parchment.

Granger,
I’ll be coming by this afternoon so we can go over the case together.
Expect me around two.
D.M.

Another sigh escaped her. Just what she needed. From the sitting room mirror, she caught her reflection: she really needed a shower and some preparation time. But with Malfoy inviting himself over, she’d have to manage quickly.

She had barely two hours left, and the last thing she wanted was for Malfoy to see evidence that the previous night had taken its toll, which, of course, it had.

Sometimes she wondered what her younger self would think of her. She was certain that Hermione of the past would scold her mercilessly, telling her to pull herself together.

And, frustratingly, her younger self would be right. The upcoming trial could decide far more than the outcome of a single case. It would draw media attention, and one wrong move could hand Baflour an advantage.

Freya Eldric deserved a fair trial. Hermione had to focus.

Besides, she could use the opportunity to raise her contract suggestions with Malfoy.

When Draco Malfoy stepped through her fireplace, Hermione was mostly ready. She had employed her favourite method: a case wall.

Not a murder wall — though perhaps that wasn’t the best word to avoid associations, but a carefully organised display of photographs, notes, and threads linking together evidence.

She had pored over the case file, sorting crime scene images, details of the victim, and the accused into neat categories. Still, the sticky note marked “Motive?” remained unanswered, and Hermione knew key witness statements were missing.

The fireplace roared with Malfoy’s arrival, but Hermione didn’t bother turning around.

“Malfoy, how is it possible there are no witnesses?”

The question had haunted her since she first opened the Eldric file. Nothing about the case added up, and that drove her mad.

“They were alone in the flat, and we couldn’t detect anything from outside. I’ll admit, Potter and I were called in late. By then, most of the scene had already been processed while we were caught up in a raid. The initial work was done by the others.”

Malfoy’s explanation was quick, concise, as though he’d repeated it often, still unsettled by the details himself.

“So we’ll need to question the Aurors who were first on the scene. Do you have a name for me?” Hermione pulled a green note from the pile.

“Smithy.”

She nodded, jotting it down and pinning it to the wall.
“What else can you tell me?”

Stepping back, Hermione tried to take in the whole picture. The information was overwhelming, and she had to guard against losing herself in it.

“Eldric’s memories are useless,” Malfoy said flatly.

“Pardon?” Hermione stared at him, hoping she’d misheard. That particular detail was missing from her files, as were far too many others.

“We’ve already had Healers in. No one can explain what’s wrong with Miss Eldric, but her memories can’t be accessed. It’s as though she’s refusing entry.” Malfoy moved to stand beside her, studying the wall intently. She was certain he noticed the gaps too.

“How is that possible? Is she trained in Occlumency?” There had to be an explanation. Hermione simply needed to ask the right questions.

“We couldn’t find anything, but Freya Eldric attended Beauxbatons, and we don’t really know what goes on in France or what the French teach,” Malfoy sounded irritated by the gap in his knowledge.

“I know a graduate, I’ll ask her,” Hermione took out her leather-bound notebook and made a note.

She would owl Fleur the very next day to request the information. The schools were famously uncooperative when it came to sharing curricula, and legally, there was no way to compel them. Beauxbatons operated under a different jurisdiction.

“Very well. Due to the missing information, we had to reconstruct the case from scratch. Based on the known facts, the Eldrics were planning to dine at 19:21. At 20:12 the Ministry received a distress signal from Miss Freya Eldric, fired from her wand, which we’ve had in our custody ever since,” Hermione made more notes, knowing full well she couldn’t possibly keep all the details in her head.

“Was the wand examined in detail?”

“Of course, it’s standard procedure,” Malfoy sounded almost affronted.

“Then why is there no protocol?” Hermione held out the Eldric file. Malfoy glanced at her, one eyebrow arched in confusion, and began leafing through.

“What do you mean, Granger?”

“There’s no protocol, no record of the process,” Hermione gestured with her wand towards the wall, where she had already noted it down.

“Are you suggesting my team was sloppy?” Malfoy looked genuinely offended.

“No, but you must admit it’s odd. When exactly did Samuel Eldric die?”

“As you’ve already noted on your clever little wall, 19:59.”

“Then why did Freya wait so long to fire off the distress signal?” Hermione tied her curls back with an elastic, feeling they were finally closing in on something.

“That’s the question. Without access to her memories, all we could do was speculate. Most likely, she used that time to dispose of the murder weapon, the poison. It is our best guess. As I said, I think something’s off about this case,” Malfoy exhaled heavily.

“Tea?” For the first time during their discussion, Hermione turned to her colleague and noticed he looked just as exhausted as she felt.

Malfoy only nodded, and Hermione motioned him towards her round dining table.

“So, we agree there are several inconsistencies that raise questions. I’d like to see the victim and the crime scene myself. The photos aren’t enough,” Hermione boiled the water the Muggle way, it always calmed her to know she wasn’t reliant on magic.

“Sounds to me as if you’ve got a theory. Care to share it with the class?”

“I’m not certain yet. Let’s go through the other steps first, then I’ll know for sure.” Hermione poured the tea, setting a steaming cup before him.

Malfoy had taken off his coat and draped it neatly over the back of the chair. Thoughtfully, he stirred his tea before adding a dash of milk.

The young Malfoy looked worn out, paler than usual, with shadows under his eyes, a few shades too dark to be healthy.

“We’ve got until Friday. What’s your plan, Granger?”

Hermione bit her lower lip. She knew she had to trust Malfoy, had to, if she wanted to help Freya Eldric. Yet the fear lingered that information might leak, giving Balfour the upper hand. It was a true dilemma.

“You’ll have to trust me, otherwise none of this will work,” Malfoy sighed, took a sip of tea, and promptly burnt his tongue.

“Fuff.”

Hermione burst out laughing. The sheer absurdity of Draco Malfoy sitting at her table, let alone scalding himself on a cup of tea, was too much.

“I need an angle by Friday that will persuade the judge to adjourn. We need time, and right now we haven’t got any. We’ll have to focus on something solid.”

“We know Balfour is calling a witness. You should have the name in the next few days. Do you think we can work with that?”

“Worth a try.”

Hermione knew she not only had to trust Malfoy—she had to work with him if they were to salvage the case. She was good, but not good enough to carry it entirely on her own.

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad having help. After all, back at Hogwarts, she’d never been alone, Harry and Ron had always been at her side, and hearing another perspective had made all the difference.

Besides, Malfoy wasn’t stupid. He likely had contacts that could prove useful sooner or later.

A loud miaow.

Hermione glanced down to see her Kneazle glaring up at her accusingly. She’d forgotten to feed him. Guilt washed over her as she hurried to fill Crookshanks’ dish.

“Er, Granger, I think your… thing is attacking me.” Malfoy’s tone had shifted.

The sight made Hermione want to laugh again.

Crookshanks had planted himself at Malfoy’s feet, glaring at the blond man with wide, yellow eyes. He even hissed softly, as though trying to look more menacing. Malfoy seemed unsettled—Hermione wondered if he’d ever dealt with animals as a child.

“Crooks is just hungry. I’ll sort him out.”

“I’d rather you moved him elsewhere,” Malfoy edged his chair back, and Hermione couldn’t think of a word that properly described his reaction.

It was quite the sight: Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and one of the Ministry’s best Aurors, retreating from her pet. Who would have thought?

Hermione placed Crookshanks’ dish in its usual spot. With one last hiss at Malfoy, the Kneazle padded away. She scratched him behind the ears.

“So, Malfoy, I trust you received my owl about the contract?” she asked, watching him. He was still eyeing Crookshanks with faint irritation.

“Unfortunately, all the options you suggested had already crossed my mind. We’ll need something more creative,” Malfoy finally looked at her, one brow arched.

“Well, you Malfoys always have blackmail up your sleeves, don’t you?” Hermione couldn’t quite keep the sharpness from her voice.

Malfoy had struck a nerve. She’d expected more of herself, but with so little time and so much on her mind, it was chaos.

“Calm down, Granger. I’m a gentleman, I’d never blackmail my future ex-almost-fiancée. I prefer calling in favours.” Malfoy seemed entirely unbothered by her accusation. His composure was almost impressive.

“Even so, we need a stronger angle,” Hermione sighed and sipped her tea.

“Who’s this about, anyway?”

“Hopefully, you’ll never find out, nor will anyone else.” Malfoy shook his head, glancing again at the Kneazle.

The cat turned back to hiss at him, as if on cue.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “I think I’d best be off. Thanks for your hospitality. I’ll arrange a meeting with the pathologist and send you an owl about the crime scene visit.” He stood, slipping back into his coat.

“Thank you,” Hermione realised it was the first time she’d ever thanked the Slytherin, but it somehow felt right.

“Don’t thank me yet, we’ve not won anything.”

“But neither have we lost. I’ll find out who Balfour’s witness is,” Hermione levitated the cups towards her dishwasher.

“Granger, you ought to take a break,” Malfoy said as he walked slowly towards the fireplace.

“And you, Malfoy, ought to spend more time around animals.”

“Haven’t we all got our shortcomings?” With that, the Slytherin disappeared into the green flames.

As soon as he was gone, Hermione collapsed wearily onto her sofa. He was right, she needed a break. Just Sunday. But that was something Malfoy would never know.

Chapter Text

Lucida Middleton

Draco read the name on Granger’s note for the fourth time.

Something about it tugged at his memory, though he couldn’t have said why. Pansy was sprawled in his chair, idly flicking through a magazine.

His day had begun with Pansy, and he still hadn’t decided what that said about it.

‘Look here, this is what I had in mind.’ She tapped a picture of a Muggle suit.

‘And we’re talking about this because…?’ Draco wasn’t convinced he’d been briefed on the point of her unannounced visit.

‘Honestly, Draco.’ Pansy rolled her eyes.

‘You and Granger have an important case, you’re going to end up in the Prophet, and I will not have the pair of you committing a fashion atrocity. You handle the legal crimes, I handle the fashion ones.’ Draco leant back in his chair.

Pansy really was brilliant, she knew what she wanted and exactly how to get it.

‘I thought I said I wasn’t modelling for you,’ he drawled, lips curling into a grin.

‘You’re not modelling,’ she said sweetly. ‘You’re simply doing your job, wearing my designs is just a bonus.’

‘Mhm. Be that as it may, I need to look something up for Granger.’ Even as he said it, Draco was reminded how well Pansy knew her way around the Ministry. He’d never worked out exactly why, but Pansy always had her reasons.

‘Lucida Middleton, ring any bells?’ he asked, leaning forward.

‘Dark hair, pretty face, used to be a chemistry researcher,’ Pansy replied without hesitation.

‘Which department?’

‘I thought you were supposed to be the Auror.’

‘Pans. Help me and I’ll help you.’

‘Merlin’s sake, you’ve gone soft. Spending too much time with the lions.’ She gave a long-suffering sigh before relenting.

‘Fine. Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.’ Draco still couldn’t work out why Granger wanted this woman as a witness when the prosecution had the victim’s sister lined up. Instead of sticking to the plan and just finding the name of the witness — Catherine Eldric — she’d gone and dug up her own, whose relevance was completely beyond him.

Worse still, she’d told him not to investigate the woman any further, so as not to draw attention to her. What exactly did she expect him to do? Sit in his office and twiddle his thumbs like some sort of Ministry ornament? It was maddening. Pansy’s pointed sigh reminded him she was still there.

‘Woman trouble again?’ ‘Women in general,’ Draco muttered.

‘Well, Dray, next time perhaps try making decisions that don’t make your life more difficult.’

She rose from his chair with feline elegance.

‘Oh, and do give Marilyn my regards.’ Draco frowned.

‘Marilyn?’

‘The singer you were shamelessly flirting with in that bar. Hopeless.’ She clicked her tongue and gave him a look of mock pity.

He felt hopeless. Once Pansy had swept out, Draco had to fight the urge to corner Potter and see if he knew more about Granger’s plans. There were more pressing things to deal with, but it still rankled that Granger wouldn’t share information.

How exactly was he supposed to help if she insisted on running the whole investigation single-handed? He’d suspected as much when he’d seen her ridiculous evidence wall, but he’d never imagined she’d actually shut him out of his own case. And he could help her, he was one of the best.

Not that the Malfoy heir would ever admit it, but Potter might just edge him out. That was hardly the point, Draco was still damn good at his job.

Why couldn’t Granger see that? Stubborn, infuriating Gryffindor. Fine. He’d show her what he was capable of. He’d be seeing her at the crime scene anyway, and if she wouldn’t let him in on her plans, he’d find his own leads.

With a long-suffering sigh, Draco set off towards her office. A crime scene could only be accessed by a DMLE-authorised person, which meant Granger had to rely on him. He hated feeling useless.

At least this reminded him that even Granger couldn’t do everything alone. ‘Just a moment!’ came her voice through the heavy wooden door. The silver plaque — Hermione Granger, Lawyer, gleamed against the dark wood.

Draco found himself wondering why she hadn’t been given a gold one. He had plenty of questions.

Why did she even have an office at the Ministry, when she could work independently? But he knew better than to cross-examine Granger.

She usually had a plan. He knocked again, smirking to himself because he knew it would annoy her. She and Potter were more alike than they realised.

‘Malfoy, what part of “just a moment” don’t you understand?’ The door was flung open, and Granger stood there, looking like she’d been through a small hurricane.

‘You didn’t say please, or did I miss it? Merlin, Granger, did you actually sleep here?’ He raised an eyebrow, taking in the sight of her.

Her hair was a wild mess, her blouse creased, dark shadows under her eyes. Her desk looked worse than usual, and that was saying something.

Draco wondered if he ought to come back later. His mother had taught him never to wake a sleeping dragon. Granger was coming dangerously close to being one.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, folding her arms.

‘Forgotten our appointment?’ He tried, and failed, not to enjoy the spectacle. It wasn’t often one saw Hermione Granger in such a state.

‘Damn,’ she muttered, and promptly slammed the door in his face. Well. That was new.

Merlin, the witch needed a lesson in etiquette. He knocked again, sighing, what had he got himself into?

There was a clatter behind the door, followed by a string of colourful curses that made Draco grin. Then he heard her mutter a few spells in quick succession, and moments later the door opened again. Granger was transformed, hair neatly braided, fresh blouse, desk looking more respectable.

Only the dark circles betrayed her. Being the gentleman he was, Draco didn’t mention them. Instead, he simply nodded and offered her his arm for Side-Along Apparition. She made an irritated noise but took it, and her floral scent washed over him, thankfully nothing like Astoria’s cloyingly sweet perfume.

Just as Draco was about to Apparate, an all-too-familiar voice drawled behind him.

‘Ah. Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger. How very interesting to find you here.’ Balfour’s gaze dropped pointedly to Hermione’s hand on Draco’s arm, and she snatched it away as though burned.

The spot still tingled, but Draco had more urgent things to focus on.

‘Good morning. Can we help you with something?’ Granger said, her smile for Balfour patently fake.

‘Oh, no. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’d heard you were working closely together, but I didn’t realise you were quite so… public about it. Tell me, Miss Granger, can you reconcile that with your morals?’

‘Excuse me? I’m not sure I follow,’ she said sharply, and Draco knew this wasn’t going to end well. He had experience with situations like this. His nose still remembered the pain. ‘Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean.’ Balfour shot Draco a contemptuous look. Draco cleared his throat.

‘Balfour, is it?’ He knew it drove the man mad when people pretended not to remember him.

‘You know, there are professional people in this Ministry. A shame not everyone can rise above their pettiness. But you know that better than anyone, Blafour. Now, if you’ll excuse us—’ He turned away.

‘It’s Balfour,’ came the clipped correction.

Draco didn’t so much as twitch. Luckily, Granger followed his lead, and moments later the world twisted around him.

When it righted itself, they were standing in a quiet London suburb.

The pair landed before a neat little block of flats with an immaculate garden.

Light glowed downstairs; the upper floor was dark. Draco still hated the thought that even such tranquil places could be crime scenes. The war had taught him death could lurk anywhere, but this place seemed far too peaceful.

He shook the thought off. He had work to do.

‘This is it?’ Granger sounded as though she shared his disbelief.

‘Second floor. Mostly Muggles round here, but a few magical folk. Follow me.’ Draco scanned the area automatically, an old wartime habit that had saved him more than once.

It was all quiet, apart from the birdsong, which was hardly a threat. He strode towards the side entrance, heading for the Eldrics’ flat. He knew he should have dressed differently, black robes tended to unsettle Muggles, but his head was full of other things.

The blasted contract with Astoria, for one. Granger had a way of raising questions he didn’t want to ask. One of them escaped before he could stop it.

‘Why don’t you wait a bit before taking on these big cases, get established first, then aim higher?’

‘Do you honestly think it’s that easy? If I want to change anything, it’s all or nothing. I win or I lose everything.’

‘Couldn’t you just ask for the right connections? Potter must have some influence.’

‘You know how it is, it’s not just any connections. It’s the right ones. And I haven’t got the right background to be taken seriously.’ She sighed, and Draco knew how much it grated on her.

Sadly, she wasn’t wrong, prejudice still ran deep. Draco had never had that problem.

The Malfoy name still opened doors, even after the war. It was unfair, really, though he’d never say that to Granger.

She’d twist it back on him somehow and turn it into another row. It should have been the other way round, she’d saved the world and still had to fight for society’s respect, while he mattered simply because of his name.

Names were strange things, they could topple empires or mean nothing at all. All or nothing.

Or, in Granger’s case, somewhere in between, but never quite enough.

‘Granger, would you… accompany me to the Magical Law Enforcement Gala next weekend?’ Draco wanted to kick himself.

He had no idea why he’d said it, except that it made sense.

She needed connections. He had them.

He really ought to learn to keep his mouth shut.

With brisk efficiency, he turned his attention to the wards sealing the crime scene. The lock clicked softly.

He stepped aside, just barely stopping himself from saying after you.

Nothing was going to get better for him today, that much was clear. Granger seemed to forget he existed the moment the door swung open, and Draco followed her inside, shaking his head.