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Chapter Text

Hermione finished what she thought must have been her twentieth read of the legislation in front of her. She was utterly confounded as to why such rubbish was sitting on her desk, and yet there it was. The first time she read it she was certain it had been some sort of practical joke. She’d called her assistant, Susan Bones, into her office to ask where the real document was and with a pinched look on her face, she had told her that was it.

Cormac McLaggen, the daft, pompous arse that he was, had submitted a piece of legislation that would enact some sort of archaic marriage law, in the name of repopulation and reconciliation. He’d said the population of Wizarding Britain was dwindling after the war and it was the Ministry’s responsibility to do something about it. Thankfully, due to Minister Shacklebolt's trust in Hermione, she had the ability to unofficially block legislation that came across her desk before it was ever deliberated amongst the Wizengamot in whatever way she deemed appropriate. Hermione threw the legislation in the bin and set it on fire.

After a war had been fought, one predicated on blood status, Hermione had made it her sole purpose to rid the Ministry and the Wizarding World of its vile prejudice, not just in regard to blood status but on the basis of sex as well. Every single person in the Ministry was aware of that fact and still, she saw legislation like this at least once a month. She decided she’d need to have a serious talk with Kingsley about Wizengamot seats, specifically, ridding McLaggen of his. Hermione was properly enraged once again, but a knock at her door stopped her before she could incinerate the legislation's ashes, because once surely was not enough.

“Come in.” Soon after, walked in Harry Potter, a welcomed sight.

“I was hoping I could steal a moment of your precious time.” Hermione smiled at her bespeckled best friend, she hardly saw him when she was working.

As Head Auror of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement his days were long and busy, and after his tumultuous break up with Ginny, he spent more time at work than he did at home, even now, years later.

“Please, I need the distraction.” Hermione gestured to one of the chairs across from her desk. Harry took a step towards her desk and noticed the smoke coming out of her rubbish bin.

He smirked, “More stupid legislation?”

Hermione rubbed her temples. “You have no idea.”

Harry took his seat, “You can tell me all about it over drinks after work on Friday.” She nodded, but he grew serious.

Harry sighed, “I’m having a minor crisis, and I need some of your infinite wisdom.”

Hermione had grown accustomed to this over the years, Harry needing her advice, but it had become more frequent in the years since the war. At times, Harry seemed lost, she tried as best she could to remind him that there was no more danger, at least not like there had been, so that maybe he’d try to go out and live his life. She alone knew why he and Ginny had separated, not even Ron knew the truth. She just wished he’d let himself be happy.

“What is it, Harry?”

He ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

Hermione tried to bite back a grin, he wiggled his pointer finger at her, “Before you get all excited, you must know that I am most certainly not ready to let you know who it is and I don’t even know if I’m going to continue seeing them.”

Hermione frowned.

Harry never kept secrets, but she respected his privacy, she was more concerned about why he didn’t want to continue on. “Why are you unsure about seeing him again?”

Harry threw his head back in frustration, “Because it's so complicated. Gods, Hermione, it could be so messy.”

Harry’s face was wrought with concern and she was intrigued. She opted to provide the wisdom he requested rather than to pry, he would tell her eventually.

“Seeing as I know nothing about who it is or what is causing all the complications, I will just say this. If this person makes you happy, if you love him or think you could, just make it work. Nothing is ever simple and nothing good is ever easy. Please Harry, just let yourself be happy, if there’s anyone that deserves it, it's you.”

Harry smiled at her, but Hermione rather thinks he wanted her to tell him to end it. Before he could say anything else, her watch sounded in alarm.

She started shuffling the papers that were on her desk, “I’m sorry Harry, that’s my cue. I’ve got a meeting with Kingsley.” They both stood to leave, she smiled at her friend.

“Thank you Hermione, I can’t say I’ll be wise enough to heed your advice but I appreciate it nonetheless.” Hermione laughed, at least he was self aware. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and ran off to her meeting with Kingsley.

The rest of the Ministry was bustling with movement and people as it usually was. Hermione made quick work of her walk to the Minister's office. His assistant, Dennis Creevey, was sitting at his desk as Hermione walked into his sitting room.

“Madame Undersecretary Granger, it's a pleasure to see you as always. Minister Shacklebolt had to step out momentarily but he said you are more than welcome to wait inside, he should be back soon.” She smiled at Dennis. He’d grown up quite well, into a handsome man, but she would always see Colin’s face when she looked at him. Another life lost, far too young, in defiance of a foul purpose. Hermione had to stop her wandering thoughts before she began to suffocate under the weight of all they’d lost.

“Thanks Dennis, please, just call me Hermione.” His cheeks grew a bit pink but he smiled at her uncomfortably rather than correcting himself. She let herself into Kingsley’s office to avoid any more awkwardness.

His office was as it usually was, very minimalistic. He never had any personal items, unlike Hermione, who had pictures of her loved ones everywhere. Kingsley however, was a man on a mission, and this seemed to leave his life devoid of personal relationships. She moved to take a seat in a chair across from his desk when she noticed something odd. There was a flask sitting on his desk.

Hermione had noticed he’d had it with him often, the first time she’d seen it was a few months ago. When she’d inquired as to what it was that he was drinking, he’d been uncharacteristically sincere and honest with her and told her that he’d injured his leg during the war and it recently started bothering him again. It had become unmanageable but he did not want to sideline himself so he had his Healer concoct this potion for him. He even went into egregious detail as to what the concoction was to satiate Hermione’s need to know everything.

The odd thing about it was that, in the three months that he’s had it, it has never left his possession. Hermione couldn’t help herself, her curiosity got the best of her. She stood to step around his desk, and reached for the flask. Hermione opened it and brought it to her nose.

Every hair on Hermione’s body stood up. Her instincts roared at her to run, but her body refused to move. The smell clawed at her memory, impossible to mistake.

Polyjuice potion.

Several things became clear to Hermione.

One, Minister Kingsley Shaklebolt had been carrying around a flask of polyjuice potion and so it was safe to assume he was no longer the real Kingsley Shacklebolt. Two, if the Minister of Magic was not who he said he was, then there were certainly others who might not be who they pretend to be. Three, Hermione could trust no one.

She took a step back and her foot knocked against his desk, which caused whatever was inside the lowest drawer to rattle. She very carefully opened the drawer. Inside lay a vast array of meticulously labeled vials. She picked one up, it read ‘1997, Battle of the Seven Potters’. She picked up another, ‘1998, Battle of Hogwarts’. They were memories, no doubt the memories of the real Kingsley Shacklebolt. No wonder he was able to play the part so well, whoever it was.

Hermione figured she had very little time left, so she returned the flask to the exact spot where it had been, closed the drawer full of memories, took a seat in the chair across from his desk, and began to occlude.

Five fucking years since the war, it had only been five years. Gods, was it too much to ask that things be normal for a little bit longer?

Hermione was certain that this was just the beginning of something far more nefarious. No one pretends to be the Minister of Magic without darker intentions.

However, she was Hermione Granger. Ruthlessly pragmatic. And being rash in a situation such as this one, would surely get her and many others killed. She could not tell a soul, not yet. Certainly not anyone in the ministry, anyone could be in cahoots with this faux minister.

Even Harry.

And, if Harry was still the true Harry Potter, he’d want to run at this head first, and she could not allow that to happen. This was far too delicate. She’d have to seek help outside the ministry, but first, she’d need more pieces of the puzzle.

Kingsley walked through the door not a moment later, in a more jovial mood than normal. She had the sudden urge to hex him into oblivion, but fortunately, Hermione did have some self control.

“Hermione, so sorry for my tardiness. My wards at home were set off, and it was merely a bloody cat. Can you believe it? Sometimes I forget these are times of peace, and that not everything is a sign of immediate danger.” Hermione smiled at him, whoever this was, was incredibly good at pretending to be Kingsley Shacklebolt.

He picked up the flask, “Moved with too much haste, now the legs acting up.” He took a sip, confirming everything she now knew, as if she needed any more confirmation. “I decided to keep the cat, I think I’ll name him Whiskers.”

Hermione realized she hadn’t spoken yet, “That’s positively wonderful, I hope for an introduction one day, I do love cats.”

Kingsley laughed, “Crookshanks is hardly a cat. I’d wager he’s more Kneazle than you originally suspected.” Those blasted memories. No one would ever believe her if she accused this man of being anyone other than Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“He’s definitely become more Kneazely in his old age.” Hermione laughed, she hoped she sounded like herself. She occluded, hoping to douse the fire that was her rage.

The meeting carried on just as their meetings always did. She made a show of regaling him about the outright stupidity of McLaggen’s legislation. He agreed vehemently that it was absurd and was very glad she’d burned it before he ever had to read it. Of course he had, because if he hadn’t she’d have suspected something was very wrong with him.

Before she left his office, she told him that she had eaten something quite horrid at lunch, and would absolutely need to go home. It was the best she could come up with. She said she’d done what she could to persevere but she could withstand it no longer. He did tell her she looked a bit peckish and that rest would do her well.

You work too hard Hermione, he’d said.

For nothing, apparently, she had thought to herself. If she looked peckish it was because her confidant and colleague was now neither of those things, and gods knew how long that had been the case.

When Hermione arrived at her cottage, she decimated her entire living room. Something deep inside her fractured. She had dedicated the last five years of her life to making real strides in the Wizarding World, to ensure that another war like the one she’d been thrown into never happened again.

The war had changed Hermione, it had hardened her and frayed her at the edges. Now, she was ready to do whatever it took, even that which she would have once considered to be unspeakable, to stop whatever plot was brewing at the ministry. She could trust no one, she would begin this journey on her own.

Hermione was nothing if not practical. She restored her living room and began to plan. She’d have to be equally as nefarious, as covert, if not more, as this faux Kingsley. First, she’d have to figure out how this started and then, where it was going to go. She’d given enough of herself to the last war, and now she would give the rest, even if the price to pay was her soul.

Chapter Text

Part One:

Death Lives Amongst the Shadows

Six months later

If Draco Malfoy hated anything, it was these dreadful galas his mother always insisted he attend.

You can’t claim to be a philanthropic aristocrat with too much money, and nothing to do with it if you are neither philanthropic or aristocratic, she’d say to him.

Despite this hatred, he knew she was right. One must always keep up with their appearances, and so he’d suffer in silence. That is how Draco found himself here, at a gala thrown by the ministry, for a cause he couldn’t even remember. He just knew he was meant to throw galleons at it.

And if Draco had anything now, it was an obscene amount of galleons. Malfoy Enterprises and his other ventures had saved his vaults from desolation, a restoration only possible once he tended to them himself, after years of neglect under a father obsessed with war. He may loathe the aristocracy, but preserving his hard-won power required him to play the game. He attended every gala and charmed—or leveraged—every Wizengamot member, bending them toward Draco Malfoy, without ever knowing it.

Draco looked around the ballroom, taking in the opulent decor of the room. The high vaulted ceilings were enchanted to reflect a living night sky with swirling constellations. The round tables around the room were draped in deep sapphire or emerald silk, each with a centerpiece dedicated to a different magical creature.

Right, this gala was a fundraiser for different programs devoted to the care, protection, and preservation of magical creatures. No wonder he'd forgotten what it was for.

“Do at least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Narcissa had snuck up behind him at the position he’d taken up at the bar, waiting impatiently for another firewhiskey.

He smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle in his robes. “This is what it looks like when I’m enjoying something.”

Narcissa turned her nose up at that. They both knew it was a lie; power and control aside, his heart simply wasn’t in it tonight. But Draco was saved from any chastising by Theo, who had finally decided to return from whatever he had snuck off to do.

“Draco, you look like you’re having the time of your life.”

And bless the powers that be, his firewhiskey finally appeared.

He gave his mother a pointed look as he raised his glass. “See, I am enjoying myself.”

Narcissa shook her head, “Please go around and make conversation, I cannot do this all on my own. You know better, Draco.”

She turned to leave but stopped herself. “Theodore, fix your hair. We wouldn’t want everyone to wonder what you’ve been up to.” Draco gave him a once over, and he did look a bit disheveled. Theo made quick work of fixing his hair, though the blush creeping up his neck betrayed his composure.

Once Narcissa was out of ear shot, Draco turned to Theo. “What were you doing? Or rather, who were you doing?”

Theo rolled his eyes with theatrical flair and took a sip of his drink—one that, Draco noted, arrived far quicker than his.

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

Draco scoffed. “Since when?”

Theo took another long sip. “I’ve entered a new era. I’ve decided it’s completely juvenile to bother you with all my sexual escapades.”

“Finally,” Draco smirked. “I suppose I’ll take it, even if it is absolute rubbish.”

His best friend shrugged. Theo's urge to keep a secret from him only intrigued him more. But Theodore Nott was as stubborn as they came and no amount of prodding from Draco would get him to reveal something he intended to keep to himself.

The pair of wizards sat at the bar for a few minutes longer, taking as long as they could before they inevitably had to do as they’d been told.

There were scores of witches and wizards dancing throughout the ballroom. Draco spotted the Weasel first, dancing with Lovegood, because his hair was just too ghastly to miss. Auror Ronald Weasley seemed to be having the time of his life, laughing at something his dance partner had said. Draco moved on, he didn’t want to look at him longer than he must.

His eyes wandered over to a table where Harry Potter, Head Auror, was having a hushed conversation with the Minister for Magic. He would have paid to know what that conversation was about, he had yet to win over the Minister. But Draco was meant to be here as a show of support for the cause and to remind the world that the Malfoy’s were both reformed and progressive. In a sense, that was true.

He moved his attention back to everyone that was dancing, where his eyes found Cormac McLaggen trying far too obnoxiously than was dignified to get a witch to dance with him. Draco couldn’t see the witch in question, but he felt almost sorry for her. McLaggen was an imbecile. That hadn’t changed in the years since their time at Hogwarts, he was insufferable on his best days. The witch finally seemed to give in and she moved into his line of sight.

Granger.

Or, if he was to be proper, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger.

He found it peculiar that she would dance with McLaggen, he was certain she hated the man. Not that Draco could be considered a reliable source, they hadn’t spoken in five years, but she didn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable. He supposed she was in her element, amongst other Ministry officials, just playing the game of politics.

Had he kept up with Granger’s work—which, of course, he hadn’t—he would have known that she’d become a political machine. Together with Kingsley Shacklebolt, she was dismantling the Pureblood regime from within the Ministry. Now the Minister and his Senior Undersecretary wielded more influence over the Wizengamot than any ruling partnership in British wizarding history. It was a shame that the two most powerful people in government, the pair anyone would kill to have in their pocket, loathed him with righteous fury.

He couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from their dance. Granger was dressed for the part, all polished elegance. She even smiled at her partner, her lips moving in some quiet jest. But her eyes were empty, almost dead, and the hollowness of it clawed at him. He tried to call on his Occlumency before she could sink deeper into his mind and so he dragged his gaze away.

Granger had been his enemy at school, the perfect target for the poison he’d inherited. Yet the moment a Muggleborn witch outshone him in every subject, he’d known his world was built on lies. He’d kept the mask in place, if only because his pride could never forgive the truth. She was better than him, and blood purity was nothing but a farce.

After his first year at Hogwarts, he made the mistake of telling his parents what he’d realized, that there was no such thing as dirty blood. Lucius hit him hard enough to split his lip and leave his nose bleeding. It only happened once. It never needed to happen again. From that day forward, Draco understood. His father’s love was conditional, it lasted only so long as he kept up appearances and played the part of Draco Malfoy. But the truth he’d discovered settled itself somewhere deep in his bones.

Draco no longer hated this witch for the reasons he once claimed. Now, it was because looking at Granger forced him to feel, and he despised that. She was the embodiment of everything he detested in himself, a living reminder of his guilt. And guilt was something he could not abide, not when it came from the one moment in his life when he should have done something, anything.

In their second year, something in him had rebelled. He’d left a note for Granger, just a page torn from a book to warn her that a snake was moving through the pipes. He hadn’t known why he did it, only that some part of him insisted it was right.

By fifth year, he was dragging his feet with the Inquisitorial Squad, slowing their pursuit of Dumbledore’s Army whenever he could. By sixth, he had meant to lower his wand on the Astronomy Tower. He’d known the truth for years by then. He was born on the wrong side of the war and he was not the monster he’d been taught to become.

He hadn’t identified Potter at the manor either, though he’d known perfectly well whose wild curls those were at Bellatrix’s feet. But it hadn’t saved her. When the opportunity to finally be on the right side of things had presented itself—when it had mattered most, with Granger writhing on the floor of his drawing room—he had done nothing. He had stood in the corner, frozen by his cowardice, and let her suffer instead.

Even when he tried to make up for it, tossing Potter a wand in the final battle, it hadn’t been enough. None of it had ever been enough. For all the years since, he had felt guilty for little else, except when he looked at her. Then the weight of all his failures crushed him, and Occlumency was the only shield he had left.

He begged his solicitors not to reveal everything at his trial, not to strip him bare before the Wizengamot. But they’d insisted that without the full truth, without every memory, he’d rot in Azkaban. So they’d seen it all. And worse, so had the whole bloody Golden Trio.

The Weasel didn’t care what he’d done. He’d left the chambers shortly after, affronted by the possibility that Draco might just be a free man. Potter had simply corroborated his memories and said Azkaban was not a fate he deserved. But Granger and her stupid bleeding heart had taken it all a step further.

She had sat across from him then, told him of her intention to speak on his behalf, to save him from Azkaban because it was clear he never had a choice. And he’d nearly vomited. He didn’t want her pity or her misplaced charity, he didn’t need her to save him. Something so painfully close to forgiveness wasn’t something he could accept from her. Nothing he’d done could make up for everything he hadn’t. Hate was easier. Hate was the only thing that made sense. And for her part, she made it clear she still thought he was a terrible arse.

Still, she spoke and the world listened. When the Golden Girl defended the boy who made all the wrong choices, the Wizengamot cleared him of all charges. But acquittal had never felt like absolution.

Lucius Malfoy had been present that day, before his own trial. He’d heard every word of testimony, every memory that proved his wife and son had done what they could to help the Order. And Draco would never forget the look in his father’s eyes. It was a cold fury, a contempt so sharp he was certain Lucius would have killed him, given the chance. Failing the Dark Lord, shaming the Malfoy name—those were sins Lucius Malfoy would never forgive. He’d refused to see Draco or Narcissa after, and so the day he'd received his life sentence had been the last time he laid eyes on his father.

As far as Draco was concerned, that was just as well. Lucius Malfoy had barely been a father and was a loathsome man, and Azkaban was exactly where he belonged.

Gods, he was going to be sick. One unguarded look at Granger and it was all clawing at the edges of his mind, trying to take root again. He could not afford this, these infernal memories, this weakness. This time he forced his Occlumency shields into place, ignoring his mind’s protests, burying it all so deep he nearly forgot where he was.

“Enough,” he muttered, straightening his spine. He glanced at Theo and forced himself toward the crowd. “Lots of conversations to be had. Off we go.”

Theo muttered something under his breath, likely a curse aimed at the gala itself. Draco didn’t need to hear the words to agree.

“Let’s split up. We’ll cover more ground that way.”

It wasn’t a terrible idea, but Draco hated it on principle. Even if it was the quickest way to get this over with. He gave a curt nod and peeled off toward the opposite side of the crowd, every step a return to the mask he wore so well.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco turned toward the voice.

“Minister Shacklebolt.” He extended his hand—respect demanded it—and noted the grip was tighter than expected. Potter was no longer at his side.

“Here to donate and show your unending support for magical creatures and their inalienable rights?” The Minister’s smile was smug, his tone barely concealed mockery. “Your philanthropy truly knows no bounds. I’d thought the Malfoy’s surely still kept house elves.”

There was that flicker of hatred in his eyes, the one he’d come to expect. Draco may have convinced most of the wizarding world of his reformation, but to his continued dismay, Kingsley Shacklebolt was still not among those he was able to fool.

He raised a brow, feigning offense. “I take the rights of all magical creatures very seriously, Minister. Every elf at the Manor is free and they’re paid handsomely for their continued service to my family.”

That, at least, was true. They had cared for him through school, even through the years he’d shared his home with a madman. It was the very least he could do.

“So you say.” Shacklebolt’s smile thinned. “Do take care, Mr. Malfoy. A pleasure.”

And he was gone before Draco would answer, but his disdain lingered.

“He still hates you.”

Potter had appeared at Draco’s side, though he hadn’t noticed when.

“Way to state the obvious, Potter.”

The Chosen One rolled his eyes. “Can’t say I blame him. You are a prat.”

Draco kept his expression smooth. “Funny. I feel the same about you.”

Potter barked a laugh. They weren’t close friends, not by any stretch, but mutual friendships had forced them into uneasy civility. Tolerance came easily enough when they rarely had to see each other.

“Right,” Potter said, finishing off a firewhiskey Draco hadn’t even noticed he was holding. His words slurred. “The Minister’s in a foul mood tonight. Feel like I carry some of the blame.”

“I can’t imagine the Minister ever being angry with Saint Potter, savior of the wizarding world.”

Potter snorted. “Saint and savior were definitely not in his vocabulary tonight.” Draco noted that the firewhiskey had loosened his tongue considerably. “The DMLE is nowhere close to catching this new assassin the Prophet keeps on about. You’ve read today’s article?”

He hadn’t, but now he would.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Potter shrugged. “Because I’m pissed, Malfoy. And because you’re used to the Minister hating you. This is new for me.”

Draco smirked faintly. “Speak for yourself. I think I’m growing on him.”

“Incorr—incorrigible,” Potter muttered, stumbling over the word.

“Steady on, Potter.” Draco left him there, still grumbling about nuisances and wishing he were anywhere else. He scanned the crowd for Theo, who was busy charming a group of Wizengamot members, then turned down another path, only to be nearly knocked over by none other than Granger.

“Granger, do mind where you’re going.”

She looked up, indignation flashing in her eyes, but beneath it, the emptiness was still there. He fortified his Occlumency, quick to ensure the guilt—and anything else—remained a distant memory.

“Malfoy.” She said his name like she was personally offended by his existence, already glancing past him as though he weren’t worth her attention. He found he didn’t care for that one bit.

“Somewhere you need to be Granger?”

She gave him another nasty look. “Yes, anywhere but talking to you.”

He should have let her go. He’d nearly fallen into a spiral of guilt not more than ten minutes ago over this unbearable witch. The five years of careful avoidance, exhaustive mental preparation, and strategic exits at Ministry events had not been for nothing. But those hollow eyes gnawed at him, he didn't think he’d ever seen them that way before. If he let her vanish into the crowd now, he’d keep seeing them every time he closed his own. So instead, he stepped into her path.

“I actually hoped to discuss the care of various magical creatures with you. Or is that no longer a passion of yours?”

Her expression soured. “If I truly believed you cared, Malfoy, I’d be happy to discuss it with you. But I’m no fool, and I don’t have time for whatever game you’re playing.”

She slipped past him this time, faster than he’d expected. Draco turned because for some unfortunate reason he was intent on watching her leave. But he froze when he realized where she was headed. Right up to the Minister, who was speaking to his mother, of all people.

Granger spoke quickly, offering what looked to be an apology to Narcissa, then she whispered something that made Shacklebolt's face harden. Within moments, she and the Minister departed the ballroom together.

Draco’s first—and wisest—instinct was to write it off. Everything about this was counter to his usual behavior. Though, it wasn’t every day he witnessed the two most powerful people in government sneak off to have what seemed to be a conversation of great importance. He’d been lamenting not long ago how useful they’d be to have in his pocket, and now he had the chance to gain an edge. Who in their right mind, especially someone in Draco’s position, would pass that up?

Political leverage was all it was.

He glanced toward Theo, who caught his look and gave a subtle nod. That was all the excuse Draco needed and then he slipped out after them.

Once he was out of the ballroom, he noticed immediately that the hall was empty. Voices carried faintly from further down. He checked twice to be sure no one was watching before casting a Disillusionment Charm and moving silently toward the sound. He found an alcove close enough to hear every word.

As expected, it was Granger and the Minister.

“I’m just trying to understand what the hell is going on, Kingsley.” Her tone was tight and clipped. It was obvious that Granger was angry but still trying to maintain some semblance of restraint.

“Hermione, this is the first I’m hearing of it. I promise I had no idea the Wizengamot had moved forward with any new legislation.”

Draco could almost picture the scene. Granger bristling under a consoling tone better suited to a child throwing a tantrum. She’d hate that. For all her faults—the swot, the know-it-all, the self-righteous Gryffindor—she wasn’t a child. Not anymore.

“I would hope not. Every piece of legislation is supposed to pass through my office before anyone even considers voting. This is a farce, Kingsley. A thinly veiled Muggleborn registry at best, and at worst, a way to sell us off.”

Draco’s fists curled at his sides. If what she was saying was true, legislation like that would be the beginning of another war.

“It’s a marriage law,” Shacklebolt said smoothly. “One meant to bring together wizarding society by marrying Purebloods and Muggleborns. A step toward reconciliation.”

If society tried to dredge back up betrothals and forced marriages, especially at the behest of the Ministry, Draco was going to set something on fire. Possibly the Ministry itself. And if blood purity was in the mix, well, he’d done far worse for much less.

“I thought you knew nothing about it?” Granger shot back, her accusation clear as day.

“I said I didn’t know it was coming to a vote. Not that I was unaware it had been suggested. I planned to discuss it with you once it crossed your desk.”

The Minister was a sly bastard.

“Kingsley, I do not give a singular fuck if you think this is good thing. It’s not. It’s vile. You know as well as I do, that the conservative members of the Wizengamot would never have any real intention of sullying their precious and pure bloodlines with blood like mine, and they’re the ones who proposed it. This is meant to be something else entirely. And if you thought for a second I’d ever entertain it, then you don’t know me at all.”

Draco blinked. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Granger say fuck. But more, he hated the way the world still forced her to draw a clear distinction between her blood and everyone else's.

“Hermione—”

“No, Kingsley,” she interrupted without hesitation. “I don’t care that you’re the Minister or that you think you can do as you please. The man I know would never even consider this. I understand the temptation, you want to soothe angry voices and appease powerful allies. But you will not—you cannot do this. It’s clear to me they haven’t gotten the message, so tell the Wizengamot the legislation will not be heard, then you burn the fucking thing in front of them, as I should have done with the last one.”

Granger didn’t wait for a response. Her heels struck the stone floor in a rapid staccato, echoing down the corridor as she stormed away. Hidden in the shadows, Draco caught a glimpse of her as she passed.

Her mouth was set in a hard line, an attempt to mask her fury, perhaps, before returning to the gala. But her eyes…her eyes were empty again.

Chapter Text

Draco was reading the article in the prophet that Potter had mentioned the night before. Sure enough, there seemed to be an unnamed assassin loose in the wizarding world, alleged to have killed multiple dark wizards in the last three months. The Prophet didn’t have much information, only that a source confirmed that this was the killer responsible for the death of Augustus Rookwood and connected his death to the deaths of some traffickers in Italy. Apparently, when they reached out to Potter for details on the investigation, he had no comment.

The Prophet’s favorite thing to do was embellish their stories; he’d paid them for good press on the Malfoy name enough times to know. Reporting the facts and only the facts was not their strong suit. So the rest of the article didn’t come as a shock to Draco. It speculated that maybe the Prince of Darkness, who the world had come to know as Atrarius, had come to collect their souls, which was utter rubbish of course.

Atrarius had become the Wizarding World’s latest criminal legend. A dark wizard at the helm of a shadow organization, he was said to have united the most “worthy” members of the criminal underworld. Atrarius dealt in the trafficking of dark artifacts, illicit potions, and every vice witches and wizards were already tempted by. He hadn’t invented corruption, he had simply profited from its inevitability.

But unlike others who came before him, Atrarius ruled with a code.

No innocent wizards, witches, or children were to be harmed by his people. No blood supremacy, no purist rhetoric. Any whispers of such ideology were met with swift and excruciating retribution.

The Prophet may paint Atrarius as a myth, but Draco knew the truth was worse. Some said he’d fed a blood purist to his own Acromantula, or that he once stripped a purist of his skin and fed it to him. Others believed he could reach into a man’s chest with magic and stop his heart beating, then start it again, just to prove he controlled whether you lived or died. Whether the stories were true didn’t matter. What mattered was that people believed them.

Draco knew all of this because he was Atrarius.

Head of the Tenebrae Arcanum. The so-called Prince of Darkness. All of the titles were terribly melodramatic, but he supposed his ego didn’t mind. He was not a good man. He wasn’t a savior, he was the world’s reckoning. And if it refused to protect the forgotten, then he would—on his own terms, with blood for payment.

After the war, Draco had come to the sobering realization that the Malfoy fortune, and Malfoy Enterprises by extension, had been depleted significantly funding Voldemort’s delusions. His father had believed gold could buy victory. If he just kept throwing money at the cause, the Dark Lord would reward them. Instead, all it bought was ruin.

For too long, Lucius had neglected their portfolio of investments, holdings, and import contracts, focusing only on spending the galleons he had rather than generating more. There were the endless bribes of government officials, the funding of research projects into ancient magic and the dark arts, and the acquisition of hundreds of dangerous magical beasts. Draco had put an end to it all after the war once he’d realized what his father had done. And that was when he knew he had to do something to rectify his mistakes.

For a time, Draco had considered becoming an Auror. But the farcical idea of justice restrained by bureaucratic morality, made his skin crawl. He didn’t want to toe the line, not when he knew where it led.

He had sworn, once, that he would never stand by and do nothing again. And he meant it. It was a promise he’d die to keep, though, if it were up to him, he’d rather live to see it through.

In the weeks and months following his trial, Draco was consumed by his rage. It was the only thing he could feel clearly without suffocating on everything else. He was so angry at what had been done, at the cruelty that existed in the world. He wanted to be rid of it. And he wanted to become something that even the darkness would be afraid of.

So, he built his own system, protected by the legality of the family’s existing business infrastructure.

He took control of the criminal underworld, unified its fractured factions, and imposed order where chaos had thrived. He became judge, jury, and, when needed, executioner. If the Ministry wouldn’t deliver the justice the world needed, he would. And it just so happened that it solved the Malfoy financial issues as well.

Atrarius became legend, a shadow blamed for every unexplained disaster, every whisper of something too dark to name. He was a whisper in the ether; no one knew who or what he was. They only knew to be afraid.

And that was precisely how he wanted it.

The Ministry would never suspect Draco Malfoy, philanthropist, socialite, and heir of a disgraced house trying so very hard to atone. He wore the mask of redemption well.

And no one ever looked beyond it.

The organization thrived in the shadows.

With the help of Theo, Blaise, and Pansy, they created this thriving syndicate—its foundation built on the blood and bones of all of those who couldn’t accept the new order of things. In the beginning, they’d searched for the remaining Death Eaters relentlessly, cutting down anyone who got in their way. When it was clear they’d left London, Draco had followed them to the ends of the earth. What he found out there was wicked, and he put a stop to whatever he could. The Death Eaters remained hidden, but the myth of Atrarius had already infected the underworld. They knew who was waiting for them if they ever came back.

As the years went on and the Tenebrae Arcanum’s influence grew, there was less and less for Draco to do. The myth alone kept everyone in line. Or so he thought. Rookwood coming back to London had been…upsetting. But what had made Draco ready to go back to who he was at the beginning, was the fact that the only reason he knew he was back was because someone else had killed him.

In the weeks after, he’d searched for any resurgence of the ideologies he’d tried to rid the world of and found nothing. If there was anything out there, it was hidden too well. And that troubled Draco. But here, now, in the study he’d built beneath his Manor, he scanned the article over and over, trying to decide whether this assassin was someone he needed to employ or get rid of.

Theo stepped through the Floo moments later, his gaze flicking to the paper. “I did some digging. I don’t think he’s one of ours.”

Draco nodded, a flicker of relief passing through him. Unsanctioned hits were messy, and they’d gone a decent stretch without an internal incident. It would be dreadfully inconvenient if he had to execute one of his own just to remind the others what it meant to follow directions.

“What did you find out?” Draco questioned as Theo took a seat across from him.

“They call him Mortiferus. Sounds like a right pain in our arse.”

It was a latin name, meaning something like death-bringer. Bit dramatic for sure, certainly a possible thorn in his side.

Draco leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “What else?”

“No one knows who he is. No one has seen a face or can recall any details. The targets are so reclusive, I doubt they go out in public enough to be seen, and if they do, they know how to hide. All we know is the name.”

Brilliant. If Draco did have to get rid of the so-called death-bringer then it was clearly going to involve more work than the man was likely worth.

Theo continued. “He’s killing with precision. Stopping the heart and leaving almost nothing behind. No magical signature and no muggle evidence. But that’s not even the best part.”

Draco titled his head, an eyebrow arched.

“Moriferus just killed Fenrir Greyback. They found his body two hours ago.”

He wasn’t shocked by much anymore. After years in this life, very little managed to cut through.

This did.

“Well,” he said after a pause, his tone almost casual. “That’s…not bad. Saves us the trouble.”

“Not bad?” Theo scoffed. “You couldn’t even find him. He must have found him in a matter of weeks.”

Catching Greyback had been one of Draco’s personal vendettas since the war, but the bastard had always slipped away. Like the rest of the Death Eaters. By the time Draco caught a whisper of his location, Greyback was already halfway across the fucking world again.

And now some faceless cunt with a melodramatic Latin name—nevermind that Draco’s name was also melodramatic and Latin—had done it in three weeks. He wasn’t really impressed, he was irritated. Greyback was meant to be his kill, and Mortiferus had stolen it out from under him like a thief nicking coins from his vault.

Petty, perhaps. But Draco didn’t like sharing credit, especially not with assassin vigilantes working in his territory without permission.

A thought cut through his annoyance.

“And his name? If he leaves no trace and no one’s ever spoken to him, how the hell did he get his name?”

Theo grinned wolfishly. “I said he leaves almost nothing behind. He carves the word Mortiferus, post-mortem, into their foreheads.”

Draco scoffed. What an amateur. Not only had the man been irrelevant enough to name himself, he didn’t even have the sense to carve them up while they were still alive. Where was the fun in that? At least Draco had taste.

“I’m surprised the Prophet hasn’t caught wind of the name yet,” Theo continued, unbothered by Draco’s reaction. “Skeeter’s a bloodhound.”

Draco looked at Theo sharply. “So why hasn’t she sniffed it out?’

“The Aurors are actually managing to keep it quiet. Last thing they want is Mortiferus turning into another Atrarius.” Theo smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

Draco didn’t rise to the bait. As if there could ever be another Atrarius. He remembered exactly how it had started—Theo whispering in the right ears, seeding just enough rumor until fear did all the rest. That was the difference. He hadn’t needed to carve up his kills to get people’s attention, Draco Malfoy was classier than that. His name alone was synonymous with fear.

He narrowed his eyes at Theo. “And how is it you know so much about what the Aurors are supposedly keeping to themselves?”

Theo only smirked. Of course he did. The man could charm a confession out of a brick wall. And if he wasn’t using his charm, his proclivity for violence was unmatched.

But the truth was, their foothold in the DMLE was thin. They relied heavily on Potter letting things slip, and even then, he rarely shared anything useful. Their real power came from the secrecy, their reputation, the political weight the Malfoy name had, and the fact that only the inner circle knew their real identities. The rest of the operation was compartmentalized. No one that worked for them knew who they were really working for, except that his name was Atrarius—and he was the shadows.

Theo’s smirk faded and he shrugged. “I have my ways.”

He was being oddly vague. Normally he had no issue bragging about which string he’d pulled or which poor sod he’d sweet-talked for intel. That’s twice in less than twenty-four hours that Theo—who never shuts the fuck up—has kept his mouth shut. And if Draco thought about it, it’d been happening more and more in the last several months. But never with something like this.

He decided he’d let it go. For now. Theo hated being prodded, and Merlin knew that Draco loathed it when Theo tried the same with him.

Draco tapped the article on the desk. “Keep an eye on our mysterious death-bringer. If he’s going to be a problem, I’d rather know before he does something we can’t undo.”

Theo gave a lazy nod, then leaned across the desk and stole Draco’s glass of firewhiskey without a word.

Draco rolled his eyes. “The firewhiskey is not three steps away, but by all means, please, drink mine.”

Theo finished it anyway. Draco chuckled, got up, and poured himself—and his apparently useless best mate—another glass.

“One for us too, Draco.”

Blaise and Pansy announced themselves with the request, flopping onto the sofa along the wall of his study.

“Neville says he’s got some news. Didn’t sound good. He should be here soon.”

Draco sighed and passed out the firewhiskey.

“What’s your better half dragged us into now, Pans?” Theo asked.

Draco leaned back, turning to face her as he waited for her response. Pansy only sneered at them in return.

Pansy and Neville had been married for three years now, though their relationship began shortly after the war. It was a pairing none of them had seen coming, but one that made a strange sort of sense. Somehow, it worked, perfectly.

Neville Longbottom, of all people, had become a broker—hands in every corner of the Wizarding World with eyes and ears everywhere. He collected rare magical artifacts, and his expertise in rare flora gave him even more reach. Poisons, potions, and plants thought extinct were all within his grasp. And in doing so he’d tied himself to old Pureblood families and obscure international circles alike. Marrying Pansy only widened his reach. Discreet buyers, discreet sellers, whatever the item, whatever the taste—Neville could make the connection, so long as the price was right.

And he was good at it. Too good. He had a knack for being useful without ever appearing dangerous, though everyone who mattered understood just how dangerous he could be.

It was Neville who’d helped grease the wheels in the beginning, smoothing their reputations, forging introductions. Now he was respected across the board. The Ministry, the elite, the underworld.

Neville wanted revenge on the Death Eaters as much as Draco did, something they learned about each other very early on in his relationship with Pansy. And after that, it was like they’d been best mates all their lives. He’d told Draco once that secrets were power, and if he wanted revenge, he’d have to get his hands dirty too. Everything else, every favor, every shadowy deal, was simply the price he had to pay.

And he loved Pansy. If this was her world, then he would make it his too.

“His patronus was vague at best. Bloody unhelpful, really.” Blaise drained his glass as he said it, only to choke when Pansy smacked him hard in the gut. She was ferocious in Neville’s defense; Draco would’ve expected nothing less.

“He was with Potter, you twat. Did you expect him to divulge all our secrets?” Blaise raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning all the same. Winding Pansy up was one of his favorite hobbies, second only to blowing things up.

“What was he doing with Potter?” Theo cut in, his voice sharper now, eyes flicking to Pansy like her answer might care more weight than she realized. It was odd.

She tore her glare off Blaise, lips parting to respond—

“We all need to talk.”

Neville strode in before she could answer, any distress only obvious through the strain of urgency in his voice. The rest of him, though, was every inch the husband of Pansy Parkinson. Three-piece Italian suit, not a hair out of place.

Draco caught the disconcerting look in Neville’s eyes, and felt his own muscles coil in response.

“What is it?”

Neville crossed to the cabinet, poured himself a drink, and downed it before answering. A terrible sign.

“I was in Diagon, having my weekly lunch with Harry and Hermione.”

He poured a second glass, buying himself another few seconds. “Right after I got there, Harry got a Patronus. Some sort of fire, urgent enough that he bolted immediately. I pressed, of course, eloquently as ever.”

“And?” Draco’s tone was clipped. He already knew he wasn’t going to like it.

Neville drained the second glass—an even worse sign—then poured a third before finally sitting beside his wife.

“Harry was gone before I could ask him, but Hermione told me everything I needed to know. The Aurors were watching a potion house storing Luxuria. And then someone blew it up.”

“Fuck.” Theo beat Draco to the word.

Luxuria was Theo’s creation. A lust potion with euphoric and hallucinogenic properties—Muggle ecstasy on steroids, as he’d once explained to Draco. Highly addictive, highly illegal, and highly profitable. The Ministry banned it years ago, not long after the Arcanum began pushing it through the underground. Which, of course, only made it more desirable.

“After I left lunch, I looked into it,” Neville went on. “It was one of our Luxuria storage sites. The Aurors hadn’t broken the wards or gained entry, but while they were watching, someone triggered an explosion and set the place on fire.”

Draco threw back the rest of his drink, letting his rage burn in silence.

“How the fuck did anyone even know that warehouse existed?” Theo snapped. “It was unplottable. I warded it myself.”

All eyes shifted back to Neville. This was Theo’s potion, his pride. They all knew whoever was involved was as good as dead, probably worse if the look in Theo’s eyes was anything to go by.

Neville shook his head. “I don’t know yet. But I’m looking into it. The question right now isn’t who set the fire, it's who tipped off the Ministry in the first place.”

Draco leaned back, glass in hand, and let the silence settle for a beat. Then he sighed. “Alright. We shouldn’t waste any time then.”

His gaze flicked to Neville, then Pansy. “You two see if you can get at it from the Ministry side. And see if they’ve sniffed out anything else they shouldn’t have.”

They both nodded, Pansy already reaching for quill and parchment.

Draco shifted to Blaise. “And you should have a look at the fireworks. Grab Pucey if you must, but figure out what kind of blast it was and, hopefully, who set it off.”

Blaise gave him a mock salute. Bloody prat.

He smirked, then turned to Theo. “We should check the rest of our potion stores. No way to know if the Ministry stumbled across the others.”

Theo’s expression darkened, murderous already. No one touched his things without consequence.

“Also,” Draco added lightly, “our people are clearly getting loose-lipped. That location was tightly kept. If someone’s talking, I want them gagged—permanently, if you don’t mind.”

Theo’s eyes gleamed, his foul mood lifting at the promise.

“And while we’re at it,” Blaise muttered, annoyed, “if the Aurors were watching the house, how did anyone manage to blow it up?”

“They probably had Weasley on duty,” Pansy drawled. “The Dark Lord himself could have walked through the front door and he would’ve missed it.”

They laughed, despite the predicament. It was a minor miracle Weasley had made it through Auror training with all his limbs intact. Normally Theo would’ve been the first to add a jab at the ginger’s expense, but he only sat there, silent and far away.

Draco didn’t like it.

He kept an eye on Theo until he slipped out wordlessly, and never came back. That unsettled Draco more than the warehouse. The loss of product was nothing in the grand scheme. Luxuria was lucrative, yes, but easy enough for Theo to replenish. What worried him was how quiet he was. Quiet, where Theo was concerned, was never good.

Blaise left soon after, off to dig into the explosion. He’d drag Pucey along, no doubt. The prat had somehow made himself Blaise’s right hand. Draco didn’t mind; Pucey was useful enough when things needed blowing up. Still, he knew nothing of the real operation.

Across the room, Pansy and Neville were still conferring, voices low, heads close, plotting their angle with the Ministry. Draco just listened.

“Well,” Neville was saying, “I don’t think Harry is going to be much help. He’s playing this one pretty close to the vest.”

Pansy nodded, running her tongue over her teeth. “What about Hermione? She’s been distant these last few months, but maybe she can help.”

“Not her,” Neville said flatly. “She has enough on her plate.”

Draco said nothing, but the name lingered in his mind. Granger. He remembered the hollowness in her eyes the night before, the edge in her voice when she’d cornered the Minister. And now she’s shutting Pansy out too, one of her best friends since she married Neville? Whatever else she was fighting at the Ministry was eating at her. He almost wanted to know more. Almost. Curiosity where Granger was concerned was a bad habit.

He sipped his firewhiskey slowly, letting the burn keep him grounded while his mind turned over the facts. In five years, the Ministry had never touched them. Not once. And now, suddenly, one of their warehouses had been uncovered. Worse, someone else managed to blow it up.

Which left him with three problems: the Ministry, whoever tipped them off, and the cunt who lit the match. Whether the cunt and the rat were the same person, he couldn’t yet say.

And then there was Mortiferus. Convenient, wasn’t it, that the assassin’s rise coincided so neatly with their first breach? Draco didn’t believe in coincidences. Which meant he now had to waste his time determining whether this Mortiferus was competition, an ally, or someone preparing to kill Atrarius too.

“A sickle for your thoughts, Draco?” Pansy’s voice cut through his thoughts. Both she and Neville were watching him with mild concern.

“Have either of you heard of Mortiferus?”

Something flashed across Neville’s face but it was gone before Draco could name it. He shrugged it off.

Pansy spoke first. “We’ve heard whispers. We thought he was an assassin for hire, mostly. Some of our Italian and Russian contacts have used him and they rave about his discretion. Until the article yesterday, we didn’t realize he was operating here.”

She shrugged, casual and completely uninterested. Neville said nothing.

Draco tapped his glass. “Could you reach him?”

Pansy’s brow lifted. They rarely bothered with outside help. When someone needed killing, Draco or Theo handled it. “We could find a way. Do you want us to?”

Draco shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

Pansy nodded, turning back to Neville. They fell into low conversation again, still arguing about who to pressure first.

Draco let their voices fade. His thoughts circled back to Mortiferus. He needed answers, sooner rather than later, about what game this assassin was playing. And he needed to know who was on his hit list.

And then, entirely against his will, Granger tried to infect his thoughts again.

No. Irrelevant.

But her exchange with the Minister was anything but. Something was brewing in the Ministry, and the last thing Draco needed was another round of pureblood politics bleeding into his world.

Early on, when he was rebuilding the Malfoy reputation, he realized that despite the war, the Ministry was prepared to fall back into the old ways. Draco wouldn’t allow that to happen. So, when restoring Malfoy Enterprises, he ensured the darker half of the Sacred Twenty-Eight depended on him for something. And that made steering their votes and solidifying his influence over the Wizengamot deceptively easy. It had taken effort—endless hours at the Ministry, endless appearances. His presence and his position were public, but the true depth of his control remained hidden. They bent to his will, and hardly ever knew it.

Then, the Minister gave his new Senior Undersecretary an unheard of power. And with her in that office, he had focused on the Ministry less and less. It had been a reprieve, he often preferred being Atrarius to all the bureaucratic posturing. Until yesterday, Draco believed they had it under control. But it seemed he had to do everything himself. Reform only lasted as long as Granger’s vigilance. The moment something slipped her grasp, it festered. Shacklebolt, for all his charisma, couldn’t stand his ground anymore. It seemed the power they had over the Wizengamot was dwindling, which meant Draco Malfoy needed to resume his regular visits.

He tossed back the last of his firewhiskey, already deciding his next move. It was time for a friendly chat with the Wizengamot members. First his allies, and then the pureblood fucks who needed reminding that reform wasn’t optional.

…

Every time he visited the Ministry, it struck him how much smaller it seemed than it had in his youth. Once, this place had terrified him. Now, it was just another crumbling monument to bureaucracy. Imposing, yes, but not nearly as dangerous as he was.

The atrium bustled with its usual chaos. Robes swishing, owls overhead, the dull roar of conversation echoing off the walls. Draco felt the eyes before he saw them. Some offered polite, but stiff nods in his direction. Others simply stared. Some with open curiosity, some with contempt thinly veiled as fascination. His name still traveled faster than he did, and it seemed the atrium was always waiting to see what Draco Malfoy would do next.

He didn’t return their greetings, or meet anyone’s stares. His gaze stayed fixed on the lifts ahead, his stride carrying all the aristocratic precision of a man who had never once been told to move aside. The brass grilles clanged shut behind him, sparing him the irritation of forced conversation. He had no patience for small talk, not when there were Wizengamot members in need of a reminder about what side of reform they claimed to stand on.

The doors parted with a hiss, spilling him into the Level Two corridor that reeked of Ministry polish—gleaming stone floors, scones burning with steady blue flame, the faint odor of ink and parchment clinging to the air. The wing of Wizengamot offices branched cleanly away from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was an architectural mercy, sparing him the posturing of a certain ginger Auror with nothing better to do than puff up his chest.

His dragonhide shoes struck sharply against the tiles, each step deliberate, echoing down the long hall lined with portraits of past legislators whose eyes followed him with unearned judgement. At the far end, waited the office he sought, marked by an ornate wooden door, carved with the Wizengamot’s sigil and polished to a sheen that did little to mask its age.

He knocked twice, and a moment later the door creaked open.

The office smelled faintly of firewhiskey and parchment. Mahogany shelves climbed the walls, groaning beneath tomes of law and history, their spines worn by decades of use. The Wizengamot crest glimmered from the rug at the center of the room, its gold threads dulled from the shuffle of countless debates. Tiberius Ogden sat behind a broad desk carved from oak, his frame hunched but commanding, with wiry silver hair and shrewd eyes that had watched three Ministers rise and fall. Beside him, Honoria Flint lounged in her chair like a queen entertaining guests, every inch of her calculated elegance—the pearl clasp at her robes, the tilt of her head, the faint curve of her painted smile.

“Draco, my boy! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Draco inclined his head, lips curling with a polite smile. “Tiberius. Honoria.” His tone held warmth, but only just. Today was all business.

Honoria arched a brow, her amusement razor-sharp. “Can’t be anything good if it dragged you all the way here.”

“Quite right.” Draco took the seat to her left, crossing one leg over the other. “I’ve heard a troubling thing.”

Tiberius pushed himself up with a grunt and crossed to a sideboard cabinet that Draco knew held only Ogden’s rarest reserves. The elder wizard poured two generous measures into crystal tumblers and pressed one into Draco’s hand. “Occupational hazard, son. Every day is more troubling than the one before it at this Ministry.”

“You’ve heard of this newest marriage law then,” Honoria said, her voice smooth but edged with disdain.

Draco frowned. “Newest?”

“That would be correct,” Tiberius said darkly, settling back into his chair with his glass. “And we have my feckless nephew to thank for most of them.”

It took every ounce of Draco’s control not to laugh aloud. How far he had come. Years ago, Ogden had dismissed him as Lucius’s shadow, a pale imitation of a man he despised. Draco had clawed his way out from under that curse, proved he wasn’t his father. Not through speeches or apologies—those had been wasted on men like Tiberius—but through action. Through reform. Through carefully chosen battles that won him credibility, one vote at a time. And once Ogden had given him grudging respect, Honoria had followed.

Honoria Flint was no less formidable than her ally. Matriarch of her house, she had smoothed over Marcus’s endless embarrassments and steered her family’s influence effortlessly. She was the bridge between the wizened old guard and the ambitious reformists. So well did she play her hand that no one ever truly knew which way she leaned. No one except Tiberius and Draco.

Both veterans of the chamber, both disgusted with the relics of blood purity, and both saddled with insufferable nephews. Draco suspected that more than any policy, that mutual suffering bound the three of them together.

“Unbearble as it is to read Cormac’s drafts, this latest monstrosity wasn’t his doing,” Honoria said smoothly. “We have Isadora Selwyn to thank.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. Of course it was Isadora. A woman so drenched in entitlement and old world beliefs it was a wonder her family survived the war with their seat intact.

“Why,” Draco drawled, “would she propose a law that dilutes her own bloodline?”

Tiberius sighed into his glass. “We’ve been doing this dance for years. Since the war ended, there’s always someone waving some regressive banner. Things improved when the Undersecretary was appointed, yes. But these last few months…” He shook his head. “It’s as if they’ve all gone mad. One proposal after another, all thinly veiled blood purist rot.”

Honoria smoothed a hand across her robes. “Hermione has been working herself into an early grave swatting them down. I’m shocked she hasn’t strangled Cormac for half the drivel that crosses her desk. But this one—”

“Skipped her entirely,” Draco finished, recalling what Granger had said to the Minister.

“Exactly so.” Tiberius tossed back the rest of his drink. “And if you want my opinion, my nephew is obsessed with these marriage laws because he can’t get Miss Granger to marry him without one.”

Draco nearly choked. Heat prickled at the back of his neck. Of course McLaggen would try to game the system, waving about his family name while drafting laws to purchase what he couldn’t earn. The thought of him trying to buy a witch’s hand through legislation was revolting enough. That the witch in question was a Muggleborn only made the hypocrisy sharper. The same tired bloodlines, still pretending superiority while clawing for what they secretly wanted. He smothered everything else beneath a cool sneer, as if that alone could dismiss the insult.

“You think he’s doing this for her? What of Isadora?”

“In part,” Honoria said with a pointed look at Tiberius. “It’s common knowledge he’s bitter over her rejection—professional, personal, and otherwise.”

Tiberius jabbed a finger at her. “Which is why he slithered the bill through Selwyn. She did the dirty work, he got to avoid another humiliation.”

“All speculation,” Honoria countered crisply. “What’s certain is this law isn’t reconciliation. And between Hermione and the Minister, it won’t see the floor.”

Draco swirled his glass. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Both heads snapped toward him.

“At the gala,” Draco said evenly, “I overheard the Undersecretary and the Minister. She was dead against the proposal. He, however, seemed…persuaded. Something about pressure from within the Wizengamot.”

Tiberius cursed under his breath. Honoria’s smile thinned. “Rosier, Mulciber, and Greengrass. They’ve been circling the Minister like vultures.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. They’d never been allies, but they were pragmatists who bent beneath the weight of the Malfoy name. Once-stable compliance tilting out of line was dangerous. The kind of fracture Atrarius lived to exploit.

“I intend to put an end to it today,” he said flatly.

Tiberius gave a humorless chuckle. “I daresay they could use a reminder of what they owe the Malfoy name.”

Draco drained his glass and rose. “Is Isadora in?”

Honoria smirked. “She is. And I do hope you’ll leave the door open. I’d like to hear the Selwyn tantrum when you’re finished with her.”

Draco’s lips curved into a matching smirk. “As you wish.”

He stepped back into the hallway, finding such joy in the promise of fucking over Isadora. She managed to keep her family’s seat after the war, and that was the galling part. Her father was dead, her brother rotting in Azkaban, her family name tarnished, and yet she’d clung to their hereditary seat like a parasite. The Wizengamot preferred a familiar evil to the chaos of an empty chair. For his part, Draco preferred the evil he knew too. Isadora had always been a variable that he could control.

Her door bore the same branded sigil as the rest of the wing. Draco didn’t bother knocking.

Her office mirrored Ogden’s in layout, but where his shelves and carpet smelled of history and tradition, hers reeked of affectation. Everything was black—laquered wood, velvet drapes, even the quills in their holders.

Subtle.

The only splash of color was her. Golden hair coiffed into glossy waves, crimson nails tapping against parchment, lips painted to match. Objectively beautiful, if one cared for that sort of thing. But to Draco, her politics made her look spoiled, petty and rotten.

She glanced up, irritation flashing briefly before she smoothed it into a saccharine smile.

“Draco, darling,” she purred. “It’s polite to knock, you know.”

Draco’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Knocking is a courtesy, and you’ve already used up all of mine.”

The tapping stilled. Her jaw ticked, but she kept her voice light. “I’m afraid I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you.”

“The marriage law,” Draco said evenly.

Her mouth curved into something serpentine. “It’s reconciliation, the unity of bloodlines. It will do more for reform than anything you’ve lobbied for.”

“Then why,” Draco said, voice low, “did it skip the Undersecretary’s office?”

She arched one perfect brow. “Doing her bidding now too, are you?”

“Answer the question.”

Isadora leaned back in her chair, sighing theatrically. “The Undersecretary is so terribly busy these days. I thought I’d spare her the paperwork.”

Draco’s sneer was sharp enough to cut. “And what if I told you I knew it wasn’t your idea? That McLaggen pushed it through you to avoid being laughed out of her office?”

Her jaw twitched. “I’d say you’ve been listening to too much of Ogden’s whining.”

“I’m getting really tired of people forgetting their place.” His steps echoed as he crossed the room. “So let’s cut the act. I know what this really is. Either you pull it, or I terminate the Selwyn lease at the port.”

They still had their port lease only because it amused him to let them keep it. Better to keep their galleons flowing through his hands then let them find another channel he couldn’t choke off at will.

Her fingers twitched toward her wand. Draco almost hoped she’d try. What a mess it would be to kill a sitting Wizengamot member in her own office, but he would do it. And if not today, it’s likely Isadora would meet an untimely, accidental end before years end.

“You wouldn’t,” she hissed, but there was less certainty in it than he knew she intended.

“I would.” Draco’s smile was all teeth. “Malfoy Enterprises wouldn’t notice the loss. But your family? I suspect your fortune would crumble inside a month.”

She leaned forward now, snapping back at him. “And if I leak to the Prophet that you’re standing in the way of reform? What would that do for your precious little reputation?”

Draco chuckled, low and cruel. “By the time I’m finished, you’ll be lucky if you have a seat left to warm. I have enough on you to fill a bloody library—enough to put you beside your brother in Azkaban. Are you really sure you want to play that game with me?”

The silence stretched.

Draco tilted his head, studying her with no small amount of amusement. “That’s what I thought. If it isn’t pulled by Monday morning, our next conversation will be much less civil.”

He turned on his heel without waiting for a reply, leaving her seething behind him. The door clicked shit, her impotent fury trailing after him like smoke.

Now came the matter of Rosier, Mulciber, and Greengrass. And whether they would be dealt with by Draco Malfoy or Atrarius. It would raise questions if Atrarius moved openly against four Wizengamot families, Selwyn included. But as Draco Malfoy, the solution was easier.

All four had been historically complacent, and previously had no issue following his rules so long as Malfoy Enterprises ensured their business dealings continued. But something had emboldened them. It was probably premature to involve Atrarius, and he had enough to deal with on that front with the warehouse explosion.

So then it’d be Draco Malfoy. A few owls, a few reminders of whose galleons kept their vaults lined, and they’d fall back in line. For now.

He was still considering which threat to draft first when whispers cut across the hall. He turned the corner and nearly collided with McLaggen. Of course.

But it wasn’t McLaggen who irked him. It was the witch beside him.

Granger. Again.

His Occlumency walls snapped up without hesitation, iron and unyielding. He despised that he even needed them. The mere sight of her was an inconvenient and irritating intrusion.

“Malfoy,” she said, voice clipped with exasperation. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes met his—and they were blank again. That same emptiness that of course he couldn’t stop noticing. He forced the thought out of his head before it could take a hold. It didn’t matter why they were empty, that was none of his concern. Nor did he want to deal with her for longer than he had to.

He arched a brow, tone smooth and dismissive. “I do hold a Wizengamot seat. Just because I have someone fill it doesn’t mean I don’t visit.”

McLaggen’s posture stiffened, the faintest flicker of worry on his face. “Any particular reason for this visit?”

“Had a chat with Tiberius.” Draco let the pause drag, just long enough. “And Isadora.”

The tension between them sharpened deliciously. McLaggen looked ready to be sick, and Draco couldn’t decide which unsettled him more, his mention of his uncle or Selwyn.

Granger, though, had narrowed her eyes, sharp as knives. “What business did you have with Isadora?”

Draco let his gaze slide to McLaggen with deliberate disdain. “Just discussing the proper order of things.”

McLaggen blanched. Apparently, he hadn’t considered the implication of proposing legislation that countered Draco’s expectations or of skipping over the witch that kept him out of the Ministry. He didn’t even need to be threatened. Between Draco and Tiberius, McLaggen knew where he stood. It was refreshing to watch him squirm. More refreshing, at least, than the fact Granger’s eyes were on him, weighing every word.

Irritating, really.

“And how’d she take that?” McLaggen asked, voice tight.

Draco’s lips curved. “She remembers where she stands.”

Draco didn’t want to linger a second longer, not with either of them. He stepped past, robes brushing McLaggen’s arm like a deliberate insult, and left without a farewell.

He’d been to the Ministry more times than he could count these last five years, and had seen Granger less than a handful. Yet in two days, their paths had crossed twice. Twice too many. It was becoming a pattern. One he would not allow to continue.

…

Draco arrived at Tenebrae Arcanum’s Headquarters a couple hours past midnight. Protected by a Fidelius charm, it was their main base of operations and only their inner circle knew its location.

The darkness of the night washed over Draco as he stared up at the house. It was a sinister and imposing place. He had committed many atrocities here in the name of the Tenebrae Arcanum. He’d, in a sense, become a Dark Lord of his own making, where he unleashed the same punishment and cruelty on those who still looked at Muggleborns or half-bloods as though they were beneath them as Bellatrix and Lord Voldemort had unleashed upon him. And he’d done it here—here Atrarius was born.

Draco watched the house, as if it might swallow him whole. Vines clung to the rotting facade like withered fingers and the air around it felt heavier, like it carried the burden of knowing what had been done here. When Draco finally entered, the air shifted. Unlike the exterior, which was meant to look like a long forgotten, crumbling building, hidden in the unseen corners of the world, the interior was immaculately curated. It was Pansy’s doing, he knew. She spent a lot of her time here, on the higher floors, working to manage their money, laundering their funds through their family’s corporations.

Draco walked along the smooth obsidian floors, watching as the enchanted sconces that lined the entrance flickered. He knew no one would be on the upper levels, Pansy and Neville were at the Parkinson Manor. He was headed for the basement, the only part of the home that even slightly resembled the exterior. Theo had called him here not long ago, alerting him to a development in terms of the Luxuria warehouse.

As Draco got closer to the basement, he heard faint echoes of a scream, barely audible above the howling wind that was battering the side of the home. As he approached the basement door, the scream—now unmistakable—was one of profound pain. Jagged, desperate, and twisted. He’d expected Theo would have gotten started without him. Draco descended the stairs in practiced indifference.

Once the basement came into view, the first thing he saw was Blaise, leaning against a wall in the corner. He nodded his head in acknowledgement toward Draco. He turned his attention toward Theo, who only looked slightly feral. He was enthusiastically making a show of deciding which tool to pick up from the surgical tray in the corner.

Theo, despite his sweet natured, lovable exterior, was completely taken with muggle forms of torture. Once he’d done it the first time, he’d told Draco that the Cruciatus curse, as agonizing as it was, fell short of the relentless cruelty muggle’s had dreamed up. It had lacked the slow, unyielding degradation that seemed to stretch a person’s suffering across lifetimes. Draco found that he agreed, although nowadays, he’d left most of that to Theo.

Draco finally looked at who was suffering at Theo’s behest. There was a man, not much older than Draco, crumpled up in a heap on the ground in the corner of the room, still trembling from the aftershocks of what Theo had done to him. Blaise was standing over him, careful to not get blood on his dragonhide shoes. Draco could not see the man’s face, but his shirt was torn, electrical burns visible, and gashes were still oozing with blood. He’d also noticed the man no longer had any fingernails.

Draco turned back to Theo, who was now in front of the other man in the room. They’d suspended him from the ceiling, his wrists bound together, holding him up. His back was to Draco, but he could just imagine the fear that was swallowing his face. He moved to stand with Theo and he was right, although the fear seemed to deepen when he saw Draco.

“Nice of you to finally show up, you almost missed all the fun.” Theo was grinning at Draco, as if he hadn’t been unleashing a profound torrent of anguish on the man in front of them.

Draco leaned against the cold, stone wall behind them and studied the man. His right eye was swollen shut and his bottom lip was trembling. His other eye darted back and forth between Theo and Draco, silently pleading for one of them to grant him a reprieve.

“Y-You’re Draco M-Malfoy.” The man’s voice was weak and hoarse, no doubt a result of his prolonged screaming.

Draco didn’t speak. This man was looking at him as though he might be here to save him. Draco was not his savior, and nor was he Draco Malfoy right now. He was Atrarius. The mere fact that this man had seen his face was a guaranteed death sentence, a mark that sealed his fate in this world where secrets were the only currency worth anything. Which is why the man now found himself here, under Theo’s knife, because he held secrets, and they couldn’t afford to let him use them.

“Go on Quentin, tell Mr. Malfoy what you told me.” Theo was tracing the underside of the man’s neck with a goblin-made knife he knew to be imbued with basilisk venom. It was always Theo’s final act.

The man tried to speak several times. Each time, no sound came out, and the man’s face twisted in horror as he realized Theo had wordlessly cast a silencing charm over him.

“Seems as though you aren’t very keen on following directions.” Theo chuckled lightly before barely cutting the man across his cheek.

Quentin looked confused, as though he had expected some horrible punishment and was almost relieved that it’d been a simple, little cut. The relief lasted only moments, as he began to convulse, panic seizing his body. In this light, you could see the venom traveling through the veins in his arms, siphoning the life out of him. He screamed under the silencing charm just before his body went limp.

“Bit dramatic for my taste.”

Theo rolled his eyes as Blaise simply cast an Avada Kedavra, killing the lump that had been on the ground beside him.

Draco stayed against the wall, as he watched Theo clean up his mess. “Thanks for the show, mate. What’d you find out?” He paused in the middle of vanishing all the blood on the floor, looking more serious than he had during his entire display.

He gestured at the two dead men in the basement. “They were a pair of men we had on a rotating shift watching the house. They didn't know whose house it was or what was in it, but they were seriously vetted before being put on that post. They were approached by a man. He offered to pay them handsomely to tip off the Aurors and claim it was a Luxuria warehouse belonging to Atrarius and then disappear, so no one was watching the grounds when they came back to blow it up. They were on their way out of the country when we found them.”

Theo’s words hung in the air, heavier than the scent of blood still clinging to the walls.

“Who was the man? Did they know him?”

Theo looked at Draco, his face pale and tight with the weight of the revelation he was about to share.

“Dolohov.”

Draco’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, he forgot the discipline of Occlumency, and rage burned through the crack in his composure before he slammed it shut again. His chest tightened, every muscle coiled at the name.

That fucking bastard.

Chapter Text

Draco pushed the last of his food across the plate, sunlight catching on the glass walls of the cafe and glaring far too cheerfully for the mood that weighed on him. It was indecent, really.

Dolohov’s name still burned in his mind, tangled with the endless political mess he found himself in with the Wizengamot. The revelation should have made things clearer, but it only added another layer to the game. Too much was going on all at once for it to be a coincidence. Draco was missing several pieces of the puzzle, a frightening prospect for anyone else who decided to get in his way.

“Draco,” Narcissa said smoothly, setting down her cup with the kind of grace that you had to be born with. “You’re doing it again.”

He sighed, gently setting his fork down. “Forgive me, mother. It’s all the light in here—fucking criminal.”

“Language, darling,” she tutted. “Though I must say, I’m also quite troubled.”

Draco lifted his glass. “You also find the lighting distasteful?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Hush about the lighting, you will not slander the glasswork in my presence. Dean put a lot of care and effort into it.”

Yes, how could Draco forget? Solarium, Dean Thomas’s pride and joy, where Narcissa enjoyed Saturday lunch every week.

“Care and effort wasted, if you ask me,” Draco muttered.

“This marriage law,” Narcissa continued, ignoring his comment, “and the Minister’s insistence that I show my support are what I find troubling. As if I’ve ever given him the impression that he could sway the Malfoy vote through me. If I had any interest in marrying off my son, I would have upheld your betrothal contract years ago.”

Draco let out a soft chuckle. The Minister lobbying Narcissa was laughable; she and Draco had always presented a united front, and this law went against everything the Malfoys now stood for. Narcissa would never be fooled by such flimsy claims of reconciliation, and had at last abandoned her attempts to push him toward marriage. She had no interest in—and certainly no use for—a marriage law.

“I wouldn’t worry about it anymore,” he offered.

Narcissa arched an elegant brow. “And who do I have to thank for that?”

He knew exactly what she was asking, the hidden meaning. This was their dance, the one that gave her plausible deniability. But she knew who he really was, she was his mother after all.

He took a slow sip of his wine. “I ventured out to the Ministry yesterday.”

Narcissa’s lips curved, the faintest shadow of a smile. “Then I suppose I ought to commend someone for their restraint.”

Draco let the corner of his mouth tick upward as he set his glass down. “Premature commendation, I reckon. Best not to expect patience.”

“Perish the thought,” she replied, her tone light as air. “But perhaps a delayed response?”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps. But it should be enjoyed while it lasts. If I had to guess, it won’t last long.”

Any rebuttal from Narcissa was cut short by the arrival of one Dean Thomas at their table.

“Narcissa,” he said with a smile that was far too bright. “So wonderful to see you. Our rays of sunshine just aren’t the same without you here.”

“Dean!” She began, offering a smile to match his. “I thought you’d finally agreed to take a little holiday. What are you doing here?”

Years ago, had anyone told Draco his mother and Dean Thomas would be on a first name basis one day, he’d have thought they’d gone mad.

Dean’s smile only grew. “Susan and I leave this evening, but I simply couldn’t miss seeing my favorite and most loyal patron.”

“Well I do hope you have a lovely time in France. Give Susan my best. Don’t forget to try that little patisserie I recommended!” Narcissa said kindly.

“Of course, we’ll see you next weekend!” Dean turned to face him with a small nod. “Draco.”

“Dean,” he replied. And with that he was off, winding through the tables back toward the kitchen.

Susan Bones and Dean Thomas. A Hufflepuff Senior Ministry Aide and a Gryffindor chef, playing at domestic bliss. They’d built themselves a sunlit life. Draco wondered, for half a moment, what it might be like to want something so simple. Then the thought repulsed him. He wasn’t built for sunlight and simplicity. Better to return to shadows where he belonged. He set the thought aside, the way he did with anything useless, and reached for the bill.

Once it was settled, he stood, offering his arm to his mother. The winter air was cold and crisp when they stepped outside, but the sun was out, providing some warmth as they walked through the streets of Diagon Alley.

Being Saturday, Diagon was filled with people, teeming with witches and wizards. Each with their own story, their own reasons for being here, completely unaware of who they walked alongside. With his mother on his arm, he watched the world around him. Most people were undisturbed by his presence—seeing a Malfoy out in public was no longer a sensational or scandalous headline. It was both refreshing and disconcerting, how quickly the world forgave. How willing they were to forget. How was the world meant to prevent another war if they’d already forgotten how easily they’d fallen into the last one?

His musings were interrupted by Narcissa as she paused outside of Madam Malkin’s and turned to look at him. “I think I might step in here. I wouldn’t want to bore you with it. I’ll see you at the Manor later.”

He leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek, thankful for the well-timed dismissal. “I won’t make it for dinner. We have a meeting at Nott Manor.”

She assessed him carefully, as if trying to decipher whether he truly meant what he said, or if he was covering up other more…unsavory plans.

But all she said was, “Be careful, Draco.”

He nodded. “I’m always careful, mother.”

Draco parted from his mother at the storefront, offering a polite kiss to her hand before watching her sweep inside. He turned to make his way down the cobbled street, intent on Disapparating once he was clear of the crowd. His mind was already moving toward other matters—the Minister, Dolohov, the infernal Wizengamot—when a flash of golden-brown curls snagged in his periphery.

He froze. Of course it would be her. Granger, spilling out of Flourish & Blotts with Potter at her side, hair as untamed as ever. The sight was an irritation, grating, the kind that gnawed without reason, and he nearly laughed at himself for having noticed her at all. The walls in his mind had risen before he had even thought to summon them. The universe, in its infinite cruelty, had chosen her, of all people, to be the catalyst for every shard of guilt he had no wish to feel.

He knew this. His mind knew this. And every time he recalled it, it angered him beyond words. Why did it have to be her?

He caught himself rolling his eyes, prepared to walk away and return to pretending she and his guilt didn’t exist. But when they slipped off the main thoroughfare, down an unassuming side alley, Draco stilled again. His jaw clenched. He should keep walking. Granger would only induce unwanted suffering.

He took two decisive steps toward the apparition point at the end of the street. He even reached for his wand, ready to leave the moment he cleared it. And then he hesitated.

Granger was with Potter, and Potter was different. He was Head Auror and the Head Auror would not skulk down back alleys with the Senior Undersecretary unless something worth hearing was at stake.

Potter had information. That was what mattered. Information that might be useful to Atrarius. Granger being there was just the price he had to pay for the chance to get more pieces to the ever-expanding puzzle his life was clearly becoming.

Decision made, he slipped into the shadows, casting a Disillusionment Charm with a practiced flick of his wand. He trailed them at a distance, careful and unseen. A stack of discarded crates gave him cover. From there, cloaked in magic, Draco listened.

“Why are we hiding here, Harry?” Granger’s voice carried down the alley, tinged with confusion. If it were possible for that woman to ever be confused.

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about this where anyone could hear. The public would panic.”

Draco frowned. Panic over what, exactly?

“I only asked how work was going.” Granger again, her tone puzzled.

“It’s not going well at all. Kingsley has been up my arse about both Atrarius and Mortiferus.”

His attention sharpened instantly. Potter mentioning Atrarius like he was more than just myth was dangerous. It meant the Ministry was far closer than Draco had assumed.

“Are you saying Atrarius is more than just a dark legend?” Granger’s voice turned sardonic, almost dismissive. She was oblivious. She hadn’t the faintest clue she was standing six paces from the very man she mocked.

“He’s very real,” Potter said grimly. “The DMLE has been keeping our investigation quiet, highly classified. If the public knew the danger, there’d be mass hysteria.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Merlin, Potter made him sound like another Voldemort. He wasn’t. He loathed that association. Dangerous, yes, but only to the right people. He’d done more to root out poison than the Ministry had managed in the last five bloody years.

“Why hadn’t you told me about him?” Granger spoke again, though her voice was curious, not accusatory.

“Seven months ago we started a task force at the Minister’s behest. Despite no one believing one single person could unite the world’s criminals or that they’d ever work together in such an organized manner, he insisted that Atrarius was real. And he told us not to discuss it with anyone, including you.” Draco stiffened. Kingsley Shacklebolt was becoming more than just a nuisance; he was now a potential foe. And if he was leaving Granger in the dark, well then all bets were off.

“Why tell me now?” was all Granger asked, not an ounce of surprise at the fact that the Minister had left her out.

“Because of the Prophet article. We’ve been ordered to use our task force resources to hunt Mortiferus as well. Now I need your help.” Of course he did, Potter could never do anything without Granger. If anyone could put the pieces together, it would be her.

What would that mean for Atrarius?

Granger had never once let a puzzle go unsolved. There was a likely future in which she discovered the truth, in which she would be his ruin. But not if Draco could help it. She would not best him in this.

“Tell me what you know.” Her voice was soft, and yet so annoyingly commanding.

“Not much. Months of work and almost nothing to show for it. We know Atrarius is the head of a centralized criminal syndicate, the Tenebrae Arcanum.” That was more than Draco expected him to know, more than was safe.

“Secret shadows,” Granger murmured thoughtfully.

“What?” Potter sounded very confused, which unlike Granger, definitely suited him.

“Tenebrae Arcanum. It loosely translates to secret shadows in Latin.”

Surprise. The swot knows Latin.

“Well it’s a bloody perfect name then,” Potter said. “No one we apprehend ever seems to know anything. If not for the Minister, I’d still think Atrarius wasn’t real. We had no leads until that Luxuria warehouse. The tip linked it to him, but then it went up in flames, leaving us with nothing.”

At least they only had ashes to sift through. It was one less thing for him to worry about, a small mercy considering he now had to contend with an unpredictable Minister for Magic.

“And Mortiferus? We’ve spoken of him before.” There was an edge to Granger’s voice that Draco couldn’t quite place.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve only been focusing on Atrarius.”

Draco found that infuriating—and yet, begrudgingly, he understood. He wouldn’t pursue Mortiferus either. The assassin’s mission was clear: vigilante justice against dark wizards and Death Eaters. Not so different from Atrarius, save for the illegal potions and artifacts, and the fact that the world blamed him for every catastrophe whether he was involved or not. To them, Atrarius existed only to watch the world burn. So Potter had to decide between apprehending the vigilante doing his job for him or the proverbial Prince of Darkness. For anyone with half a brain it was an easy choice.

“Why?” Granger replied.

“He’s only been killing dark wizards, Hermione. Frankly, I’d thank him for taking out Greyback.”

Draco’s mouth twitched. Finally, something he and Potter agreed on. Though, Draco would rather beat the assassin’s arse for taking away such a highly anticipated kill from him.

“He’s still an assassin, Harry. One man cannot be judge, jury, and executioner, you must know that.”

Draco nearly scoffed. He would have if not for the fact that it would have given away his position. Her sanctimonious righteousness was nauseating. She was still the same Granger she’d always been, as though their history hadn’t shown them that the law never delivered true justice.

“That’s my problem,” Potter admitted. “I’m not sure I want to catch him anymore. The Minister, though, he’s worried. He’s been unhappy with me since the Magical Creatures Gala.”

Draco decided then that the next order of business for the Tenebrae Arcanum was to figure out what in Merlin’s name was going on with the Minister for Magic.

“Then my insight is this,” she said. “Focus on both. Or better yet—step back and look at the bigger picture. Not everything is what it seems.”

Draco’s brows knit in confusion. Not everything is what it seems? What the hell did she mean by that?

Before Potter could reply, a silver Patronus burst into the alley. Weasley’s voice echoed: “Harry, Kingsley needs you. It’s urgent.”

It was unfortunate that Draco couldn’t eavesdrop on that conversation as well.

Potter and Granger exchanged quick goodbyes before he Disapparated with a sharp crack. Draco lingered only a moment longer, slipping free of the shadows and his disillusionment.

Granger emerged from the alley a few moments later. She didn’t notice him, of that he was certain. Her curls caught the light as she moved in the opposite direction of the apothecary, precisely where she’d just told Potter she was headed when they’d parted ways.

Draco tilted his head. Why would she lie to her best friend?

His mind drifted back to her words: Not everything is what it seems. She’d said it with such conviction, and now she was the one walking away from her own story. He should have left then. He’d indulged himself once today, surely he’d reached his stalking quota for the day.

But his feet carried him forward anyway. If she was lying to Potter, there had to be a reason and reasons could be useful.

He followed at a distance, careful to blend with the crowd. When he realized where she was headed, it all started to make sense. No wonder she’d lied to Potter—Granger had no business in Knockturn Alley, not if she wanted to keep her spotless reputation intact.

She led him straight there, curls flashing once more before vanishing around a corner. When he turned the corner himself, she was gone.

“Are you following me, Malfoy?” Granger’s cool voice came from behind him.

He spun, almost startled, to find her leaning against the stone wall, wand twirling lazily in her hand. She was in black robes, cut elegantly, and heels far taller than he’d ever imagined Granger would tolerate. She looked…composed. Dangerous, even. The nonchalance alone would have made most uneasy. Fortunately, Draco was not most.

“Madame Undersecretary.” He inclined his head, his tone light with mockery. “What is that now—three days in a row? However did you get so lucky?”

Her lips curved faintly. “Don’t flatter yourself—though I suppose that is your specialty. We really shouldn’t make a habit of this. Pretending the other didn’t exist suited us both far better.”

His eyes flicked over hers. That same emptiness lived there, as if it had always been there. Draco knew there was a time, maybe before the war, when there was light there instead. And suddenly, it clicked.

Occlumency.

Here, in the alley. At the gala. In the Wizengamot wing hallway. All this time he’d tried to understand what it was when the answer was staring him right in the face. There was never a moment when she wasn’t hiding behind her walls. How had he not seen it before? Hermione Granger, an Occlumens. He should have expected as much.

“Coincidence, then?” he drawled, careful to maintain his apathetic expression. “I hadn’t seen you or even realized you were here today for that matter. Not until you appeared out of the shadows like a bloody boggart.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she replied evenly. “I saw you outside Flourish & Blotts and then again when I turned in here. Hardly seems like coincidence. Do you typically spend your Saturdays stalking government officials?”

He arched a brow, affecting indifference. “My mother was in Madam Malkin’s. I got bored and decided to stop by Borgin & Burkes. Not everything revolves around you, Granger, despite what the Golden Trio fan club has led you to believe.”

Her gaze flicked over him skeptically. “You share such a foul history with that place. If anyone saw you there, it could tarnish what you’ve so carefully rebuilt.” Her tone wasn’t threatening. If anything, it carried a faint trace of something that sounded a lot like concern. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more—that or the fact that she’d ignored his jab at her relevance completely.

“Borgin has been appraising Malfoy heirlooms. He’s skilled at determining what’s cursed and what isn’t, which is more than I care to waste my own time doing. And I’m hardly worried about my image. It’s never been a surprise to find Draco Malfoy in Knockturn Alley.” His eyes narrowed, catching hers with deliberate sharpness. “But you on the other hand, that’s quite the peculiar sighting.”

Her expression gave nothing away. It was foolish of him to hope she had no idea all Malfoy heirlooms were catalogued and dealt with by cursebreakers as a result of his father’s life sentence in Azkaban. But if she saw through his lie, she gave no indication. She seemed to contemplate his story for a moment longer, before putting her wand back in a holster Draco hadn’t even noticed she’d been wearing.

“Very well.” She turned on her heel to leave, offering him nothing, ignoring his deflection entirely.

He felt a sudden reckless urge to yell after her. “You’re not going to tell me what you were doing here?”

She didn’t stop. She didn’t even hesitate. “No.”

The word lingered in the air as she disappeared around the corner, leaving him staring after her with more questions than answers, cursing himself for letting her see even an ounce of curiosity.

…

The Tenebrae Arcanum’s inner circle had a meeting late in the night. They were gathered at Nott Manor, in the brand-new lounge Theo had insisted on building. It was sleek and moody—much like Theo—with a long bar and deep leather seating. The house elves had spent weeks scrubbing out the last foul traces of dark magic until the place was unrecognizable. Theo was behind the bar mixing drinks with surprising competence, like he enjoyed playing host.

Blaise lounged in his chair with a folded Prophet article hovering over his lap, slowly burning from the edges inward. The headline screamed about The Assassin Still at Large. Pansy and Neville had arrived moments ago from some tedious dinner party; they sat close together on the sofa, drinks in hand, as Theo finally walked back over to them. Draco was in one of the wingback chairs, twirling his signet ring, half-listening.

“How was the party?” Blaise asked, not looking up from the curling parchment.

“Boring,” Pansy said flatly. “All anyone wanted to talk about was that article you’re setting fire to.”

“Our friends in France seem charmed by Mortiferus’ efficiency,” Neville added. “They’re already discussing employing him.”

Draco’s gaze flicked toward him. He wondered if Neville had managed to get in contact with Mortiferus, if that was a service he was prepared to barter and sell to his other contacts. It would be like him, to have a link to everyone and everything.

“Surprised the Prophet hasn’t caught on to the name yet,” Theo muttered, sliding into the seat beside Draco with his own drink.

Draco swirled his glass, then said, “I suspect the Minister has a hand on the Prophet’s throat. Otherwise, they would have let it slip weeks ago.”

That earned him everyone’s attention.

“What do you know?” Pansy asked, her eyes narrowing.

He took his time with another sip before answering. “There’s a top-secret Auror task force, mandated by the Minister himself. Its sole purpose is to find Atrarius and now Mortiferus. So secret that even Granger didn’t know it existed.”

Theo choked on his drink. “And how did you stumble onto that?”

Draco recounted the conversation he’d overheard earlier that day. The room reacted with disbelief, then grudging respect that even Saint Potter was willing to look away.

“Still disconcerting,” Neville said carefully, “that the Minister himself seems certain you’re real.”

“Probably didn’t help when Dolohov’s rats told the Aurors that warehouse belonged to us,” Theo said, his eyes twitching in annoyance.

Everyone grunted their agreement. They’d all been furious when Draco revealed Dolohov’s involvement.

“So,” Pansy started, inspecting her cuticles with casual indifference, “the Aurors are hunting us—or at least trying to. I’d quite like to know why they’re so sure we exist.”

The group fell quiet for a moment, each lost in thought. A second later, their silence was interrupted when the Floo roared to life.

Ginevra stepped through, brushing soot from her sleeve with a practiced flick. “Honestly, Theo, you still haven’t warded the grate properly. I nearly landed sideways.”

“Complaints already?” Theo called as he made his way back to the bar. “When I’ve so graciously decided to make you a drink?”

“Better be stronger than last time,” she quipped, dropping a kiss to Blaise’s cheek before claiming the arm of his chair. She glanced at the smoldering Prophet headline. “Really, love? Going to set the place on fire?”

“Consider it a public service,” Blaise murmured, extinguishing the last ember with a lazy wave of his wand.

Draco leaned back, watching the group resettle with Ginevra now among them. Her presence always shifted the room. She was bright, confident, and sharper than people gave her credit for. And her fame and likability brought an impenetrable shield to Blaise’s reputation and everyone else’s by extension. A Weasley in name only, and an unexpected addition to their syndicate.

The redhead finally turned her attention toward Draco. “You seem to be brooding more than usual, Ferret.”

Draco scoffed. “I don’t brood.”

“You do,” Theo said, handing Ginevra her glass. “In fact, I’ve known you to do little else.”

He opened his mouth to argue—Draco certainly did not brood—but Pansy cut him off swiftly. “The Minister knows Atrarius is real, now his knickers are in a twist.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Ginevra said dryly.

Draco sighed and took a long sip of his drink.

“There’s fuckery afoot,” Theo confirmed. “Someone has to find out what changed.”

“Maybe Hermione could provide some context,” Blaise said smoothly, looking toward his girlfriend and then Neville and Pansy.

Neville shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in a way Draco noticed instantly. “She didn’t even know about the task force.”

Ginny tapped her finger against Blaise’s knee. “But she does know the Minister best. Though, lately…she feels different. Distant, almost, like she’s keeping something from all of us.”

Draco tried not to think about that for too long, instead he maintained his focus on Neville, whose face seemed to have grown two shades lighter in the last few seconds.

Pansy chimed in before Neville could respond to Ginevra. “Exactly. She’s been dodging me, Harry too. Claims everything’s fine but she’s lying about something. I don’t know what.”

“Maybe she’s finally getting laid,” Theo offered.

Draco’s eyes snapped to him involuntarily. He blinked, not knowing what even prompted that reaction.

“Absolutely not,” Pansy scoffed. “She’d tell me or Ginny. No chance she’d keep that from us.”

Ginevra nodded but didn’t look convinced. By the time Draco shook off the odd feeling that had derailed his senses and looked back at Neville, it was as if nothing had been wrong in the first place.

The conversation circled for another few minutes, all of them theorizing without answers. Draco let the noise fade as he turned the problem over in his own mind. The Minister was dangerous, a clear threat to the stability they’d all fought so hard to create. If he wanted insight, Kingsley Shacklebolt would not give anything up, least of all to Draco. But Granger was the easier target.

There was clearly something different about her. She was practicing Occlumency and she was avoiding her closest friends and lying to them. If the conversations he’d overheard and his own interactions with her were any indication, there was a new edge to her. One Draco couldn’t fully understand.

That made her a variable and Draco hated variables.

He was certain she had answers. If she was tied up in whatever Kingsley was scheming, then she was a threat, however useful she might also be. Like any other potential liability, she required handling.

And unlike their mutual friends, Draco would be willing to find them in whichever way the mission demanded. He was not burdened by preserving the sanctity of a friendship. He and Granger were not friends.

Draco was the best Legilimens among them. At this point in his life, his skill rivaled that of Bellatrix and the Dark Lord—only with more finesse. All he required was proximity and opportunity.

The idea arrived fully formed before he could think better of it, and he almost laughed at the absurdity. Invite Hermione Granger to dinner, sit across from her, and slip into her head.

It was utterly insane. Because it wouldn’t just be business. It would be miserable—a suffocating reminder of everything he’d sworn to avoid and forget.

Absolutely not. What the fuck was wrong with him for even thinking it?

Stupid, stupid Draco.

He twirled his ring again, letting the idea sink into the back of his mind where it belonged. He couldn’t consider it. Everything else aside, if she caught on to what he was doing, she’d stop at nothing to find out why.

He would not consider it. And yet, for the first time in years, he couldn’t quite convince himself he believed it.

…

The old year was dying, and the Manor—as it did every year—feasted on its last breath. Music swelled, laughter rang out, and beneath it all Draco heard the whisper of knives being sharpened. New Year’s Eve at Malfoy Manor was tradition: a night of silk, wine, and political chess disguised as celebration. Narcissa glided through the crowd like a queen, every word and gesture perfectly measured. Draco lingered at the edge, watching the Sacred Twenty-Eight clink glasses while quietly plotting each other’s downfall. He wondered—not for the first time—how long he could keep them all in line before someone truly turned on him.

Draco bided his time, waiting for the opportune moment to remind the Rosiers, Mulcibers, and Greengrasses what became of families who stood against his interests. The marriage law had been scrapped on Monday, just as Draco commanded of Isadora, but he doubted it would be their last act of rebellion.

Tonight, they’d receive a personal reminder of where they stood in the hierarchy—far more effective than the owls he’d first considered sending.

“If I didn’t know any better,” came Tiberius’ gravelly voice behind him, “I’d think you were plotting how to make Selwyn’s death look accidental.”

Draco chuckled softly. “I hardly need murder to make her obey.”

Still, Tiberius wasn’t far off. If she stepped out of line again, that would be the end of her. Not that he knew Draco was capable of such a thing.

“She was furious after you left her office last week,” he said, finally stepping up beside Draco. “She smashed three vases in a row. Honoria and I were thrilled—it’s not every day Isadora provides us with entertainment worth watching.”

“Isadora should have known better,” Draco stated, his voice heavy with disdain.

Tiberius shrugged. “They felt your grip loosen and mistook it for permission to misbehave.”

“The Undersecretary was supposed to keep them in line. That’s why I stepped away.” His irritation flared, and of course, he made it Granger’s fault.

Tiberius sipped his drink. “And what is she to do when they stop listening? Hermione won’t resort to your methods, and she doesn’t hold your leverage.”

He couldn’t deny it. His position was unique; no one else could bend the Wizengamot as he could. Perhaps stepping back had been a mistake.

Before Draco could respond, his eyes caught on Astoria Greengrass lingering at the edge of the ballroom, circling like a vulture waiting for her chance. He should have known she wouldn’t leave him in peace for long. Sure enough, his ears were assaulted a second later by the shrill and grating sound of her voice.

“Draco! I’ve been hoping for a moment alone with you.”

He glanced at Tiberius, who grimaced on his behalf. Merlin help him. Astoria was not the Greengrass he intended to deal with tonight.

“How could I ever be so fortunate?” he muttered dryly.

Astoria swept in, draped in a gown she no doubt believed to be stunning. Draco found it distasteful, but that had more to do with the witch than the dress.

She pasted on a demure smile, the kind she must have practiced in her mirror a hundred times, all lowered lashes and feigned softness. Draco had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. The performance was almost insulting.

“Alone typically means by oneself,” Draco deadpanned. “I was obviously in the middle of a conversation.”

Astoria’s smile faltered, and Draco simply could not find it within himself to feel even an ounce of remorse.

Tiberius clapped him on the shoulder. “No worries, son. I’ll hunt you down later.”

Draco shot him a glare as he sauntered away with a positively vile grin plastered on his face. He exhaled slowly, turning back to Astoria, whose smile had bloomed back the moment she had him cornered.

“What do you want, Astoria?” he asked, eyes narrowing, hoping she’d take the hint before he had to be cruel.

She didn’t. She stepped closer, laying a hand on his forearm. “I was hoping you’d join me for dinner later this week. A chance to…catch up.”

He stared pointedly at her hand, remaining silent until she withdrew. Only then did he lift his gaze lazily back to her. “And why would I ever want that?”

“Well, I thought you might like to recreate that night we had in Italy,” she replied, batting her eyelashes like that had ever worked on him.

Draco drained his glass. “Astoria, we fucked once three years ago. You should really let it go. If it had meant anything to me, it would have happened again.”

Her jaw tightened, though she kept her composure. “We once had a betrothal contract. Imagine the power if our houses joined as they were meant to.”

“You and I,” he said, voice dripping with venom, “will never happen. The Greengrass name offers me nothing but a tight, high-maintenance noose around my neck by the name of Astoria.”

She opened her mouth to retort but he lifted a hand, silencing her. “I suspect your father sent you to secure a betrothal—or worse, to bed me and secure an heir so that I have no choice but to marry you.”

He stepped in, fingers catching her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “Let me make three things very clear. One, if your father believes marriage will absolve him of his financial debt to the Malfoys, he’s sorely mistaken. Two, that debt will see a sharp increase in its interest rate—one I highly doubt he can afford—if he keeps opposing me in the Wizengamot. And three, the next time any of you step out of line, it will be the last time you do.”

He released her jaw and stepped back. “Deliver that message to your father, won’t you?”

“You’re heartless, Draco,” she whispered, her face twisting with anger and fear. Astoria was not built for the games he played.

He offered her his most menacing smile. “No. It just doesn’t—nor will it ever—beat for you.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth before turning and fucking back off from whence she came. His eyes followed her retreat only to find her father, Charles Greengrass, watching their exchange with thinly veiled dread. Astoria whispered something in his ear, and Charles blanched.

Draco raised his glass in mock salute. Charles gave a resigned nod. The silent exchange thrilled Draco. Power without a word spoken was exhilarating.

Draco let the weight of Charles’ surrender linger a moment longer before shifting his gaze across the ballroom. He found Benedict Rosier holding court near the champagne, Delphine at his side, their daughter Antoinette nowhere in sight—thank Merlin. A cousin of the disgraced Evan Rosier, he’d fled to France decades ago and then conveniently returned after the war ended.

A few paces away, Florence Mulciber stood flanked by her sons: Alaric, stone-faced and watchful; Silas already glassy-eyed from too much to drink. Florence, widow of Mulciber’s elder brother, had kept their line alive through her sons and was smart enough to keep her distance from her brother-in-law during the war.

Draco set his glass aside and cut through the crowd, his mask of civility firmly in place. It was time to remind both Houses who owned the air they were breathing.

Alaric noticed him first, elbowing his brother and murmuring to his mother.

“Lord Malfoy, a pleasure as always,” Alaric said with careful deference. If anyone in that family understood the dynamic, it was Alaric.

Draco offered his hand and he took it without hesitation. “Alaric, we’re glad you could join us for the festivities.” He turned to the Mulciber matriarch, who watched him too closely. “Florence, welcome to the Manor.”

“Mr. Malfoy, how gracious of you to include us this year,” she replied, her tone covered in contempt. Still sulking about last year’s absence, then.

Draco gave no indication that he cared. He glanced at Silas, who hadn’t bothered to look up. The boy looked moments away from collapsing on the ballroom floor.

He could have spared Alaric the embarrassment and suggested a discreet exit, but watching them squirm promised better entertainment.

“There is something I’d like to discuss, but first—” Draco pivoted toward the Rosiers, who just happened to be watching. They blinked when they realized they’d been caught. Draco lifted two fingers and beckoned them over, his expression leaving no room for refusal.

Benedict and Delphine exchanged a glance and approached. “Monsieur Malfoy, is everything all right?” Delphine asked, her tone cautious.

Draco smiled politely. “Why don’t you tell me, Delphine?”

She swallowed, but her husband answered instead. “Lord Malfoy, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Florence added crisply, cheeks faintly pink. Alaric stayed close, watching Draco carefully.

“Allow me to clarify,” Draco said, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray and raising it in a mild salute. “Since both your Houses have been so…industrious in the Wizengamot lately, I thought we might be efficient and speak together.”

“I was unaware you had resumed your usual attentions,” Benedict stated, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass.

Draco tilted his head, the picture of confusion. “I fail to see the relevance. Attention or not, I was under the impression we had an understanding. Imagine my surprise when word reached me that you and Florence found Isadora’s little law worth your time.”

“It was no ‘little law.’ The goal was—and remains—reconciliation,” Florence returned with a saccharine smile.

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “If reconciliation were truly the goal, why did the Ministry’s most progressive witch attempt to dismantle it on sight?”

“Please,” Benedict sneered, his smugness leaking through. “The Senior Undersecretary doesn’t understand our politics. She blocks everything because she enjoys the power.”

Draco didn’t care for the mischaracterization of Hermione Granger. “Benedict, you’ve done well these last years reacquainting the Rosier name with polite society. I’d hate to see that progress ruined by a public quarrel with their Golden Girl.”

“We meant no offense,” Delphine said quickly, shooting her husband a warning look. “Our position was…poorly expressed.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Florence cut in, her patience thinning, “perhaps you could reach your point.”

Draco noted the small tightening in Alaric’s jaw, and the Rosiers’ matching stillness.

“Very well,” he sighed. “The Loire lease renewals fall due after the holiday. Our surveyors flagged some concerns during your vineyards’ annual inspection.” His eyes moved between Benedict and Florence. “And customs is revising surcharges along your preferred shipping corridors. Routine matters, of course, but small adjustments can have calamitous effects. I can smooth them over—unless I shouldn’t.”

Florence flushed darkly and Benedict looked on twitch away from snapping the stem of his glass. The Loire vineyards were owned by Rosier but they thrived on Malfoy land. Benedict knew what happened to tenants who displeased their landlords. Florence’s shipping corridors moved because Malfoy Enterprises allowed it, and as fate would have it, Rosier used her to move his wine. It was likely why they’d been working together to begin with. And it was all by design for moments like this.

Draco thought they might argue, but it was Alaric who stepped in, the voice of reason. “There’s no need for reconsideration on any of our joint dealings, Lord Malfoy. You have our alignment.”

Draco watched them hold their breath, calculating the damage. They hadn’t expected any consequences, they’d thought he’d never find out.

He didn’t look at Alaric. He glared at Benedict, then Florence. “Wonderful. Let’s be sure there are no more…misunderstandings. One never knows how unpredictable things can become."

They nodded. Draco turned to go, then paused and looked back. Silas’ eyes were bloodshot and his sway had worsened. “Alaric, see your brother out. Spirits and certain potions make for poor company.”

Florence’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t known he was aware, but of course he was. Silas was a slave to his Luxuria addiction and that brew belonged to the Tenebrae Arcanum after all. Alaric didn’t bother with a rebuttal, he hauled his brother toward the exit. Draco almost smirked. These families strutted about, flaunting their wealth and the power they claimed to wield, but they were glass houses—every one of them easy to shatter if one knew where to throw the stone.

Satisfied the point had landed, Draco left Florence and the Rosiers barely holding on to their composure. His gaze skimmed the room. Tiberius stood with Honoria, laughing softly at something she’d said. The Greengrasses cornered Neville and Pansy, who were both doing a poor job of masking their annoyance. Blaise, Ginevra, and Theo were giggling about something in the corner—no surprise there.

He’d warned his circle he’d be tending to Wizengamot business; they knew to leave him be when he was on the warpath. His mother caught his eye and nodded. She knew too. Thankfully, the rest of the guests seemed blissfully unaware of the tension that trailed him.

His attention snagged on Millicent Bulstrode and Hannah Abbott, and his anger softened. They weren’t close friends, but both had been unfailingly kind to Draco since the war. Both held hereditary Wizengamot seats, and like Draco, Pansy, Theo, and Neville, had a proxy sit in it for them. They’d stood with his reforms from the start, and when they’d gone public with their relationship, he’d been the first to congratulate them. He’d also stamped out the inevitable whispers from the other half of the Twenty-Eight.

He started toward them just as McLaggen and Isadora attempted to intercept. So much for a reprieve. Better to rescue Millie and Hannah from what promised to be an insufferable conversation.

He quickened his pace. “Millie,” he called, still a few steps off. Relief flashed over her face.

“Draco!” she said, smiling wide. She stepped in for a quick hug, cleanly ignoring McLaggen and Isadora.

Hannah grinned too, grateful for the interruption. “We’d been meaning to say hello, but you’ve looked busy.”

“I’ll find you both again before the night ends,” he said, and he meant it. “Pansy mentioned the new Étoile Cachée spring line, she’s been looking for you both to discuss the tickets.”

Draco wasn’t actually sure what he was talking about or what he was promising, but he’d heard Pansy mention the designer's newest collection a few days ago and figured it was an acceptable cover.

“Yes! She said she’d try and get us some. Hannah has been dying to go to their show,” Millie replied without missing a beat. Hannah nodded vigorously.

“We’ll see you later!” Hannah mouthed a thank you as she took Millie’s arm and steered them toward Pansy.

Draco slowly turned to face McLaggen and Isadora, who were both watching him with narrowed eyes.

“That was rude,” Isadora said, folding her arms.

Draco feigned confusion. “Forgive me, I hadn’t noticed you were speaking with them.”

“We weren’t, but we were trying to,” McLaggen snapped.

“Then I saved them from what would have been a nauseating discussion about your next marriage law.”

McLaggen’s jaw clenched. “What makes you think there’s another marriage law?”

“Granger hasn’t agreed to marry you yet,” Draco said with a shrug. “I assumed more proposals were inevitable.”

McLaggen flushed a deep red, almost sputtering. He looked ready to hex Draco, but Isadora’s glance cut him short. He stalked off, pride dragging behind him.

“That was juvenile,” Isadora said coldly. “Determined to ruin everyone’s night, are we?”

Draco sipped his champagne. “Only for those of you who don’t know how to listen.”

“Don’t include me in that list,” she sneered. “I dropped the law—even though you didn’t ask nicely.”

“If you wanted nice,” Draco said, “you shouldn’t have done something so fucking stupid.”

She rolled her eyes. “Regardless, your little team-up with the Undersecretary is going to get very old, very fast.”

Draco frowned. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

Isadora studied him, as if reassessing. “You both forced my hand. She knew things only you could have—specifics on the port raid, everything you helped clean up. She came to see me before you did, I assumed you were collaborating.”

Draco blinked. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from his next conversation with Isadora but it was not this. The idea that he and Granger were working together to control the Wizengamot was laughable. But not nearly as insane as the idea that Granger would have blackmailed Isadora into dropping it.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Isadora,” he said tightly. “Excuse me.”

He didn’t give her the chance to respond. He turned on his heel and walked away, he needed to be somewhere she couldn’t watch his facade crack.

Tiberius had been wrong. Granger would resort to his methods—and she’d done it with information only Draco should have known. How the fuck did she learn about the raid? He’d helped Selwyn cover it precisely so she’d owe him later. Clearly, a miscalculation. Something was deeply wrong with Granger, and if she knew things she wasn’t supposed to, it endangered everything he’d built.

Fuck.

He would have to take her to dinner. He needed answers, and it was the only way to safely get into her head.

Draco threw back the rest of his drink. What the fuck was he getting himself into?

Chapter Text

Draco had spent the entire day after the New Year’s Eve Ball searching—with no small amount of pacing about his study—for sensible reasons not to do this. He found several. Granger would likely hex him the moment he asked or assume he was plotting, he wasn’t sure which was worse. She’d said it best—everything was decidedly easier when they pretended the other didn’t exist. He should be focusing on Dolohov, hunting him down and killing the bastard. Worst of all, he’d be subjected to several hours of her company. That alone was reason enough to abandon this absurd, reckless, self-destructive plan.

And yet here he was the next day, still circling the problem. For reasons mostly unknown to Draco, he decided it was something he must do. For the sake of the Tenebrae Arcanum, if nothing else. He needed to know what she knew about the Minister’s secrets, and how she’d caught wind of the raid.

The crown jewel of Malfoy Enterprises’ holdings was Marseille, a gateway port and their continental hub. The properties, the shipping corridors, and the smuggling routes. Commerce at this scale was not made easier by magic. Ships bought discretion, which was why Marseille had been a Malfoy stronghold for centuries. Southampton was the English counterpart, quieter but no less lucrative. Yes, the Malfoys had fingers in docks and harbors from Trieste to Calcutta, but Marseille and Southampton were the pillars—two foundations on which half the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s fortunes rested. If either cracked, the whole edifice shook.

The Selwyns leased the warehouses, storing and moving all manner of goods for their family interests as well as others. Rosier’s Loire vintages had no path to the Mediterranean except through Marseille, through Draco. Mulciber ran the day-to-day operations through the shipping routes out of Marseille and Southampton. Plenty other companies and noble houses used these ports for their benefit. And it all tied back to Malfoy Enterprises.

Though profitable, the arrangements were delicate, and not without their shadows. When the French Ministry blundered into one of Selwyn’s less-than-legal shipments, Draco had buried it fast. The inspectors answered to him. The ones who didn’t no longer worked the docks. He greased palms and silenced reports before the news could spread beyond Isadora herself.

He could not afford scandal, not when so much of his leverage originated from this harbor. The raid had been the only time he’d seen Isadora truly worried about what might happen to her. She’d begged Draco for his help and promised to behave, much to his amusement. What none of them realized was that their smuggling didn’t weaken his grip—it tightened it. They had no idea Atrarius was the one who patrolled the shadows of their trade, or that it was his contraband they often moved. If they ever tried to turn on him, their own sins would damn them first.

How Granger had sniffed out any of it was beyond him. But she had.

And so he needed answers, everything else be damned. Anything else pulling him in her direction was swiftly ignored and buried beneath layers of Occlumency so deep, he no longer cared to see what lay there.

He couldn’t owl her, she’d probably incinerate the letter without reading past his name. Granger wasn’t known for giving second chances to people like him. She saved him from Azkaban and that was likely all he’d ever get from her. It was more than he deserved, even he could admit that.

Eventually, after another round of pacing and cursing his own hubris, Draco made a decision. He’d go to the Ministry in person. She couldn’t ignore him if he was standing in front of her. It was direct, unpleasant, and entirely necessary. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return to avoiding her.

Honestly, what had he expected? This idiotic idea had been his in the first place.

He flooed into the Ministry directly from the Manor, already irritated by the swarm of people clogging the midday foot traffic. The noise, the bodies, the stench of too many wizards in too small a space, it was all enough to make him regret not sending a godsdamn owl after all.

This trip to the Ministry, most ignored him, too focused on the Friday afternoon chaos. He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his robes, and made for the lifts with the usual Malfoy hauteur.

He was steps away from the lift when fate decided to twist the knife.

Potter. And the Weasel.

Draco should have known he'd run into that insufferable duo. The universe had a cruel sense of humor. As if speaking to Granger wasn’t punishment enough, now he had to endure the Golden Boys first.

Brilliant.

“Malfoy.”

Weasley’s voice dripped with disdain, his expression twisted into that familiar sneer he reserved for Draco, as if his two closest friends weren’t partially to blame for him walking free.

“The Ministry doesn’t exactly welcome Death Eaters strolling through its halls,” he added, clearly proud of himself. Draco was glad he’d managed to avoid them during most of his visits to the Wizengamot offices.

Honestly, the man needed new material. The Death Eater jabs were getting painfully stale.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but Potter beat him to it.

“Come off it, Ron,” he said, exasperated, before turning to Draco. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Now that was the question, wasn’t it?

Weasley was still glaring at him like a bloodhound who’d caught a whiff of something foul, so Draco decided to lean into it. No sense in wasting an opportunity to have a little fun at the Weasel’s expense.

“I’m here to see Granger.”

Both their expressions shifted. Potter’s eyes narrowed, curiosity flickering there, but Weasley, predictably, looked one heartbeat away from a full-blown meltdown. Draco almost grinned.

“What do you want with Hermione?” Potter asked cautiously, subtly stepping between them, likely to stop his red-faced companion from lunging. A wise decision.

“Oh, just discussing our dinner plans.”

Draco took a graceful step back just in time to avoid Weasley’s lunge.

“There’s no way Mione agreed to dinner with you, ferret! What’d you do to her?!”

Draco couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that slipped out as Weasley shouted across the atrium like an unhinged howler. Potter, now clearly mortified, grabbed a fistful of his robes and began dragging him away.

“Delightful to see you, as always, Malfoy,” Potter said over his shoulder, his voice flat with sarcasm as he hauled the sputtering Weasley off before he could cause a full scene.

Weasley shot one last furious look over his shoulder, his face practically glowing red, before disappearing around a corner.

Draco smoothed his robes with practiced ease, offered the nearest group of bystanders his most aristocratic smile, and continued toward the lifts without a care in the world.

When the lift shuddered to a stop at Level One, the realization of what Draco was about to do hit him all over again. For the sake of everything he held dear, he reminded himself. He forced his walls higher, thicker, until even the thought of hesitation dulled.

Susan was still on holiday—small mercies—so he wouldn’t have to waste time and patience talking his way past her desk. He was halfway to knocking when the muffled cadence of voices reached him through the wood.

“—I don’t care if you were trying to appease them, Kingsley,” Granger was saying, her voice tight with fatigue. “Every week it's some new flavor of prejudice dressed up as progressive idealism.” She sighed, the sound sharp with exasperation. Draco could just imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose in irritation. “Half of them don’t even know what progressivism actually looks like. If they’re trying to trick me, they shouldn’t be so bloody stupid about it. And if they try to slip one more proposal past my office, I won’t just block it—I’ll tear it apart on the floor, for the entire Wizengamot to see. Make damn sure they remember the proper order of things.”

Draco’s brow twitched. The proper order of things. His own words echoed back at him now, except she didn’t know he was listening. Was she mocking him, parroting him to Shacklebolt on purpose? Or had the phrase simply lodged somewhere in that relentless mind of hers? Either way, he didn’t like it.

There was a pause, then the Minister’s voice, warm but weary. “You’re right, Hermione. I’ll make sure no one in the Wizengamot circumvents your authority again. Consider it taken care of.”

Shacklebolt was folding to her, reshaping the Ministry’s current rhythm around her stubborn will. Draco suspected this was a frequent occurrence, he couldn’t imagine that going against her wishes ever ended well for any of them. Even despite her current struggles to maintain control.

The Minister grew quiet, and Draco had to lean in closer to hear him clearly, careful to look casual still in case any passersby noticed him. “You know, I wish I had at least half your strength, Hermione. You’d make one hell of a Minister.”

Minister for Magic Hermione Granger? The notion needled at him, irritating and entirely unbearable.

Draco almost laughed out loud at the thought.

Almost.

Because the truth was, she’d probably be brilliant at it.

Too brilliant. And that made her all the more insufferable.

A shuffle inside broke his thoughts. Draco stepped back quickly as the door opened and the Minister emerged. For the briefest instant, he looked startled, as though he’d seen a ghost, but it was gone in the next breath, replaced by his customary disdain.

“Mr. Malfoy. What could possibly bring you to Madame Undersecretary Granger’s office?”

Draco didn’t bother with the line about dinner, he wasn’t sure the Minister would find that very amusing.

“I have an appointment,” he said smoothly. The less Shacklebolt knew, the better.

The Minister’s eyes flicked over him, sharp and measuring, before he turned away without another word. Draco thought—though he couldn’t be sure—that he caught the faintest hitch in the man’s stride, almost a limp.

He exhaled, turned back to the door, and knocked twice.

Draco stifled a laugh as he heard her curse before saying, “Come in.” If only she knew who was waiting for her on the other side of the door. As soon as he stepped into her field of view, her face fell immediately.

“Malfoy. I thought we’d agreed to continue pretending the other didn’t exist.” Granger was quick to rise from her seat, her chin lifted as though she was bracing herself for something.

“Relax, Granger. It’s not like I’m here to hurt you.” He crossed the room and sat in one of the chairs opposite her desk, arranging himself as if this were his office, not hers. She didn’t look afraid—she never did—but her steady gaze was no less irritating. To Draco, the only way it made sense was that she hated him.

“Well then,” she said coolly, eyes searching his face. “Why are you here, Malfoy?” His name still sounded like acid. He clung to that. He knew she would lose it when he spoke next. “I came to see if you’d like to go to dinner.” He cleared his throat. “With me.”

He was prepared for the shouting, even for a hex. Instead, she stared at him, surprise breaking across her features. The first emotion he’d seen reach her eyes.

When her silence stretched, Draco prodded. “Granger, it's not as though I was speaking Parseltongue. I said—”

“I heard what you said,” she cut in sharply. “I’m trying to understand why you said it.” Leave it to Granger to make everything so fucking difficult.

“Typically, when a handsome, rich wizard asks a witch to dinner, she says yes.” Granger couldn’t have rolled her eyes more violently than she did, otherwise they would have detached and rolled across the floor.

He gave her his best Malfoy smirk; he truly was laying it on thick.

“Well, when I see a handsome, rich wizard and he decides to ask me to dinner—I’ll remember your advice and tell him yes,” she said matter-of-factly. She was not the least bit amused. Rather rude on her part, Draco was handsome and rich.

“Very funny, Granger. I was being serious.”

She scoffed at him. “You’re a prat, Malfoy. You couldn’t possibly have a sincere motive for wanting to take me to dinner.”

Bloody hell, he was going to have to beg.

Draco sighed. “Amends, Granger. I think it's time I properly thanked you for saving my life.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’ve had five years to do that. Why now?”

Why did she always need every godsdamned detail? But he knew exactly who she was, he had no right to be surprised. He just needed to convince her he meant it. “Apologies aren’t my strong suit, Granger. Five years too late or not, I know I’ve always owed you one. It may have taken me far too long to admit it, but I can see that my silence has been more insult than courtesy.” He leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “Dinner seemed the least I could do.”

She regarded him another moment, entirely unreadable. He braced for dismissal, but instead she said, softly but firmly, “Alright. Dinner.”

Draco spoke quickly, before the shock could etch itself across his face. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up at six.”

He stood, and she blinked as though he’d Confunded her. “Six? As in today? In four hours?” For someone so bloody clever, she really ought to listen better.

“Yes, Granger. Do keep up. I figured you’d like to get it over with, so I secured a reservation at Le Serpent Noir.” It was the finest dining establishment in Wizarding Britain. But Granger, of course, was unfazed.

“Right. See you at six then. I’ll owl you the address of my estate.”

Draco had to fight not to gape. An estate? There was simply no way. She’d gone back to her papers as though the matter was settled, leaving him standing there still staring. He collected himself and left without so much as a goodbye.

An estate? He couldn’t even picture Hermione Granger wanting to live in such extravagance.

…

Draco twirled his wand absently between his fingers, boots propped on the edge of his desk as he lounged back in his chair. Since he returned from the Ministry, he’d been turning over strategies, and every one of them felt useless. Extracting information from Granger would not be an easy task. She would never hand him anything outright, and if he pressed too hard, she’d turn her questions on him. He couldn’t afford that.

The smarter course was to draw her out, chip away with casual remarks and carefully placed silences, let her damn herself by talking. Wine would help.

But if she refused to slip, he only had one option.

Legilimency.

Draco had no illusions about his own mastery. He’d been forged under Bellatrix’s brutal tutelage, refined it in the shadows afterward, and by now there were few minds he couldn’t breach if he truly wanted to. Granger was certainly an Occlumens, but he doubted she matched him as a Legilimens. She bested him in most aspects of magic, yes, but this? This was his domain.

Still, even he wasn’t reckless enough to open with it. She was too sharp not to notice if he lingered too long, and the last thing he needed was Granger declaring war on him. Better to keep Legilimency holstered, ready only if charm and strategy failed.

“Draco, sweetheart, you look as though you might kill someone. Are you alright?”

He’d almost forgotten Neville, Pansy, and Theo were still in the room until Pansy spoke. They’d been going on about Dolohov, and he’d stopped listening ages ago.

He might as well tell them. Pansy would hex him anyway.

Without looking up, he said, “I’m taking Granger to dinner tonight.”

The resulting shrieks and protests sounded like a Caterwauling Charm. Draco set down his wand, drained his firewhiskey, and waited them out.

“When you say Granger, you mean Hermione Granger, yes? Golden Girl, one-third of the Saviors of the Wizarding World, Senior Undersecretary Hermione Granger?”

Draco finally turned, giving Theo an incredulous look. “Yes, Theodore. That Granger.”

Theo raised his eyebrows at Draco in surprise.

“Why?” Pansy asked, her suspicion sharp and piercing.

He shrugged. “We need to find out what she knows.” It was obvious. Hadn’t they discussed this at Theo’s the other night?

“Why would you be the one to handle that?” Neville’s voice was tight, his expression strained. Draco made a mental note to ask Pansy later if something was wrong with him.

Before Draco could answer, Pansy cut in. “Wait—you mean she actually agreed?” Her disbelief was palpable.

“Why is everyone so surprised I could get a witch to go to dinner with me?”

Theo scoffed. “It isn’t just any witch, mate. It's Hermione Granger. I’m fairly certain she hates you.”

Pansy added, “I invite her to everything, and she says no every time. I’m convinced it's because of you. She’s friends with the rest of us.”

Draco frowned. He hadn’t known she was invited to anything—or that she was friends with all of them. It made the fact that she said yes to his dinner invitation even more intriguing.

Logically, Draco understood why Granger wouldn’t want to be around him. And really, he didn’t want to be around her either.

Still, something about hearing it aloud, said so plainly, so casually, sat wrong with him. Not that it mattered.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Pansy. She said yes.”

His friends didn’t look convinced.

“Did you threaten her?” Theo asked. Draco didn’t dignify that with a response, just an eye roll that mirrored the one Granger had given him earlier.

“Seriously, how did you do it?” Pansy pressed.

“I told her I wanted to make amends. To thank her for keeping me out of Azkaban.”

Pansy’s face flushed an unfamiliar shade of red.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Neville was the one who said it, his look almost accusing, as though Draco had hexed a unicorn. That bothered him more than it should have.

Draco schooled his features into bored indifference. Pansy shook her head. “He’s right. You can’t toy with her emotions like that. Hermione actually deserves an apology. You can’t just use it as a ploy to get in her head.”

Draco looked between them. Theo hadn’t spoken, but his silence was agreement enough. For people so quick to violence, they were being so fickle about one witch’s feelings.

Guilt pricked at him. He crushed it under Occlumency before it could root.

“Pansy, I appreciate your concern for your friend, but I do intend to be sincere—even if my intentions aren’t entirely pure.” She opened her mouth to argue, but Draco held up a hand. “I have to leave soon. Granger chose to say yes. I’ll do what I must for the sake of the Tenebrae Arcanum. That has been, and always will be, my priority. I won’t let the Ministry tear apart what we’ve built and throw us into Azkaban.”

Pansy’s disappointment was written all over her face. She left without another word, Neville following close behind.

“You sure know how to clear out a room,” Theo muttered, pouring him another two fingers of firewhiskey before sitting across from him.

Draco drank in silence. If he thought too hard about it, he’d see they were right. So he didn’t think about it.

He was protecting what they all held dear. That was all that mattered.

“They have a point,” Theo said quietly.

Draco glared.

“Don’t give me that look. I know you won’t change your mind, but at least admit you’re being a fucking arse.”

Draco had no patience left for judgment. He needed to apparate to Oxfordshire soon. He rose, ignoring Theo’s sigh as he left to change into more appropriate robes.

It wasn’t as if he was going to hurt Granger. He was doing what needed to be done. That was the truth because he’d decided it was. And what was truth, if not what one made it to be?

…

When Granger called her home an estate, she meant it literally. He’d apparated at five to, and was stunned at what he saw. Nestled against the hills of Oxfordshire, Granger’s estate sprawled across emerald fields, bordered by ancient oaks and hedgerows littered with wildflowers. The manor was a decent size—not in comparison to his, of course—but respectable. The stone was warmed by centuries of sunlight, and the ivy-clad walls bore the silent weight of history. The regal, wrought-iron gate stood tall in front of Draco and he could see the wards surrounding the grounds, shimmering in the winter moonlight, barring him from making entry.

Without warning, Granger appeared just outside the gate, only a few feet from where he stood. If not for his impeccable ability to keep his shit together, he would have flinched.

And yet, something in him went very still.

Her robes were a deep green threaded with silver that caught the dying light like spellfire stitched into the silk. The tailoring was meticulous, precise in a way that drew the eye without asking permission. Her curls were swept into a low chignon, tidy and familiar, though a few strands had escaped to soften the severity, curling against her cheekbones like they belonged there.

Draco narrowed his eyes. Even now, standing there looking—well—looking the way she did, she wore that ever-present expression of mild disapproval, as if the world had personally disappointed her and he was somehow always the cause of it.

Classic Granger.

His gaze flicked back to her robes. The deep green, curiously close to the one she'd worn at the gala. Had she done that on purpose? No, of course not. That would imply he’d remembered the color.

She stepped closer, and Draco fought the strange sensation tugging at the back of his mind, something old, long since dismissed. The thought came unbidden, quiet and traitorous:

You used to wonder what—

He crushed it.

Whatever it was, it hardly mattered, did it? Not when she was still Granger. Not when the mere sound of her voice could trigger a decade’s worth of defensiveness. Not when she could undo him with a single narrowed glance.

He didn’t let himself linger.

Instead, he braced his mind with and flattened certain thoughts before they could form. It wasn’t avoidance. It was control. And control was the only thing Draco wanted.

“How’d you end up living in a place like this?” It was the first thought that came to mind, and apparently his mouth thought it fine to spit out rather than to think before he spoke.

Granger narrowed her eyes at him. “Good to see you too, Malfoy.”

Gods, this dinner was going to be slow and painful.

It seemed as though he didn’t respond quickly enough for Granger’s liking. “If you must know, I’m a silent investor in several magical and Muggle companies. I wouldn’t normally lean toward living in excess like this, but when I saw the library here, I had to have it.”

Draco couldn’t help it, he chuckled, and she glared at him. “Leave it to you to purchase a centuries-old Manor, rich with history, simply because of its library.”

She shrugged, her glare fading as she realized he didn’t plan to insult her. “It really is a remarkable library.”

Draco, hoping to get through this night as quickly as possible, stuck his arm out for Granger to take. “Shall we?” She stared at him reluctantly for a moment, before taking his arm. They Disapparated with a crack.

When they landed, they were facing an archway, twined with softly glowing serpent carvings. He led Granger to the entry. Le Serpent Noir was the kind of place that didn’t advertise, with a reputation far too old to trace. The restaurant itself was protected by nearly as many enchantments as Gringotts and welcomed only those who knew to ask for it. He supposed a reservation here was wasted on Granger but he’d need an exquisite dinner to make up for the company.

The atmosphere was just as Draco remembered, steeped in mystery and opulence. The hostess greeted only Draco, something he was sure Granger didn’t miss, and led them through the restaurant to their table. Granger was walking ahead of him, she hadn’t spoken to him since they arrived. A good thing, he surmised.

He found himself admiring the interior. The walls were draped in black velvet and green silk, a serpentine chandelier of floating emerald glass shimmered above the tables. The ambiance reminded him of the Slytherin common room, the low lighting reminiscent of how the water from the Black Lake made the common room feel. When they arrived at their table, Draco ordered a bottle of the finest wine they had. A necessity really.

When he finally looked back at Granger, he realized she was biting back a smirk.

“Something funny?”

She immediately schooled her features. “This might be the most Pureblood, Slytherin place I’ve ever set foot in.” She turned her head, scanning the room, no longer trying to hide her smirk. “Honestly, I’m not sure what I expected from a restaurant called Le Serpent Noir, but you’ve outdone yourself, Malfoy.” She cleared her throat, clearly trying not to laugh. “Really, you could have saved the effort and just taken me to the Slytherin common room.”

Draco shot her a withering glare.

“Jealous you never got the invite, Granger?” he said, his annoyance barely concealed. “I just as easily could have taken you to the Leaky Cauldron, plenty there for you to critique. Much more your element too.”

Granger gave him a bright, utterly fake smile, her eyes cool and unimpressed. “Please, as if your poncey and delicate aristocratic sensibilities could stomach dinner at the Leaky.” She lifted her wine glass, taking a slow sip. “Remind me though, were you trying to make amends, or just nostalgic for when you had something to feel superior about?”

Draco’s jaw clenched, but he exhaled slowly. He certainly wouldn’t get the information he came for if they were at each other's throats. “Well, you’re not known for making things easy, maybe our traded insults are comfortably familiar.”

She tilted her head, her voice softening. “An understandable, but ultimately foolish notion.”

“Foolish now, am I?” he said sharply.

“I simply meant that I remember your memories, Malfoy,” she said, with something far too akin to kindness. “I know what was choice and what wasn’t. I know you weren’t only what you pretended to be, which makes the insults…empty.”

That landed heavier than he’d expected, cutting through his practiced composure. He would not lose control now. He would not crumble.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch before he replied. “And yet you still don’t trust me.”

She chuckled. “One thing at a time, Malfoy.”

Their discussion paused, the waiter coming to take their orders. Draco ordered something obnoxious, if only to get under her skin. Granger ordered something sensible, because would she really be Granger if she hadn’t?

He took a sip of his wine as the waiter left.

He tried to regain control of the conversation. “Granger—”

“I’m more interested,” she cut in evenly, “in what you’ve got going on with Isadora Selwyn.”

Draco’s mouth curved faintly. “Why are you so concerned with her?”

She swirled her wine, studying him over the rim of her glass. “Because half of my problems seem to start with her. Makes me wonder if you’ve got a part to play in that.”

“Isadora is as much a pain in my arse as she is in yours,” Draco said, careful to reveal only a sliver of the truth.

She continued to watch him carefully. “Interesting, considering I had no clue you were heavily involved with Wizengamot politics.”

“Once you took over,” Draco said with a casual shrug, “I felt I wasn’t needed anymore.”

“But something has changed?”

His eyes narrowed. “It seems they’ve stopped listening to you.”

Her laugh was short and humorless. “And you think they’re listening to you?”

He leaned forward, his voice both silky and steeled. “That marriage law didn’t pass, did it?”

He hoped she’d rise to the bait, that she’d hate the idea of Draco fixing something she couldn’t and correct him. But of course, this was Hermione Granger, and his hope was wasted.

Her expression barely shifted, just the faintest arch of a brow. “Then I suppose I should thank you for taking care of it. Though I should mention, I really don’t need your help.”

“That,” he said smoothly, “remains to be seen.”

She glared at him. “I’m quite certain I know what I’m doing.”

“Is that so?” Draco goaded. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Well, if your only source is Isadora—”

He cut her off swiftly. “I have a great many sources. Tiberius and Honoria—”

Granger let out a sharp laugh that cut his train of thought clean off. “Malfoy, you’re clearly just attempting to get on my nerves. If you’ve discussed anything with Tiberius and Honoria then I know you know I’ve been dealing with this from the beginning. I didn’t need your help before and I certainly don’t need it now.”

He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth. He could admit she was right, she clearly managed to blackmail Isadora without his help. But they were going around in circles, which meant Legilimency was likely his only option if he hoped to leave here with answers. Or maybe Draco was just impatient, it was difficult to be sure.

“There’s no shame in admitting when you’ve failed,” he said with a sly smirk. “What happens when they keep going over your head?”

Granger’s eye twitched and his smirk widened. “Why don’t you let me worry about that? The last thing I need is to have to concern myself with whatever games you have going on with the members of our highest court.”

Their food arrived a moment later, saving him the trouble of responding and also presenting a perfect opportunity to finally get in her head. When she glanced away, busying herself with her napkin and offering thanks to the waiter, he opened the channel. Legilimency unfurled behind his eyes with practiced ease.

He found himself standing in a vast library. Endless shelves stretched into shadow, stacked with scrolls, tomes, and parchment. At first he thought he had her, there was so much detail, so many threads to pull. Then he reached for one and all he found was dust. Empty scrolls. Legal citations that led nowhere. Pages and pages of obscure and collected knowledge, all distractions designed to waste his time.

“I would like to know,” he heard her say, “why you think your strategy is more effective?”

He paused his search to answer her, careful to maintain the connection without giving up his position. “I have a better understanding of how they operate.”

He pressed deeper as he waited for her response, certain he’d break through eventually. But it was all the fucking same. A fortress masquerading as a library, with the sole purpose of exhausting its intruders before they ever found anything of value.

“I may not be a Pureblood witch,” Granger snapped, “but I understand how to defeat prejudice.”

He retreated before she could feel the weight of him there. He blinked as he left her mind, watching her for any signs that she noticed. He found none. He sighed. This dinner had been a painful failure—suffering for suffering’s sake. “You’re right, Granger. I merely meant that I know what lengths they’ll go to get what they want and I also know what they aren’t willing to give up to get there.”

It was his last, feeble attempt to get her to reveal something, anything. Maybe she’d admit to what she did, give him an opening if he hinted at what he was willing to do to make the Wizengamot work in his favor.

Her gaze only softened, her apprehension leaving her expression. “Well then,” she cleared her throat. “If you could consult me in the future, when you have prudent information, that would be preferred.”

Not likely, but he needed this to be over with. “Of course, Madam Undersecretary.”

He was sure she knew he was lying, but it didn’t matter.

At last, the plates were cleared. He studied her across the table, her expression as inscrutable as ever, and for once he let the mask slip just a fraction. He had to at least make his motives believable.

“Granger,” he said quietly, “thank you—for what you said at my trial. You didn’t owe me a bloody thing. I’ll never forget that act of kindness, even if I didn’t deserve it.”

Her brows lifted, just slightly. She studied him, curious, before giving the smallest shrug. “It was nothing. Just the decent thing to do.”

Decent. He almost laughed. Of course it would amount to nothing for her. Just as this dinner had for him. The only thing he learned—or rather was reminded of—was that he stood no real chance against Granger. If he wanted answers, he’d have to find them some other way.

Draco stood, and she followed suit. They walked in silence, the comfort and familiarity of the restaurant having dulled in the midst of his failure.

When they stepped out into the cool night air, Granger turned to face him. Her eyes locked onto his with a quiet intensity, studying him in a way that made his skin crawl. He didn’t care much for it. It was too focused, too knowing, but he held her gaze, unwilling to flinch.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said, her voice steady and unreadable. Her eyes were the same empty, dark brown they’d been all night.

She turned to leave, then paused. “And Malfoy?”

He gave her the slightest nod of his head.

“I’d work on your Legilimency. It seems subtlety isn’t your strength.”

Before he could form a response, she Disapparated with a sharp crack. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, alone in the silence she left behind. For a fleeting second, he could’ve sworn he felt the ground shake.

Draco was completely and entirely fucked.

Chapter Text

The seconds passed slowly, painfully so. Each filled with a step, maybe two—his pacing had slipped into something reckless. The more seconds that passed, the more impatient the steps became. He was running on too little sleep, too much firewhiskey, and sheer will not to be consumed by panic.

Whether or not he was succeeding was neither here nor there.

His grip tightened on his wand until his knuckles blanched. He couldn’t quite comprehend how he’d gotten here. A series of unfortunate choices, followed by even more wretched consequences. Draco’s skill was unparalleled, to have been bested—without realizing it, at that—was unthinkable. Surely the wine had dulled his edge without his noticing. He wasn’t sure which version of failure would be easier to swallow.

“You look like shit,” came Theo’s familiar drawl from the doorway.

He spun around to find his best mate leaning against the door frame, an amused smirk on his face. “What the fuck took you so long?”

“It’s been five minutes. Impatient much?” he said, his eyes catching on something behind Draco. “What did you set on fire?”

Draco shrugged. “Howlers.” Courtesy of Pansy, furious over last night’s apparently appalling behavior. Granger certainly hadn’t wasted any time.

Theo arched his brow. Draco had no intention of explaining further. He brought him here to test a theory. He carefully channeled his magic, honed it with the same practiced precision he’d used at dinner, and entered Theo’s mind with ease.

“As much as I love these unhinged moments, we usually fare better when I have context,” he said a heartbeat later, seemingly unaware of the intrusion.

Draco frowned. “You don’t feel that?”

“Feel what?” He glanced at himself then back at Draco. His confusion gave way to realization and he quickly shoved Draco out of his head. “What the fuck was that for?”

But Draco was already pacing again. Theo was a skilled Occlumens, a requirement when one had a father like he did. If Theo hadn’t felt him that meant no one should have. It couldn’t have been the wine, he’d had nearly a whole bottle of firewhiskey since he got home. So Granger wasn’t just better—somehow she’d become an Occlumens of prophetic skill.

He gave his wounded pride a moment’s silence before panic clamped down like a vice. What would she do next? She’d deliberately let him think he was safe, that he’d succeeded, while she sat there in silence holding the knowledge of his failure he did not yet possess. She’d engineered his own humiliation, and he’d been too arrogant to see it.

And in all the years of growing up alongside her, seeing her every bloody day, he’d learned one immutable truth: Hermione Granger was incapable of letting anything go.

“Draco…”

He vaguely registered the sound of Theo’s voice. He couldn’t be bothered to respond, he knew he’d started something he’d never be able to take back.

His pace increased. Maybe he could just catch her off guard and remove the memories.

No.

It was underestimating Granger that got him in this mess in the first place. But if he did nothing, she’d make it her mission to determine what Draco’s motives were. He could see his future as clearly as if it was already playing out in front of him—shackles at his wrists and ankles, the soul-shattering cold of Azkaban tearing away at his sanity each and every day for the rest of his life.

“Draco!”

He froze.

What the fuck was he doing? Who the fuck was he becoming?

Draco Malfoy didn’t panic. Atrarius didn’t panic. If Granger was going to do something there’d be Aurors at his door already. As it stood, she knew nothing. Draco had invaded her privacy but she couldn’t know why, and even for someone like her, she wouldn’t find all the answers in one night. He built the system they lived in, he knew what kind of unsolvable maze existed between the rest of the world and the truth.

He had to keep it together, otherwise he risked more than just panic rising to the surface of his mind. He took a deep breath and turned to face Theo. “Would you like to join me and my mother for breakfast?”

Everything was fine. Draco was fine. Everything was normal. And normal meant breakfast with Narcissa as he did every morning.

“Breakfast?” Theo asked incredulously.

He holstered his wand and adjusted his cuff links. “Yes. First meal of the day, typically eaten in the morning after waking from sleep.”

Theo scoffed. “I know what breakfast is, you twat. You were on the brink of a mental breakdown two fucking seconds ago and now you’re asking me to have breakfast?”

Draco stared back at him, unwilling to acknowledge the fracture in his otherwise impeccable armour. “You’re here already, I figured I’d offer.”

Theo blinked several times before chuckling softly. “Sometimes I think you’re certifiable.”

“Is that a yes?”

He shook his head with a smile. “Right, this is perfectly normal. Of course. Lead the way.”

Draco said nothing else as he walked past him out the door. Normalcy was survival, and gods help whoever tried to take that from him.

The manor was quiet in the mornings, steeped in a reverent stillness that clung to its high ceilings and marble floors like mist. After the war, his mother had immediately started renovations on the manor’s interior. A place that was once choked by dark magic, malice, and cruelty was now a sanctuary of quiet elegance. Soft neutral walls, natural light, a home that no longer bore the weight of the evil that had once lived here. Every trace of the house it had become under the Dark Lord’s occupation had been methodically erased.

As they descended toward the dining room, the smell of a freshly steeped pot of tea wafted through the door. The long table, set only for two, had a full breakfast spread waiting for him. His mother was already sitting with a cup of tea, reading today’s edition of the Prophet, undisturbed by his presence and unaware of Theo’s.

Narcissa did not lower the Prophet, though her voice carried mild reproach. “You’re late.” Her gaze flicked to the doorway as Theo followed him in. A smile bloomed on her face. “Theodore! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Lovely to see you again, Cissa. When Draco invited me to breakfast I couldn’t resist the offer to come see you,” Theo replied, with his token flirtatious smile. Draco rolled his eyes.

The elves appeared with their usual magical flair, setting Draco’s plate and tea just how they knew he liked it, and adding a third place for Theo, who inclined his head politely in thanks.

As Draco took his first bite, Narcissa folded the Prophet at last and tapped the headline with one manicured finger. “Did either of you see this?”

Draco shook his head, as did Theo, both of their mouths full of eggs. He knew better than to speak or else she’d probably send him back to comportment classes. Narcissa went on crisply, “The Wizengamot has been presented with what the Prophet calls the most progressive and forward-thinking legislation since the war ended.”

Draco set down his fork, wary interest stirring. “What proposal?”

Narcissa handed him the paper. “The Magical Heritage Equity Act.” Draco scanned the front page, his eyes narrowing as he read.

“If what’s printed here is true, it sounds like a good thing,” he said slowly, his eyes flicking over the Prophet’s glowing prose. “But this article is vague—plenty of reformist language without any substantial details regarding what the act really consists of. I’ll need to confer with Tiberius or Honoria before we commit our seat. We all know what they’ve been trying to label as progressive lately.” He hummed low in his throat as he skimmed the rest of the article, which continued to wax poetic about leveling the playing field for all magical citizens.

He moved to return the article to his mother but paused, his eyes catching on the final paragraph. “Publicly, we’ll have no choice but to support it. Opposition would be political suicide. Did you read this last part?”

His mother gave a small shake of her head, and Theo seemed intrigued, so he read aloud, “‘When asked for a comment, several unnamed high-ranking Ministry officials—staunch supporters of the bill—claimed that any opposition was clearly rooted in outdated and, frankly, dangerous blood purity ideals. The Daily Prophet has reviewed portions of the legislation and finds itself in full agreement with that assessment.’”

Narcissa sipped her tea. “Subtle,” she murmured.

“It sounds like Hermione,” Theo offered. And he was right. After this, dissent would be painted as bigotry, exactly how he’d expected her to hit back after years of fighting their prejudice.

He exhaled through his nose. “Better than a marriage law, I suppose. At least on the surface.” His eyes lingered on the headline. The timing, the framing—it was all incredibly convenient. Even if this was Granger fighting back, he knew better than to trust it at face value.

“Speaking of marriage,” Narcissa said lightly, her eyes dancing with amusement. Theo was poorly attempting to hide his laughter.

He grimaced. He really should have seen that coming.

“The Greengrasses sent word yesterday,” his mother continued. “They wish to reopen negotiations for a marriage contract.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “That family really cannot take a hint.”

“I thought for sure you’d gotten through to Astoria at New Years, she was practically in tears after she spoke to you,” Theo said with a grin.

Narcissa lowered her teacup, suppressing a grin identical to Theo’s. “Apparently not. At this point, Charles and Cecilia have lost all their dignity. I won’t even bother with a response.”

Before he could reply that he shared the same sentiment, the doors to the dining room flew open with dramatic flourish, and in swept Pansy Parkinson, her heels clicking furiously against the polished floors and murder written across her face.

Merlin, he was fucked.

Draco stiffened. He saw his mother arch a brow. Theo was choking on a piece of melon. Pansy’s expression shifted into something painfully polite as she turned to Narcissa with a radiant smile. “Mrs. Malfoy,” she said smoothly, “you look positively divine this morning.”

“Wonderful to see you, Pansy,” Narcissa replied with a tone of wary amusement.

When she turned, her gaze snapped back to Draco and her saccharine smile vanished as her fury reignited. “Terribly sorry to interrupt,” she said tightly, not sounding sorry at all, “but I need to borrow your son. Urgently.” She ignored Theo completely.

Draco could only stare back at her. He knew why she was here. Two howlers clearly were not enough. His mother gave a soft, huff of laughter. “By all means, dear. Take him,” she said, casting Draco a knowing look. “And do make sure he’s held properly accountable for whatever foolishness he’s gotten himself into.” His mother did nothing to hide her smirk as Draco looked at her in offense.

Traitor.

Pansy was practically dragging him out of the room before he could even consider begging his mother to just put him out of his misery now. He had absolutely no interest in being lectured about his behavior with Granger.

“Pans—” she held her hand up, effectively silencing him, as she led him to the hidden entrance of his underground study. Theo lingered somewhere behind them, no doubt enjoying this far too much.

Once they were safely behind the wards of the basement room, Pansy rounded on him with barely restrained wrath. The polite mask she’d worn for Narcissa had vanished entirely, leaving behind the raw, simmering anger Draco had known was coming.

“I told you not to take her to dinner,” she hissed, her voice low and biting. “I told you that you shouldn’t use making amends as a ploy. But no, you just had to go ahead with your shit plan.”

Draco didn’t speak. He knew better.

Pansy stepped forward, jabbing a finger at him. “You didn’t even want to go. Last I checked, you claimed you hated her as much as she hates you,” she scoffed, pacing in a tight circle before facing him again.

“You thought you were being clever?” She laughed bitterly, “Merlin, Draco. It’s Hermione fucking Granger. When have you ever been better than her at anything?”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Theo muttered under his breath. Draco clenched his jaw and shot him a withering glare, but Pansy wasn’t finished.

“And what’s worse? Your amends weren’t even sincere like you’d said they would be. If you thought they were good enough then you’re a bloody idiot.” Pansy started pacing again, he thought maybe she might calm down a bit, but she spun to face him with her arms crossed.

“And then I had to sit there, while she told me all about it and pretend like I had no idea what you were up to. Gods, you put me in such a terrible position. And for what? You accomplished nothing. We’re not any closer to figuring out what the Minister knows.”

Her face softened before she spoke again, but the edge in it only made it cut deeper. “She thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d changed. That there was a reason to give you the benefit of the doubt. She had, just for a moment, considered not hating you. And you went and proved every instinct she’s ever had about you right in her mind.”

She shook her head furiously. “You’re lucky she didn’t hex you into the next century.”

She paused there, letting the silence stretch between them, full of judgement and disappointment.

“You want to know what Hermione knows, Draco? Let the rest of us figure it out. At least we can have enough decency to put her feelings first. You may pretend—” She stopped herself, taking a deep breath as her jaw tightened.

“You don’t want to care about her but we do. And I won’t let you fuck with her like that again.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He stood there, posture stiff, the weight of Pansy’s fury heavy in the air between them. No one—no one—spoke to him like that. Not even Theo, not Blaise, and certainly not Neville. But Pansy wasn’t anyone. She never had been. They shared a history he didn’t have with anyone else, and despite what they were to each other now, he held Pansy in a rare, unspoken kind of reverence. The kind reserved for people who had seen you at your worst and chose, again and again, not to look away.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Uncharacteristically so. “You’re right.” She blinked, once, just barely, but didn’t interrupt. She probably expected him to match her anger but Pansy didn’t deserve that.

“I crossed a line,” he continued, steady but subdued. “It was manipulative, and it was cowardly. I thought I could control the situation and I didn’t think about what that would cost you. Or her.” He’d hated that Granger represented his guilt and yet, he kept giving her reasons to perpetuate that guilt. “I’m sorry, Pans. Truly.”

There was a long pause. Then, finally, she exhaled, the rage leaving her shoulders all at once. “Merlin, I hate when you’re actually sincere. Makes it harder to stay angry.”

“Don’t worry, we both know it won’t last.” Draco ignored Theo completely. Pansy shook her head.

She stepped back, the fire gone from her eyes, though the disappointment still lingered. “I’m not the one you need to be apologizing to.” Draco grimaced. He had to stop creating reasons to owe this witch an apology. The list had gotten far too long.

Pansy gave him a wry look. “Unfortunately, if you went anywhere near Hermione right now, she’d probably avada you on the spot.” He half-winced, half-scoffed. As if Granger could ever kill anyone.

Pansy tilted her head, suddenly thoughtful. “Luckily, I managed to smooth things over. Somewhat.”

Theo cleared his throat. He was grinning from ear to ear, as if he’d known about this all along. Draco looked back at Pansy and his eyes narrowed. “How?”

She smiled, sweet and just a touch vicious. “I told her you were trying to figure out if she was dating anyone.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. “You what?”

“Relax,” she said, utterly unbothered. “I told her it was pathetic—classic you, really—how you couldn’t stand the idea that she might be seeing someone. That it would bother you. But that you must have been too much of a ninny to just ask her if she was.”

He stared at her, horrified. “Pansy.”

She raised a brow. “What? It was the best I could come up with on such short notice. Was I supposed to tell her what you were really looking for?”

He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Theo was now overcome with uncontrollable laughter. Pansy just smirked, clearly enjoying the panic that must be on his face.“Plus, she stopped asking questions after that. It was so unbelievable to her that it ended up being believable.”

Draco couldn’t help himself, his mouth had fallen open in shock. Granger thought he was interested in who she was dating? No way she’d believed that. Gods, now their interactions would be even more uncomfortable. He wouldn’t be able to correct Pansy’s egregious mistake because then he’d have to explain what he was really doing and he didn’t want to rat Pansy out for lying.

Draco would just have to make sure he never saw her again. “Pansy…she couldn’t have seriously believed that? She’s not an idiot.”

Pansy just shrugged as she poured him a firewhiskey, which he hadn’t asked for but found he desperately needed. Who cared what time it was. “I have a way with words, Draco.” She handed him his drink and took a seat on the sofa.

“You know, if you both got over yourselves, you’d find you’d be quite a perfect match.”

Draco scoffed. That had to be the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard her say. Even if they could go five minutes without being at each other's throats, none of it would matter. The second she found out who he really was, what he’s done, what he’s still doing, she’d turn him in. Or worse.

He couldn’t even blame her. He’d never be able to hide it from her, not really, and this wouldn’t be something she could forgive.

Before he could tell her she was being an idiot, the floo roared to life. Neville welcomed himself into his study. Neville looked between him and Pansy warily before taking a seat next to his wife.

“Perfect timing, Nev,” Theo said from the sofa. “Draco’s just been reminded of his infatuation and obsession with Hermione Granger.”

Draco didn’t think, he just threw a hex at Theo, who jumped out of the way still grinning at him.

Ignoring Theo, he turned to Pansy, “You had to tell everyone? Did Theo know before he came to see me this morning?”

“Yes, it made watching you suffer that much more delightful,” Theo taunted.

Pansy smiled at him sweetly. “That’s what you get for being an arse.”

Draco rolled his eyes at her and went to sit at his desk. There would be no living this down. He finished his drink before asking, “Do you think she told the Minister what happened?”

Neville’s face sort of twisted into—well he wasn’t sure what.

“No,” was all he could manage. He’d asked Pansy if he was alright after the last time he had acted weird but she said that it was nothing. Draco wrote it off and waited for him to add something else.

When he didn’t, Pansy spoke. “I’m not sure what’s going on with her, but we’ll figure it out.” She gave him a pointed look, as to say that he better not think about meddling again. He wouldn’t be able to face Granger, not now, but Draco must be a glutton for punishment because he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with her. His morning descent into madness aside, their dinner still awakened an insatiable curiosity within him regarding this particular witch.

Draco shook himself out of those thoughts, it didn’t matter what it was. Pansy would handle it. He was avoiding Granger until the end of time. Draco didn’t even want to think about her, and he certainly could stand for a subject change.

“Any updates on Dolohov?” He looked at his three friends, none of them seemed to have something life changing to share.

Theo shook his head. “Everything has been a dead end so far. No one can even say for sure that they’ve seen him since the war.”

“I reached out to our contacts in other countries where he might have gone after the war and came up empty.” Neville looked frustrated. Draco couldn’t blame him. They both wanted Dolohov dead and he wasn’t.

“Maybe Blaise has something?” Pansy said hopefully, and not a moment later the floo roared to life.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Draco was about to repeat Pansy’s question but the expression on Blaise’s face made him slam his mouth shut. His expression was grave and a cold dread crept slowly up Draco’s spine.

“Nott’s dead.” Everyone’s face twisted in confusion.

Theo arched a brow. “Um…no. I’m sitting right here. I think I’d know if I were dead.” Blaise’s expression didn’t change. He glanced at Draco once, before giving Theo his full attention.

“Not you. Nott Sr.” Draco felt his whole body tense but he kept his focus on Theo.

His smirk faltered. “My father has been dead since the Battle of Hogwarts. Are you sure you haven’t been drugged? Maybe you need to lie down.”

“Theo…” Pansy began, her voice soft.

“No, Pans, Blaise is just confused. I saw his body with my own eyes, h-he…” Theo trailed off, searching for answers somewhere on Blaise’s face.

“It was almost impossible for you to identify him with the damage done to his body. I just saw him with my own two eyes, mate. Mortiferus left him hanging in Diagon Alley.” Draco wasn’t sure what to do, he didn’t think anyone did. It felt as though time had slowed down as Theo began to process what he’d heard.

“Draco—” Theo’s voice cracked.

He knew what his friend was asking, it was written plainly across his face. He could see it in the violent tremble of his hands and the haunted look behind his eyes. Draco simply nodded. Theo stood, and Disapparated with a violent crack.

He knew Theo had to see it for himself. He’d hated his father long before the war. He’d killed Theo’s mother and made his entire life an unending nightmare. He had practically danced on his grave after the war. Everything Theo was, was in spite of his father.

Nott Sr. wasn’t just vile, he was a powerful, dark wizard. Anyone who could overpower him and take him out, was someone Draco needed on their side. He knew Theo would beg him to bring Mortiferus in once he returned, he might as well get a head start.

He turned his attention toward Neville, who was already looking back at Draco. “Contact him. I want a meeting. We can start with contract work.” He nodded and took Pansy with him as they left.

It was just Draco and Blaise now, the latter having not moved from his spot in front of the fireplace. “What happened?”

Blaise, seemingly brought back to reality by Draco’s question, moved to pour himself a drink and sit on the sofa. At least Draco wasn’t the only one drinking so early in the morning. “I was meeting Ginny for breakfast. We saw all the commotion and—” Blaise took a long sip of his firewhiskey and sighed. “The Aurors hadn’t even cut him down yet. He was on display for everyone to see.” Blaise rested his head on the back of the sofa.

There was no way the DMLE would be able to keep Mortiferus a secret any longer. He clearly wanted everyone to know who he was and that was what he was going to get. Draco hoped Theo was alright. He was sure that eventually, this would be a good thing. But if he put himself in his shoes, he’d be struggling to cope with the fact that Nott Sr. hadn’t actually been dead. That his nasty, hateful father was alive and still leaving his stain on the world and Theo hadn’t the faintest clue. It was an unsettling thought. He could have returned to Nott Manor at any moment and done terrible things to him for the very public blood traitor he had become. Merlin, Draco was glad Mortiferus took him out before he’d had the chance.

…

It was the Monday following the discovery that Theo’s father had been alive, and was now very much dead. Actually dead, this time. After returning from identifying the body, Theo had immediately asked Draco if they could track Mortiferus down, just as he’d predicted. Sure enough, the Daily Prophet had picked up the story. Mortiferus, the elusive assassin, has been front-page news since they’d found Nott Sr. in Diagon.

What no one had anticipated was the growing public support. People had apparently forgotten, or never realized, just how many Death Eaters had slipped through the cracks. From their perspective, Mortiferus was doing the Ministry’s job for them, cleaning up the streets one corpse at a time. Neville claimed Mortiferus was laying low due to the media attention and was still working on establishing contact. All Draco and the Tenebrae Arcanum could do now was wait. They’d meet Mortiferus eventually.

Today, Draco was on another mission. To determine whether the Equity Act was legitimate and Granger finally had the Ministry under control or if this was the doing of Selwyn or anyone else who was stupid enough to ignore his orders once again. A part of him hoped it’d be the latter, he’d quite like to finally have an excuse for Atrarius to get involved. Pragmatically speaking, it’d be better if Granger had regained control. It’d mean that he’d be able to step back from the Ministry again and avoid her until hell froze over.

The winter air bit at his face as Draco crossed the cobbled streets, his cloak snapping at his heels. London was gray, the kind of bleak Monday where even the Ministry seemed sluggish, yet the Pantheon Club gleamed like a secret kept just for the powerful. Its brass lanterns burned steadily against the gloom, casting light across the marble steps leading to the familiar carved oak doors.

He pressed his signet ring into the door frame, the wards recognizing the Malfoy crest at once. They doors parted with a whisper, admitting him into warmth and quiet.

The Pantheon was as much a fixture of wizarding politics as the Wizengamot itself. With walnut-paneled walls charmed to shimmer, deep green leather chairs softened by centuries of use, and firewhiskey decanters that never emptied.

The club hummed with low conversation. For many, it was an extension of their office. A neutral ground where alliances could be bartered and tempers aired without clerks or reporters lurking nearby. If there was discontent about the Magical Heritage Equity Act, Draco knew this was where it would surface first.

There were far more Wizengamot members here now than he’d expected, though one table in particular caught his eye. Tiberius—who he’d hoped to see here—sat in a corner booth with Isadora and McLaggen. Both looked unsettled, and their expressions only darkened as Draco approached.

“How grand,” Isadora muttered. “As if this day couldn’t get any worse.”

Her ire was promising, it meant there was something to be unhappy about.

“Draco,” Tiberius greeted gruffly, rising to squeeze his shoulder before shifting aside. “I wondered when you’d stop by.”

Draco slid into the booth, leaning back with his usual menacing nonchalance. “Just checking how everyone’s morning is going.”

“You would know,” McLaggen spat, his voice laced with resentment.

Tiberius sighed. “Forgive my nephew. Decorum seems to be too high an expectation, even for a Department Head with a Wizengamot seat.”

McLaggen’s face turned a deep shade of red, more from embarrassment than anger Draco suspected. It was easy to forget he headed the Department of Magical Games and Sports; easier still, given how often his uncle reminded him what a paltry accomplishment that was. Draco enjoyed being present for moments like these.

“Chin up, McLaggen,” Draco drawled. “You’ve both been so devoted to reconciliation, I thought you’d be elated about the Equity Act.”

Isadora’s jaw tightened. “Naturally. It’s only the suddenness—springing it overnight without proper debate—that caught us off guard.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, quietly assessing her expression. She was clearly unhappy about it, which ruled it out as another ploy on her part. “So who do we thank for this masterpiece?”

McLaggen scoffed. “Madame Undersecretary Granger. She sees fit to stomp all over my proposals but feeds hers to the Prophet as some world-changing piece of legislation before the rest of us can even look at it.”

Draco turned smoothly to Tiberius. “Is that right?”

“That it is,” Tiberius confirmed with a smirk. “Hermione took a page from their own book. It had the weekend to gain traction and the Wizengamot agreed this morning to take it to a vote sometime in March.”

“It wasn’t as if we had a choice,” Isadora retorted. “Oppose it now and we’re branded blood purists.”

Draco bit back a smirk. “Frustrating, isn’t it, when someone goes over your head?”

She glared at him, and for a moment Draco thought she might hex him. “Enough,” Tiberius cut in before she could act, “it's done. We’re voting, and as it stands, it’ll pass. You both should have known better than to cross Hermione.”

“You already have whip counts?” Draco asked, unable to conceal his surprise.

Tiberius nodded. “Most of the Wizengamot are already raving. The aides worked all weekend, combing through it after the Prophet’s splash. Six hundred pages of Hermione Granger reshaping the world as she sees fit. Nearly everyone already knows how they’ll vote.”

Draco was impressed, albeit reluctantly, but still. She had completely turned the tide in less than a few days. Maybe she really didn’t need Draco’s help after all. Which of course, he’d known, but it’d been delightful to get under her skin.

His thoughts were interrupted when Isadora stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ve heard enough about Hermione Granger for one day.”

Without another word, Isadora and McLaggen left the booth, their defeat following them like a shadow. Draco allowed himself a satisfied curl of the mouth.

“Finally,” Tiberius muttered as he swirled his drink. “I thought I’d be stuck listening to their whinging all afternoon.”

Draco chuckled. “I’m surprised they’d be so obvious about their opposition. Granger didn’t leave much room for dissent.”

“Only here in the club,” Tiberius said. “At the Ministry, they’re much more careful.”

“They summoned you here?” Draco asked.

Tiberius took a sip before responding. “Yes. Once the majority agreed to vote, Cormac sent for me. They were begging me to vote against it. Of course I intend to do no such thing. Anything they hate, I’ll vote in favor of—especially if it comes from Hermione.”

Draco mulled that over. It seemed Isadora was becoming more problematic by the day. It was only a matter of time she did something she couldn’t take back.

“Seems I won’t need to be as involved as I thought,” Draco said lightly.

Tiberius tilted his head. “It appears not. Though I’d keep an eye on them. I imagine Rosier and Mulciber will stir trouble for her too.”

Nothing Draco couldn’t manage. “And Charles?”

Tiberius chuckled. “He was performative, of course. Couldn’t stop singing its praises. Likely tied to him trying to saddle you with Astoria.”

“I expected nothing less,” Draco groaned. He was astounded at how thick the Greengrasses were being. He’d said no several times, it was a two letter word not all that easy to misinterpret. But apparently his threat had fallen on deaf ears. Draco decided he’d raise the interest rate on their loan a point or two as a warning. Perhaps that would get the message across.

“Will you stay?” Tiberius asked.

Draco shook his head. “Theo’s throwing a party. I’m due at Nott Manor in a few hours.”

“And how is he? A terrible thing to find out he’d been alive this whole time, just for him to be displayed like that.” Tiberius’s face was grim— for Theo’s sake. There had never been any love lost between Tiberius and Nott Sr.

“He’s being Theo,” Draco shrugged. “Frankly, I’m shocked it isn’t several parties instead of one.”

Tiberius laughed, low and full of mirth. “You and me both. Give him my best.”

Draco rose with a nod. “I will. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again soon. Your nephew or Selwyn will see to that.”

Tiberius raised his glass, and Draco turned to leave. It was a refreshing development, for something to be going well. Granger had the Ministry in check; she’d be far too busy with lobbying for this new act to waste attention on him. He’d have his solicitor read the Equity Act before giving him voting instructions just for his peace of mind, then he could focus on finding Dolohov and getting Mortiferus to go after him. The rest of the day belonged to Theo, and the celebration of his father’s demise. Perhaps things would finally steady—though Draco doubted Hermione Granger would leave anything untouched for long.

…

It had been several weeks since Theo’s party. Hundreds showed up, blissfully unaware of the real reason, happy to enjoy the open bar. Granger had been there too—of course she had—because she couldn’t find any friends of her own, she had to steal all of his. Draco had successfully avoided her like she had dragon pox.

Days after the party, Malfoy Enterprises hosted a fundraiser for Muggleborn integration programs at Hogwarts, planned months before the Equity Act was announced. Granger had been there as well. He’d managed to avoid her then too, focusing instead on the monthly maintenance of the Malfoy brand. A handful of reformist galas each year was all it took, enough to keep the world content to forget the atrocities of his past, and oblivious to the ones he committed still.

And of course, things did not go back to normal. They were no closer to finding Dolohov, wherever he was holed up, he was secured tightly. Mortiferus had yet to respond to Neville’s inquiries, which soured Draco’s mood further as each day passed with no word.

Then, three days ago, Neville brought word of an imminent raid on one of the Tenebrae Arcanum’s waypoints, a distribution site for dark artefacts and potions. Draco had been seconds away from setting his study ablaze with fiendfyre. The Aurors moved faster than expected, and they lost everything stored there. Pansy and Neville weren’t sure if the Ministry had traced the warehouse to the Tenebrae Arcanum, but it was concerning either way. Apparently, the DMLE had finally learned how to plug their leaks. No one was talking, especially not Potter.

Among the seized items were a set of vanishing cabinets, the same ones Draco had used back in sixth year. He’d kept them hidden since the war ended, just in case someone tried to replicate his mistake. Lately, more and more people had been asking after them. They also lost a time-turner Theo had stumbled upon a few months prior, plus bulk shipments of Polyjuice Potion and Veritaserum.

Which was why Draco now found himself in Borgin and Burkes, seeking answers. He’d locked the shop from the inside and cast a Muffliato as he entered. Borgin, hunched behind the counter, looked up warily as Draco approached.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Borgin stammered, his fingers twitching on the countertop. “I… I hadn’t been told to expect you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Draco gave a slow, wolfish smile. “I think you already know.”

Borgin swallowed hard.

“Mr. Malfoy, I assure you, I have no idea how the Ministry—”

His words dissolved into screams. He collapsed, clutching at his head as Draco watched impassively.

“No need to explain,” Draco said coolly. “I’ll find the answers myself.”

He didn’t bother to be discreet. The legilimency wasn’t clean this time, it clawed and scraped its way through Borgin’s mind, leaving no room for subtlety. Let him suffer. The man knew more than most about Draco’s double life, and Draco needed to be sure he hadn’t said the wrong thing to the wrong person.

Most of Borgin’s memories were the usual dregs, shady dealings, galleons changing hands, fear-laced conversations. Useless. But then—

“Well, this looks promising.” Draco’s tone was light, amused. Borgin howled louder.

He saw Potter. The Auror had come sniffing around, asking about dark artefacts, illegal potions, and any signs of a coordinated trafficking effort. Borgin hadn’t offered anything, too slippery for that, but he hadn’t warned Draco either. He’d just kept quiet and let the Ministry get closer.

“Disappointing,” Draco murmured, withdrawing from Borgin’s mind with a snap.

“M-Mr. M-Malfoy… p-please…” Borgin whimpered, curled on the floor and twitching.

Draco regarded him coldly. Killing him now would be inconvenient. Borgin still had uses.

“Next time an Auror stops by,” Draco said, voice low and lethal, “I expect to hear about it. Immediately.”

Borgin stared up at him, lips trembling, eyes wide with silent terror.

“If I don’t,” Draco added, adjusting his cuffs with icy indifference, “and I have to come back… I won’t leave you in one piece.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the man broken and shaking on the floor. In the world of dark artefacts, nothing moved without Borgin knowing. Foolish of him to think he could escape reckoning.

As Draco stepped into Knockturn Alley, something shifted.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He froze.

Someone was watching him.

His hand moved instinctively toward his wand. In a swift motion, he turned, ready to strike, but the alley was empty.

A beat passed. Then came a distant crack of apparition.

Draco frowned. Paranoia? Possibly. But his instincts were rarely wrong.

He turned to continue on his way when a burst of silvery light came hurtling toward him. He braced for a fight, then saw what it was.

A Patronus.

It slowed, fully formed, and hovered before him.

A thestral.

Hermione Granger’s voice echoed through the alley, crisp and commanding: “Malfoy, I am requesting your presence at the Ministry in my official capacity as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. Immediately.”

The thestral vanished.

Draco stood there a moment, blinking at the space it had occupied.

Bloody hell. Could this week possibly get any worse? Was she finally prepared to confront him for his intrusion weeks ago? There was only one way to find out, and it didn’t seem as though Granger was willing to take no for an answer. Running and avoiding was no longer an option. If he didn’t go now, she’d likely track him down or get the Aurors involved—a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

As he prepared to Disapparate, a stray thought crossed his mind. He could’ve sworn her Patronus was an otter.

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t know what to expect, and for someone who prized control the way he did, that uncertainty did not bode well for anyone in his immediate vicinity.

When he’d first arrived at the Ministry, his thoughts spiraled out of him. Surely, she was going to ambush him with Aurors because he had tried to get inside the head of the second most powerful person in the Ministry. A rational person would call this suicidal. The thought almost drove him back to the Floo, but then he remembered who he was. And he cursed the gods—and Hermione Granger—for making him behave so far out of character that cowardice even occurred to him.

If Granger planned to take action against him, she probably would have done it weeks ago. They’d been at Nott’s party together, along with Potter and the Weasel, and those two imbeciles didn’t seem to be bothered by him any more than usual. He’d barely seen her at the fundraiser, but she’d been there too, without so much as a cutting remark in his direction.

So Draco decided the only sensible move was to play it cool, act as though this were entirely ordinary. His Occlumency was sharp and ready. Then, maddeningly, Pansy’s voice echoed in his mind—Granger had been told he fancied her—and the thought made him recoil. He was only steps from her office door, one twitch away from fleeing, when it was too late.

“Mr. Malfoy.” It was Bones. “Senior Undersecretary Granger had to step out for a moment, but she said you could wait in her office.”

Before he could so much as blink, she was ushering him through the door. It shut with a slam, leaving him stranded.

He stood there, still as stone. The last time he’d been in here, he hadn’t looked around, too focused on getting Granger to say yes and getting the hell out. Now he had some time to notice. There was a window behind her desk that took up the whole expanse of the wall, offering a sweeping view of the Ministry atrium. Her shelves were lined with neatly labeled files, legal and magical tomes, and an absurd amount of framed photographs. He spotted one of the whole golden trio, laughing in the most hideous sweaters he’d ever seen.

Another, more recent, photo of her with Pansy and Neville, smiling over a glass of wine. It was odd for him to see Granger with actual feeling in her features, rather than the empty looks she always gave him. His eyes slid along the shelf, catching another: her with Ginevra, Blaise blurred in the background, the low lighting suggesting some club. Then one with the Weasley family. Then her and Potter in a snow-covered town.

Then—Theo. Just Theo and Granger, laughing as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Taken at Nott Manor, unmistakably. He swallowed against the sudden dryness coating his mouth. Since when did Theo invite her into his home?

He nearly turned away, but something larger caught his eye. A photograph, bigger than the rest, displayed neatly on the far shelf. Granger at the center, pulled into a bear hug by Theo, a wide, painfully genuine smile on her face. Pansy and Neville were behind them to the left, and Ginevra and Blaise to the right, all of them glowing and happy, clearly comfortable in the atmosphere. He found himself staring at Granger’s face again before he noticed the cake on the table in front of them. They’d been celebrating her birthday—all together. His friends, with her.

An uncomfortable pressure built deep in his chest, both alien and achingly familiar, lingering with the stubborn weight of memory. It seemed he’d spent the last five years too lost in his own shadows that he’d missed how close they’d grown. They must have memory upon memory together, none of which included him. He had no right to be shocked, he made his feelings about Granger clear. His friends knew where he stood but why then, was he suddenly struggling to breathe?

Why then, indeed.

Draco scoffed aloud to the empty room. It didn’t matter that they were her friends. It didn’t matter that Draco was not. He lived in a reality that he created, in which Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were not friends, nor would they ever be. He turned away from the photographs, filing them—and his adverse reaction—as irrelevant, and forced his focus elsewhere.

There was a controlled chaos in her office. It was clearly holding more than it was meant to, and yet every tome was neatly tucked somewhere, every quill had its holder and every parchment had its place. It felt very much like Granger.

He took a seat across from her desk so she wouldn’t catch him staring at her space like some tragic fool. The minutes stretched, long and taut, until the door opened.

“Malfoy, sorry to keep you waiting.”

He didn’t turn to face her, instead he leaned back in his chair, and tried to look as relaxed and unbothered as possible. “You can’t summon me to the Ministry at your convenience, Granger. I’m not one of your subordinates.”

When Granger rounded the corner of her desk, he immediately noticed what she was wearing. A Muggle skirt and a black silk blouse. He found it all fit criminally well, and Draco almost lost it.

His mind stuttered, forgetting his indignation completely.

He blamed Pansy, obviously. She lodged the idea in his head and now it was bleeding into his perception, twisting things.

He almost panicked when he realized he hadn’t said anything, and she was probably watching him ogle her like an idiot. Then he saw that she had frozen in place as well.

Granger was also staring, but her gaze wasn’t on his face. It was on his left arm. He had forgotten that he’d rolled his sleeves up before going to see Borgin. His tattoos covering both arms were on full display. He knew what Granger had expected to see, and when she hadn’t, it had stunned her into silence.

Draco hadn’t given the Dark Mark much thought in years; he’d covered it up and started the sleeves almost immediately after the war. He didn’t often show them—for Draco Malfoy, Lord of the Manor, it was a bit out of character. His mother hated them. But for Draco Malfoy, Prince of Darkness, they were perfect.

“Granger, you’re staring.” He expected his remark to bring her back from whatever world her mind had gone to but it didn’t.

Her eyes were fixed on his arm as she spoke, “It’s gone. I didn’t—” She caught herself. “Sorry, that was rude.”

Her apology seemed almost sincere. Draco was uncomfortable. He’d never seen Granger at a loss for words.

“It isn’t gone, just hidden. Didn’t expect me to cover it up, did you?” He’d really tried to sound more like himself, truly, but it didn’t come out like the sneer he’d meant for it to be. It sounded more like a confession.

Granger didn’t speak, she simply blinked and shook her head, acknowledging that’s what she’d meant to say, as she finally took a seat behind her desk.

He reclaimed some of his usual bite. “Believe it or not, it isn’t something I’m particularly proud of. People do change, Granger, especially when you’re not looking.”

For whatever reason, that seemed to hit somewhere personal for Granger. He saw what he believed was a flash of pain in her usually empty eyes.

“Right.” Her voice steadied, arms folding, her gaze finally cutting into him as he’d expected. “I called you here to see how much you’ve changed.”

He stilled.

“I know you’re still a pompous arse—that seems to be a fundamental part of your personality. I know this persona you purport to the public. I know what your trial showed me. Your memories made clear what you did.” She tilted her head in silent consideration, her eyes narrowing. “But what they didn’t show me was why. So why, Malfoy? What truly changed?”

Draco wasn’t sure what to say. Was this a trap? He had several reasons for changing, all more real than the next. But he had no intention of sharing those with her.

“Granger, you obviously brought me here for a reason. I don’t believe that I owe you an explanation, and if I did, you still wouldn’t get one. So, I suggest you get to your point, it’s not like I can read your mind.” He said the words before he’d really considered their implication.

Granger plastered another utterly fake smile across her face. “You do love to try though, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth in protest, whether to apologize or argue he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. She held her hand up in a show of practiced authority, remarkably like Pansy always did, and he remained silent.

Why the hell was he listening to Granger?

He didn’t want to have to discuss that horribly embarrassing night if he didn’t have to. That’s why.

She smoothed out a piece of parchment lying on her desk. “I didn’t bring you here to discuss that. Consider it forgotten.”

He wasn’t sure what brought him the most relief. The fact that her tone was so final that he was sure this wouldn’t be something she’d bring up later or the fact that she didn’t seem like she planned to acknowledge the reason Pansy had given her for his intrusion.

His relief aside, all that led him to wonder…why? Why would she let it go? This was Hermione Granger, she would never—

No. It didn’t matter. He’d call it twisted fortune and force himself to move on. It would do him no good to dwell on the reasons why.

He tried to relax, but there was no settling into the weight of her silence, or the sharpness of her stare.

After a moment, she said, “The Magical Heritage Equity Act.”

Of course. Why hadn’t he considered that?

“What about it?”

She was holding his gaze firmly, as if she was waiting for him to slip up. “I went looking for answers, before resorting to bringing you here.”

That was not good. Granger looking for answers where he was concerned was decidedly not good.

“And?” he said, with casual indifference.

“I found it curious that one—you were so politically involved and still managed to keep it mostly hidden. And two—that you find Selwyn to be as problematic as I do.”

He frowned. “House Malfoy is not the dark pillar of the Sacred Twenty-Eight it was in another age.”

“And yet,” she said icily, “you do business with all the ones who are simply masquerading as progressive. You mean to tell me you’re not doing the same?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” he snapped. He shouldn’t be defensive, he didn’t need to prove himself to her, but his mind was screaming at him to do it anyway. “On your quest for answers, did you happen to find that my seat has voted in favor of every piece of real, progressive legislation since the war ended? Did you see what charities my company supports? What foundations Malfoy Enterprises has created in honor of those who didn’t have a voice and now do? Go look at all of that—then try and tell me it's just an act.”

She raised a brow. “I did find all of that. But none of it explains why you would—”

“Who I do business with and why I choose to do so, is none of your concern, Granger,” he interrupted.

“But Malfoy—”

“No,” he cut in again. “I respect your authority to question my stance on legislation, but Malfoy Enterprises is outside of your reach. We can discuss the Equity Act but if all you want to know about are my business dealings then I will take my leave.”

With every second he spent in this office and with every word Granger uttered, he grew more agitated. She had no right to demand answers. The fact that she was meant she wasn’t letting go, not in the slightest.

She sighed, her irritation coming off her in waves. “Very well. Where do you stand with the Equity Act then?”

“My seat will vote in favor,” he stated.

Her jaw clenched. “Have you read it?”

He scoffed. “Granger, it’s what, six hundred pages long? Of course I haven’t read it. Our solicitor reviewed it, prepared notes, and I read that.”

After he’d met with Tiberius at the Pantheon, he’d requested the summary. Upon reviewing his solicitor’s notes, he instructed him to vote in favor when the time came. It was the same system he’d always used. He trusted his solicitor implicitly, a wonderful gift considering he’d never be able to sit through and read these gargantuan drafts constantly proposed to the Wizengamot.

She pressed her mouth into a line. “That’s not the same as reading it.”

“This is how the Wizengamot runs,” he replied. “Most rely on their aides or their solicitors to do the heavy lifting. Especially when the legislation comes from someone on the same side. You must know this. Do you think everyone read your House-Elf Welfare Amendments from three years ago? No—we got reports, fiscal notes, and a high-level index of the enforcement clauses. The same has been done with this.”

His answer did not seem enough to placate her. “Malfoy, how is your seat meant to have an informed vote if you don’t even know what it actually says?”

She was mental if she thought he’d read the whole bloody thing. No matter how involved in politics he was, he would not. Certainly not when it was hers, he had no need to.

“Granger, what are you so worried about? It’s not like you left any room for opposition when you fed the Act to the Prophet. I will be voting in favor, just take the fucking win.”

Granger opened her mouth to respond, but she snapped it shut almost immediately, and paused before speaking again.

Odd, he thought.

“Right. I guess I should be glad that I’ve swayed the remaining Sacred Twenty-Eight seats then.”

Her voice was strained, and he was utterly confused. It must be that she was positively enraged that he refused to read the legislation she drafted.

He paused to consider what all she’d said. “All of them?”

He was sure the article would sway some votes, but all them? He hadn’t even had to threaten anyone into voting in favor yet.

Granger had a tight smile on her face. “Pansy, Neville, and Theo came to see me immediately after they’d heard about it. Harry will be sure the Black family seat votes in favor, as will the Weasley seat. Everyone else owled me their official support. Bulstrode, Abbott, Greengrass, Rosier, even Mulciber and Selwyn.”

The easy compliance was enough to put Draco on edge; he’d need to get a better look at what was going on immediately. And Granger was watching his reaction too closely—he hated it.

“Good to know. Was that all Madame Undersecretary?” Draco stood to leave.

She eyed him warily. “Yes. I appreciate your…cooperation, however reluctant.”

He shook his head and scoffed softly. It was clear she was still unsatisfied with his responses, as if she was in any position to demand he lay himself bare to her.

He moved to leave, not even bothering with the hollow pleasantries of a proper farewell. He couldn’t stomach them, not when his temper was fraying. But he froze a step from the door, as if something had reached out and caught him by the throat. It was the man he’d become, the man she clearly refused to see.

If he didn’t know any better, he might have admitted he was…offended.

The audacity of Hermione Granger. To look at him—to have seen his memories, to have seen his actions since the war—and still imagine the boy she once knew. And worse, she was close with his friends. She had to know that if they'd changed, then so had he.

He spun on his heel, spine straight as a blade, and leveled her with a glare sharp enough to flay skin from bone. His voice came out like poison distilled to its purest form.

“Don’t ever question where my allegiances lie again. You couldn’t possibly comprehend what it costs to strangle blood purity at its root when it's your blood that’s fed it for centuries. You wouldn’t understand why I do what I do—why I make the choices I make. And you don’t have to. But don’t mistake your ignorance for my disloyalty. You don’t know me, Granger. You never have. So don’t fucking pretend to.”

She blinked, caught off guard, and he watched as her expression shifted—defiance faltering into something more curious, almost intrigued. Her lips parted, ready to fire back, but Draco had no interest in whatever clever retort she was about to craft. He cut her off the only way that mattered, by leaving. He turned on his heel and strode from her office without another word.

He wanted to blow something up. He didn’t have to prove himself to her, what she thought didn’t matter. She didn’t matter.

Despite that, something gnawed at him, refusing to let go. Not once had she ever championed the Equity Act, never paraded its virtue, never extolled its necessity. For Hermione Granger, who could lecture a stone wall into shame, her silence on the matter was deafening.

More troubling still was her digging. That relentless mind of hers, turning over stones best left undisturbed.

He should let someone else handle it. Pansy would hex him into oblivion if he tried to pry again. But Draco had never been a very good listener.

At the very least, he would keep an eye on Granger.

Because if she kept burrowing toward the truth, if she unearthed what should stay buried…she’d drag him to Azkaban herself.

…

Amidst all the disarray that existed in his life at present, Draco still had to ensure that his galleons were going where they were meant to. Pansy had dropped off a stack of endowment requests that required his signature, and figured now was as good a time as any to approve them.

While throwing his galleons at elvish welfare and magical creature care and Muggleborn integration, his mind kept returning to Granger. His feelings were a strange amalgamation of curiosity, anger, and incessant panic. She was still a variable, and the Equity Act only confused him more. Tiberius had initially convinced him he didn’t need to worry about it, but Granger’s attitude and the Act’s seemingly unanimous support made him doubt.

Now, not only did he have to deal with that doubt, he had to contend with Dolohov and Mortiferus and whoever else was trying to fuck the Tenebrae Arcanum. Draco was fucking over it.

And he was over the complete lack of progress on all fronts. Never in the history of him being Atrarius had they struggled to find one person or been hit majorly by any sort of law enforcement. It was getting ridiculous.

And who the fuck was Mortiferus to not respond to an inquiry from the Prince of Darkness himself?

A fucking cunt is what he was. A right pain in their arse, as Theo had postulated many, many weeks ago.

Draco threw back the rest of his drink and, without a second thought, launched his glass at the wall opposite his desk. The shattering sound was gratifying—short-lived, but gratifying.

At the same second, the distinct crack of apparition brought Pipkin, his most beloved house elf, into his father’s old study.

“Master Draco,” she said softly. “Is everything being alright?”

The fury ebbed the moment he saw her. He smiled softly. “Yes, Pipkin. Forgive me, you weren’t supposed to see that.”

“No need to be asking my forgiveness,” she reassured, her big ears perking up eagerly while a fond smile spread across her face. “Pipkin only wanted to let Master Draco know that Mistress Flint has arrived.”

Draco straightened in his seat. “Thank you, Pipkin. Please send her in.”

She nodded fervently, and vanished with another crack.

A few seconds later, Honoria swept into the study. “I do love that elf dearly, you know. I look forward to seeing her more than I do you.”

Draco chuckled. “Good to see you, Honoria. Can’t say that I blame you, Pipkin is a blessing.”

She hummed in response before magically conjuring a roll of parchment and placing it in front of Draco. “The whip counts you requested. I’m hardly surprised, Hermione does know what she’s doing.”

Draco frowned as he unrolled the parchment, it was just so strange to him that she hadn’t prattled on about it. “Are you sure?”

Honoria raised a brow. “Positive, Draco. Any particular reason for the doubt? I know you and the Undersecretary aren’t close by any means, but I’ve always been under the impression that, at the very least, you respected her.”

“It isn’t that,” he replied thoughtfully. “She summoned me to discuss the act yesterday, and it struck me as odd that she didn’t sing its praises or have a three-hour speech prepared to try and convince me to vote in favor. If she’s lobbying for it, she’s doing a terrible job.”

She tilted her head in quiet contemplation. “Well, everyone knows where your seat typically stands. Maybe she knew she didn’t need to convince you.”

He scoffed. “I promise you that wasn’t it either.” She’d spent their whole meeting doubting his loyalties, it couldn’t have been that.

“If you take a look at those counts—” Honoria gestured to the parchment. “—you’ll see that she doesn’t really need to do much lobbying. Her Prophet article really did a number on the usual problem seats.”

Draco glanced down at the counts…and she was right. The Equity Act had the support of those he expected: Nott, Parkinson, Longbottom, Bulstrode, Abbott, Weasley, Black, Flint, Ogden, Macmillan, Ollivander, and Slughorn. Prior to the marriage law, he would have included Greengrass and Rosier in that list, but now their support wasn’t assured. Though, they’d pledged their seat in favor already.

Draco reviewed the rest of the list, reading the predominantly conservative family names, to find that most had pledged their support as well. Selwyn and Mulciber, as Granger had said. But Fawley and Burke as well—two seats who had never been much of a threat in terms of power but a fair thorn in his side when it came to votes.

Merlin, had she really swayed them all with one bloody article? He’d seen her practice a speech to an empty room for hours over elf rights, and now she was sitting back while votes poured in without resistance.

“Does this not surprise you at all?” he said, tossing the parchment down on the desk.

Honoria shook her head. “Not in the slightest. Yes, some have—albeit unexpectedly—already pledged their votes in favor but their hate still lingers in our chambers. Isadora, especially, isn’t quiet about her disdain for the Undersecretary. They simply don’t want to be labeled blood purists in a time like this, that’s enough reason for them to support it.”

He supposed it made sense. He hadn’t really considered that Granger may already have all the support she needed, to the point where she didn’t feel the need to persuade Draco. He’d just always known her fight for her causes to an infuriating degree. And forced support from the conservative seats tracked completely. Sometimes it was the only way to get them to act.

“This count doesn’t have any votes against, but there are names missing. Is there anyone that needs extra persuading?” he asked.

“Not from what I’ve heard. There are several seats that never give their position away until the vote, and then there’s McLaggen, who’s just holding off because his fragile ego was bruised.”

Draco smirked. “No surprise there.”

“Exactly.” Honoria rested her fingertips lightly on the desk. “Really, Draco. There’s no need for you to worry about the Wizengamot. Hermione has it covered, and if anything goes awry, Tiberius and I will be the first to let you know.”

He pondered her words, weighing whether it really was appropriate to step back now. Maybe the Granger he knew wasn’t the one that existed today, and maybe he wasn’t an expert on Hermione Granger to begin with. Both Tiberius and Honoria had both told him that nothing foul was stirring in the Wizengamot, and he had no reason to question their word. Stepping back would also give him the chance to focus more on his Tenebrae Arcanum related issues.

He opened his mouth to thank Honoria for the whip counts, when Pipkin appeared again. The elf offered Honoria a smile before turning to Draco with reddened cheeks. “Sorry, Master Draco. Master’s Longbottom and Nott are here to see you.”

If Theo was about to waste his time with some nonsense, Draco would wring his neck. He was too tired and too stretched to tolerate games this morning.

“Tell them I’ll meet them downstairs when I’m done,” he said tenderly. Pipkin was always quick to chastise herself when she did something she believed to be rude or disrespectful, he didn’t want her to think he was angry.

Her features softened at his tone. “They say it's urgent, Master Draco.”

Honoria stood. “Handle what you need to. I’ll bring you an update should there be one.”

Draco nodded as she turned for the door, but she quickly turned back. “I forgot to mention—Charles has been asking for you, quite incessantly. Something about you ignoring his owls. Thought you’d want to know.”

Draco had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He’d been avoiding the whole Greengrass family, hoping the silence and increased interest rate would finally give them a hint. Clearly, Charles was just as stupid as Astoria. “Wonderful,” he sighed.

Honoria smirked, then turned and left, just as Pipkin popped out. Presumably to grab Theo and Neville. Merlin knew what terrible news they’d be bringing next.

Theo sauntered in a moment later, with Neville on his heel. “Gods, I’ve always hated this study. Even with the redecorating it still feels vile.”

“He can’t exactly meet with Ministry employees in his secret basement, now can he?” Neville quipped.

Draco poured himself another drink, a new glass having appeared without his noticing—Pipkin’s doing.

“What was so important you had to interrupt my meeting?”

Theo dropped into the chair across from him, Neville just shook his head.

“Well?” Draco said expectantly.

Neville sighed. “A couple things, actually.”

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Theo said with a sly grin.

“How about you just tell me what I need to know?”

Neville finally took a seat. “Silas Mulciber was admitted to St. Mungo’s—Luxuria overdose. Second one in the last year.”

“Perfect blackmail opportunity, except Florence is already breathing down the Minister’s neck about cracking down on Luxuria distribution,” Theo added.

That was the last thing they needed. Already a warehouse was blown up, and the Minister was hunting them down. Florence Mulciber was exactly the kind of problem they couldn’t afford right now. Her grief was a weapon, and Draco knew from experience that a grieving witch was far more dangerous than an angry one.

“Hard to use the overdose to blackmail her into silence without tipping our hand.”

“Right,” Neville said, completely resigned. “Not sure how you want to handle it.”

Draco thought for a minute, when the perfect idea formed in his head. “We don’t want this to turn into a legislative crusade, so I think we need to give her outrage a target that isn’t us.”

Theo quirked a brow. “Who did you have in mind?”

“Honoria just informed me that Charles clearly doesn’t understand that I refuse to marry his daughter. So I was thinking Astoria.”

Astoria had always been reckless. Too much wine, too much powder, too many whispers of illicit potions she didn’t think anyone heard. Everyone knew she drifted toward Silas Mulciber when she was bored, and Florence wouldn’t hesitate to blame a spoiled Greengrass girl for her son’s ruin. Let both families squirm under the weight of scandal for once, without Draco being there to cover for them.

Theo laughed. “Brilliant.”

“Do you want me to relay the information?” Neville asked.

Draco shook his head. “No, I’ll pay her a visit.”

“That’s settled then.” Theo leaned forward in his seat with anticipation. “Tell him the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

Neville rolled his eyes. “Pansy was reviewing our numbers, and she found some discrepancies in the money laundering coming out of Marseille.”

“For fuck’s sake. Can’t we at least go a week without something going wrong?” Draco groaned.

Theo grinned. “That’s not the best part, mate. This is the good news.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Theodore, how could that possibly be the good news?”

“I’m fairly certain it’s Isadora Selwyn’s doing. Just give us some time to get a clear picture,” Neville supplied.

“See.” Theo gestured toward Neville. “This means we finally get to kill her.”

“No,” Neville retorted. “We don’t know what she’s doing. Killing someone as high profile as her would bring unwanted attention at a time where we already have too much of that.”

“He’s right, Theo,” Draco huffed, begrudgingly. “Unless she’s doing something unforgivable, we can’t afford to get rid of her right now.”

Theo crossed his arms with a pout. “But she’s such a cunt.”

“I know. It’s still concerning, and the chances are, she probably is doing something unforgivable.” Draco turned to Neville. “We need answers as soon as possible.”

He nodded. “We’ll get on it.”

“So much for my good news,” Theo muttered.

Draco clicked his tongue, but otherwise ignored him. “Any updates on everything else?”

“Still no word from Mortiferus.” Theo sulked. “Or Dolohov.”

“But I know how Hermione found out about the Marseille raid,” Neville added quickly.

Draco shot up in his seat, hoping the reaction wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “And?”

Neville cleared his throat. “It was a filing error. Documentation on the raid that was meant to be destroyed ended up in the French Ministry archives. Hermione knew Selwyn’s business operated there and happened upon it. It was just luck.”

“Luck?” he remarked dryly.

Neville adjusted the sleeve of his suit with indifference. “Yes, luck. I had the documents removed from record. It won’t be an issue again.”

Draco studied him, he could hardly believe that Granger just got lucky. She always knew what she was doing—for years, it never once seemed like it was just luck. But Neville looked sure, which meant he had no reason to doubt.

“Good. Anything else that might ruin my day?” Draco deadpanned.

“No, but it's still early.” Theo smiled wide.

Draco scoffed and finished his drink. “Right, then fuck off, both of you. I have to go to St. Mungo’s.”

Theo leaned back in his chair. “Think I’d rather stay and finish your firewhiskey.”

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line as he stood. “Twat. Just make sure you replace the bottle.”

And he Disapparated with a crack, before he had to listen to whatever else Theo would think to say.

…

Draco was staring at Theo in utter disbelief. “You got blood all over my shirt.”

Theo didn’t bother to look back at him, he was too busy trying to stop the catastrophic amount of blood that had begun spewing out of this wizard's neck. They were back in the basement, trying to find a lead on Dolohov. But of course, the man hanging from the ceiling knew nothing more than the last.

“Just use Scourgify.”

Draco scoffed. “This is acromantula silk, Theodore. You can’t just use Scourgify.” Draco could hear Blaise laughing in the corner. Theo didn’t even bother to respond, he was muttering curses under his breath. The wizard died.

“I was certain I had cut in the right spot.” Theo was staring at the wizard in disappointment, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong.

Draco left Theo to clean up the mess so he could figure out what to do about his shirt. They had been doing a horrid job at tracking down Dolohov since his step back from politics. He didn’t seem to have any sort of hideout, anyone that had seen him, had seen him in dark alleyways, barely able to make out his face. If anyone ever wrote the history of the Tenebrae Arcanum, it would read like a comedy of errors—bloodied corpses dangling from ceilings, fretting about silk shirts, and Death Eaters that couldn’t be caught.

When he walked up from the basement to take off his shirt and try to carefully get the blood out, he ran into Pansy and Neville unexpectedly.

“Draco! There’s blood on your shirt.” Pansy looked horrified.

“Yes, there is blood on my shirt.”

“But it’s acromantula silk!” At least someone understood the predicament.

“Pansy, I know.” She took the shirt from his hands and started fussing over it in the kitchen.

Draco turned to Neville. “What brought you here?”

Neville adjusted his cufflinks while speaking. “She needed to look through a couple of the books ahead of your mother’s gala tomorrow and the auction party we have coming up.”

Draco groaned. “That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

His mother had decided to throw a fundraising gala in support of the Magical Heritage Equity Act, despite his insistence that it didn’t need it. Of course, far be it from Narcissa Malfoy to back down from an opportunity to throw a party. Especially one where the Malfoy’s will be the picture of reform.

“Yes.” Then, Neville added, like it was nothing, “She’s also announced that Hermione will be the guest of honor. After all, she is the most famous Muggleborn witch of our time.”

Draco stiffened. Normally, he told himself, he’d be bothered by the prospect of being around Granger. But, the guilt that lived in the back of his mind seemed to only be concerned about what it’d be like for her to return to a place that must mean nothing but cruelty and anguish for her. There was no way Granger would return to the Manor. The drawing room may be gone but the memories of his aunt’s torture must still be fresh for Granger.

“Granger didn’t agree to that, did she?” Neville looked at him in confusion for a moment, before the realization dawned on his features.

“She did. Pansy asked her if she’d be alright to be there again and Hermione said that she got past it a long time ago.”

Draco didn’t know what to say but he didn’t think five years was enough time. Then again, this was Granger. He’d probably never understand.

When Draco remained quiet, Neville asked, “Get anywhere with them?” He angled his head toward the basement.

“Nothing. Anything on Mortiferus?”

Neville’s eye twitched, but otherwise he responded indifferently. “Nothing.” Draco wondered how it was that he was the only one who noticed how odd Neville could be at times. “How’d it go with Florence?”

“She was hanging on my every word. By the end of it, she was ready to curse Astoria for having ever been born.”

Neville grinned. “I look forward to seeing how that plays out.”

Draco was too. Florence had been completely bereft when he’d arrived at St. Mungo’s, begging Draco for his help with both covering it up and destroying whoever was responsible. When he’d said that he already knew who was responsible, the look on her face told him exactly what he needed to know—he had her in his trap. It was almost too easy. Florence’s grief had made her blind, pliable. One suggestion, and she’d taken the bait with both hands. Draco almost pitied Astoria. Almost.

Pansy shrieked in delight, causing the two wizards' heads to snap in her direction. She was waving the shirt in their direction.

“All done. Good as new.” She walked over to return the shirt to Draco. She was right, it was like nothing had happened.

“Thanks, Pans.” He started putting his shirt back on, when Theo and Blaise emerged from the basement.

Theo looked at Draco as he was buttoning his shirt. “How disappointing, did I miss the show?”

He feigned upset as Draco paused and threw a hex at him, who jumped out of the way at the last second. Bloody bastard never let them land.

“Relax, Draco. You can’t even tell there was ever blood on it.” Theo was grinning at him—Draco threw another hex.

“Get everything cleaned up?” Pansy asked, trying to distract from the silk shirt catastrophe.

Theo nodded as he went in search of what Draco suspected would be firewhiskey. “Yes. The body is in the chamber, burning pretty quickly.”

Theo had come across what the Muggles call an incinerator while he was learning new ways to make people suffer. The Muggles use it to turn dead bodies into ash and so naturally, Theo immediately built a fire-proof chamber in the basement. They’d simply incendio the corpse and vanish the ashes once it was done. No body, no crime.

“You’re all required to be in attendance at the Magical Heritage Gala at Malfoy Manor tomorrow night. Narcissa will hex me if you don’t show up,” Pansy added

Theo laughed. “Are you kidding me? I would never throw away an opportunity to torture Draco. How many different ways do you think I can bring up his infatuation with Hermione in a conversation?”

Draco lunged at Theo but he spun out of the way, around to the other side of the island. The word infatuation alone made his skin itch. As if that could ever be what sat between him and Granger. Theo had no idea what he was talking about.

“There is no infatuation, Nott.”

He could hear Pansy giggling—one day he’d get her back for this.

Theo sipped his firewhiskey casually. “Right, sure there’s not. But as far as she’s concerned, there is one. And you can’t even correct me when I say it. Circe’s tits, this is brilliant.”

Draco was going to murder someone.

“Fuck off, Nott.”

He heard his friends start laughing as he Disapparated with a crack. He couldn't listen to more of Theo’s nonsense about this non-existent infatuation, and his mother owed him some answers about this last minute guest of honor bullshit.

When he landed at the Manor, the elves were moving around in full force. He went looking for his mother and found her in the ballroom, more elves working under her watchful eye. She was flashing discreet adjustment charms at candelabras and floral arrangements as though any imperfection might bring the whole house into disgrace.

Draco leaned against the frame of one of the tall glass doors, watching her with arms loosely crossed. The room smelled like polished wood and too much bergamot. Silver-edged place cards fluttered onto velvet runners, and the chandelier above had been charmed to cast a flattering light, soft enough to smooth out age lines and years of political regret.

The Magical Heritage Equity Act crest had been enchanted to hang behind the head table above a floating platform that would no doubt be the home for the string quartet. The guest of honor would be at the head table, with the hosts. Draco was struggling to imagine Hermione Granger back in his home. She’d once turned her nose up at everything this room stood for, and now was being toasted in it, by a room full of people who once would have told Granger her blood was dirty and that she was nothing.

“Mother.”

She turned to look at him, a sweet smile on her face. “Draco, darling, how does everything look?”

He smiled back. “Beautiful. When were you going to tell me about this?”

“You’ve known about the gala for weeks.” She busied herself with a centerpiece at a nearby table. She was certainly up to something.

Draco gave his mother a stern look. “You know precisely what I’m referring to. Your guest of honor?”

She looked back at him innocently. “She’s living proof that blood purity is a farce. Hermione Granger being allied with the Malfoy family would be an excellent political move.” She gave him a knowing look.

His face twisted in confusion. That was a quick leap from guest of honor to ally of the Malfoy family.

“What? She and I aren’t even friends. We can hardly stand one another.” She dismissed his words as nonsense with a wave of her hand.

“I seem to recall that you could not stop talking about the girl all throughout your time at Hogwarts.”

Draco nearly choked. “Because she was infuriating.”

Narcissa arched her brow. “Mm.”

He hated that sound. The mm that meant she was done with the conversation because she already knew the truth of it. But there was no truth to know.

“Where is this coming from?” he ground out.

His mother tried, and failed, to bite back a smirk. “Pansy may have told me a little story.”

Merlin, this must be a joke.

“She’s right Draco, it would be a perfect match.”

His shoulders went taut.

“She’s a Muggleborn witch,” he snapped.

He wasn’t sure why he said it. He knew that didn’t matter to him. Yet, a part of him always wondered whether his mother was putting on an act and simply pretending to progressive.

“She could be a muggle for all I care, Draco. The fact of the matter is that Senior Undersecretary Hermione Granger, would be the smartest match for the Malfoy family.”

Narcissa’s tone was final, her beliefs were not to be questioned. It was a comforting thought for Draco.

“What would Lucius think?” He could see his mother’s jaw clench.

“Your father lost the right to have any say in the matters of the Malfoy family after refusing to see us for the last five years.”

Draco watched her for a moment. He truly admired his mother. This woman alone defied the Dark Lord, and helped rebuild the Malfoy name after its actions during the war tore it to pieces.

His mother looked at him with love. “I’m just teasing—mostly. Though I make no promises not to meddle.”

She smiled as she spun away to return to the gala preparations. Tomorrow night would surely be unbearable, if everyone, including his mother, was going to try to push him towards Granger.

Merlin, help him.

He’d need more firewhiskey than the Manor currently had on hand to get through the night.

Chapter Text

Draco stood in his father’s old study with Theo, both of them buttoned into new dress robes Narcissa had commissioned for the gala. The cut was perfect; the timing, abysmal. Guests were already arriving, and Draco needed a drink—possibly three—before submitting himself to the evening’s performance. Practically everyone who mattered at the Ministry would be here, including the Minister and the full Wizengamot.

The door swung open and Pansy swept in, her black silk gown enchanted to move like water. “Time to go.”

Draco finished his drink, poured another for the walk, and handed the bottle to Theo, who helped himself without shame.

“I don’t want to greet the guests,” Draco said—realizing a second too late that he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. It wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter.

Pansy arched a brow. “Suck it up. You’ve a welcome speech to give too.”

His mouth tightened in annoyance, but he followed her out anyway. At the ballroom entrance, he took his position opposite Narcissa while Theo slid off—coward—to vanish into the crowd.

Tonight promised a sort of misery Draco hadn’t let himself feel in ages. Ever since his talk with his mother, the Manor had been insufferably loud. Pansy, Neville, and Theo, then Blaise and Ginevra, all of them unwilling to shut up about Granger and this imagined infatuation, conspiring like a flock of match-making harpies.

He was over it. He didn’t care what they thought. He was still irritated with Granger for pushing and doubting, and more than irritated that she might keep digging. He still couldn’t see the angle she was playing at, and that made for a disastrous recipe—especially with her as guest of honor under his roof. If he wasn’t careful, she’d pry something loose he couldn’t afford to drop.

Ginevra arrived on Blaise’s arm, distracting from his never-ending chain of calamities, both of them polished to a immaculate shine. They greeted Narcissa first with kisses to the air, then turned to him.

“Ferret,” she said—all play, no bite.

“Red,” he returned pleasantly, just dry enough to make her smirk. He clasped Blaise’s forearm. “You look insufferably pleased with yourself.”

“Because I am,” Blaise grinned. “Someone had to pick up the mantle now that you spend all your time brooding.”

“We already established he’s always been like that. Keep up, darling,” Ginevra stage-whispered, then winked at Draco. “Do behave. We’re sitting close enough to heckle your speech.”

“What a comfort,” he said, and sent them in. Then he scoffed because Draco Malfoy did not brood. How many times would he have to say that?

The procession thickened. Familiar faces, familiar calculations. Each greeted him and Pansy with their rehearsed respect or faux-courtesy. He greeted Tiberius like the old friend he was, traded crisp pleasantries with the Weasley family, and accepted a too-warm handshake from Alaric Mulciber, who seemed to be dissociating from the—second—tragic fall of his brother. He thanked the Fawleys for their support for the Equity Act, promised the recently retired Professor Slughorn he’d stop by his new Slughorn & Co. Apothecary, and endured thin smiles from Dawlish and Robards that said they remembered Lucius Malfoy and nothing charitable beyond that. He recognized everyone that stepped foot in his home; that was the job. Names, allegiances, and prices.

When a crease opened in the flow, he finished his glass and murmured, “Pipkin.”

His elf appeared with a soft crack. “Master Draco?”

“Another, please. Quietly water my drinks if I start to slur.”

“Of course,” she said primly, refilling with a deft tap before vanishing again.

The Minister chose that moment to arrive. The temperature seemed to drop a degree. He went first to Narcissa—seemed to be a trend—bowed over her hand and offered a bland pleasantry in a voice pitched low enough not to carry. Then he looked across the entryway at Draco. There was no pause, not even the courtesy of a neutral nod. Just a clean, practiced once-over and a deliberate slide of his gaze past him to Pansy, as though Draco were an architectural feature best ignored.

Petty behavior for a man who called himself a leader.

Draco’s mouth shaped the most diplomatic of smiles. “Minister,” he said in a voice warm enough to be overheard and cool enough to sting, “thank you for honoring our home.”

The Minister didn’t break stride. “Lady Malfoy,” he said, still to Narcissa, “the arrangements are impeccable.” And then he went in.

Narcissa didn’t so much as quiver. Draco felt the slight set of his jaw and let it go. If the Minister wanted to be an odious bastard, two could play that game. He turned back to the next guests—Ollivander’s heir, Bones and Dean, the Creevey boy—offering precisely the right warmth to each, the Malfoy brand refined as ever.

Still, beneath the pristine surface, the same thoughts circled: keep your guard up, keep your distance. Granger is a variable. Tonight, variables are dangerous.

He glanced briefly into the ballroom and something in the air shifted. Just then, Pansy leaned in and whispered, “Our Golden Girl is here—in gold.”

He didn’t need to look. Somehow, he already knew it was her—knew it in the tension in his shoulders and the sudden silence of his thoughts.

Granger.

She stood beneath the chandelier in a gown the color of sunlight, all soft shimmer and elegant lines, like she’d stepped into his home just to prove a point. Her hair—normally a chaotic mess he’d tried to dismiss for years—had been coaxed into loose, polished waves that fell down her back in a way that made it hard to look away. And he tried, Merlin, he really fucking tried.

He told himself it was not a big deal. Just a dress, just hair, just Granger.

He dragged in a breath and, like a good little host, tried to recite his speech in his head: Honoured guests, colleagues, friends—good evening. Thank you for joining us, and thank you to my mother—

His mind went blank. The words scattered like startled birds.

She’d laughed at something the wizard beside her said, and the sound of it—the warmth, the ease—landed somewhere squarely in his chest. Worse than the dress was the way she carried herself. She looked happy, effortlessly so, her Occlumency a thing of the past and it unsettled him far more than it should have. The easy smile reached her eyes and, with it, the whole stew of irritation and suspicion he’d been nursing evaporated into something far less manageable. He wasn’t relieved; he was unmoored.

He didn’t bother to look at the man with her. He was too busy watching her glide across the entryway to greet his mother, who embraced her like an old friend. The sheer panel of her dress caught the light as she turned, revealing the line of her spine, her skin luminous beneath the charm-worked fabric.

It was distracting—too distracting. And he hated that it was.

By the time she stepped in front of him, he was still staring at the space she’d just occupied, pulse ticking traitorously at his throat. He snapped his gaze up, face carefully neutral, as if that might disguise the fact that his thoughts were nowhere they should be.

“Hello, Draco.”

It was the first time she’d ever said his name like that, so soft and delicate, like it wasn’t laced with disgust. His legs nearly buckled and he killed the rest of his drink to cover it, the firewhiskey landing harder than it should. She was smiling, only a fraction, something precariously close to a smirk.

“Granger,” he managed. His voice sounded strangled, like it had to be yanked out of his throat against his will.

He had to be drunk already. That was the only explanation for this very tragic and unfortunate series of reactions.

“What’s wrong with your face, Malfoy?”

Potter’s voice cut through the fog, dragging him back to reality.

“Bold question coming from you, Potter.” He aimed for sharp, but it came out weak. Potter, the idiot, scrunched his face in that perpetually offended way he’d perfected at Hogwarts.

“Alright, I’ll show you both to your seats,” Pansy said breezily, looping her arm through Granger’s.

Draco couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes, when they weren’t locked up behind Occlumency, were gold-flecked and bright, warm in a way that made his stomach turn. Everything about her tonight seemed to glow. Everything was so bloody golden.

He tried to find his opening line again—honoured guests, colleagues, friends—

As Pansy led her into the ballroom, Granger glanced over her shoulder and winked at him.

Fucking hell.

He swallowed hard. Oh, Circe’s tits. He was in for it tonight.

His mother appeared at his side, serene as ever. “Go ahead, Draco. I’ll take it from here.”

He didn’t care that she was meddling. He just needed another drink.

And maybe a wall to hit his head against, repeatedly.

He slipped into the ballroom and made a straight line for the bar, head down, trying to look casual—like he hadn’t just been caught staring, like he hadn’t just been winked at by Granger of all people.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight. Of course she’d noticed. Of course she’d turned around, so smug with that little flicker of amusement in her eyes like she knew exactly what kind of wreck she was leaving in her wake. And he’d just stood there like some enchanted suit of armor, completely useless.

He ordered another drink.

This was the firewhiskey talking. It had to be. He didn’t look at Granger. He didn’t notice the way her dress clung to her or how her laugh sounded like it actually belonged in this room. He didn’t stare at the slope of her back like a bloody schoolboy. That wasn’t—couldn’t be him. That wasn’t real.

But doesn’t it feel—

No.

This was Pansy’s fault. And his mother’s. And Theo’s too, probably. All of them planted the idea, nudging him toward her like it was some grand, clever plan.

It’d be a perfect match, they’d said.

As if that meant anything. As if it gave him permission to notice her.

He downed half his drink in one go, barely tasting it.

She’d called him Draco. That sneaky witch knew what she was doing, Pansy must have put her up to this.

He’s pathetic, Granger, trust me. It’ll be a good laugh for all of us.

He groaned under his breath and tipped the rest of his drink back. He needed to get it together. This wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself over Hermione fucking Granger at his own bloody gala.

Absolutely not.

Probably not.

Maybe not?

Gods, he was so fucked.

One more drink. Just one more to carry him to his seat without making a complete arse of himself. Draco flagged the waiter down again, his fingers tapping the polished wood of the bar in a rhythm that betrayed just how rattled he still was. He didn’t even bother naming the drink, just held up the glass, and the waiter, with the wisdom of someone who’d seen too many desperate wizards in fancy dress robes, poured without a word.

The firewhiskey burned this time. Good.

He straightened his robes, schooled his features into something neutral, something dignified, and turned toward the head table.

And froze.

There, beside the intricately scrolled place card he knew held his name, sat Hermione Granger. Guest of Honor. Picture of poise. Looking—mercifully—in the other direction.

He didn’t need to check the rest of the table to know who had orchestrated this. But when he did glance up, the confirmation hit him like a bludger.

Pansy was grinning, not sweetly or supportively, but grinning like a cat that had cornered a very nervous, very blonde mouse.

Theo leaned in to murmur something to her, barely suppressing a laugh.

Neville caught Draco’s eye and raised his glass in a silent toast—fucking traitors, the whole lot of them—before turning back to his wife as if he wasn’t part of this conspiracy.

Ginevra and Blaise were simply smiling at him over the rim of their glasses, feigning innocence as if he couldn’t see how involved they all were.

At a nearby table, Potter and Weasley had clearly clocked what was happening. Potter looked baffled; his gaze flickering between Draco and Granger like he was trying to do arithmancy and not loving the answers he was getting. Weasley, on the other hand, had gone rigid, his expression thunderous. Draco didn’t need to use Legilimency to tell him what Weasley was thinking.

You don’t get to look at her like that.

Fantastic.

Draco turned back to the table, jaw tight.

He exhaled through his nose. It was fine. This was fine.

Everything was fine.

He would sit down, act normal, not look at her shoulders, and get through the evening without further humiliation.

Hopefully.

He made his way toward the seat like a man walking to the gallows.

A hand cut across his path.

“Lord Malfoy.”

It was Charles Greengrass, his jaw set tightly and his civility stretched thin. What had he done for the gods to subject him to a night like this—such cruel punishment?

Well, Draco knew the answer to that. Didn’t he?

His smile was vicious. “Mr. Greengrass.”

“We need a word,” Charles said, stepping in close enough to make it clear this word would not be brief. “You’ve ignored six owls. This interest hike is unacceptable. We had an understanding.”

“We had terms,” Draco said mildly. “Terms that expressly allowed me to make changes should I feel you weren’t aligned with my family’s interests.”

“We’ve done nothing of the sort.” Charles’s voice roughened. “Two points, without notice? You don’t do that to a Greengrass.”

“I do it to any House who creates chaos in my Wizengamot.” Draco let the politeness sharpen. “Consider this notice retroactive.”

Color climbed on Charles’s neck. “You’re playing a dangerous game, boy.”

“Charles,” Draco said, voice softening in that way that made grown men listen, “I am hosting a gala. You are blocking my path. Choose your next sentence with care.”

He swallowed. “Astoria tells me you’ve been…curt. If this is about the match—”

“It is not,” Draco said, and let the velvet in his voice fall away. “It’s over. There will be no match. I sent that message with Astoria specifically because I assumed she would be smart enough to pass it along—my mistake, I’ve clearly given her too much credit. Since she did not, this is an internal Greengrass problem, not a Malfoy one.”

“You think you can speak about my daughter—”

“I think,” Draco said, his smile returning but thinner, “you can pay what you owe at the new established rate. And going forward, send your grievances to my solicitor. I don’t conduct collections business in ballrooms.”

For a moment they simply stared at one another—Charles breathing hard, Draco perfectly still.

“At least admit the rate is punitive,” Charles said, his voice lower now.

“Consider it a lesson,” Draco said. “I suggest you learn it.”

He stepped past, the conversation dismissed by the simple act of ending it, and the crowd obligingly closed around Charles like water over stone.

He took a deep, calming breath as he continued walking, before he remembered where he was meant to be going—to his spot next to Granger.

Everything was fine, he thought to himself again.

Draco slid into his seat, doing his best not to glance at the woman beside him, but of course, she turned to face him the moment he sat, eyes bright, lips curled into a smile that felt far too knowing.

Why weren’t her eyes empty?

“Draco,” she said again, like they were old friends and she hadn’t just nearly broken his brain by existing in gold.

He gave a curt nod. “Granger.” It came out hoarse. Brilliant.

Her smile didn’t falter. If anything it deepened.

He cleared his throat. “I have a speech to give.”

He rose, tapped the side of his glass twice, and lifted his wand to his throat. “Sonorus.”

Keep it steady. Breathe in for four counts. Don’t look left.

“Honoured guests, colleagues, friends—good evening.”

Everyone is looking at you. Focus on them, not her. Find Narcissa.

“Thank you for joining us, and thank you to my mother for opening up our home. Nights like this are not just about chandeliers and champagne; they’re about taking stock of the world we share and the future we intend to build.”

Your glass is slick in your hand, loosen your grip. Count—one, two.

“I was raised to believe strength came from walls—bloodlines and names. I, however, have learned that strength comes from bridges. Whatever our lineage, magic does not ask for a family tree before it answers to a wand. Talent, courage, and decency are not the property of any house.”

They’re all listening. You are Lord Malfoy, and these words mean something. Do not—do not—glance left.

“House Malfoy did not always understand the difference between tradition and prejudice. We were wrong. That is not a comfortable admission, but it is a necessary one if we mean to do better. I do. We do.”

Your mouth is dry. Swallow. Own your shortcomings, keep your wits about you.

“Equality and equity are not gifts bestowed only on the more fortunate; that is the ground everyone deserves beneath their feet. The work before us—whether in our businesses, our classrooms, or our laws—is to make that ground real. To that end, this house will continue funding programs, scholarships, and partnerships that widen that path, not narrow it. Unity is not sameness; it is shared stakes.”

You’re fine. You know the words, you practiced them. Stay on script. Don’t look at her.

“None of that work happens by accident. It happens because people choose it—again and again—especially when it would be easier not to.”

You can say her name. It's just a name.

“I want to thank, in particular, Senior Undersecretary Granger for her tireless effort to make our world fairer and safer for every witch and wizard. Many of us—myself included—have taken too long to arrive at certain conclusions. We’re here now. And for the pressure, the persistence, and the example that helped get us here: thank you.”

You still can’t look at her. You said what you had to, but don’t you dare look.

She’s shifting beside you—ignore it. Keep your eyes up and survive this.

“So, tonight, let's disagree loudly when we must, cooperate fiercely whenever we can, and refuse to mistake old habits for moral claims. To bridges over walls. To equal footing and unity. To the work ahead.”

Almost done. Raise your glass, finish strong.

“To our Undersecretary, and to a future worthy of all of us.”

He lowered his wand, let the charm fall, and the room erupted in thunderous applause. He collapsed in his seat, still not daring to look left. It was merely a speech, just appearances to be kept up with. Did he believe what he said about her?

It didn’t matter. Her gold was not his to reach for.

He prayed for silence, but he knew he was asking for too much.

“That was very moving,” Granger said kindly. “Thank you, Draco. That meant more than you could know.”

His head snapped toward her before he could stop it. She was watching him with open, gentle eyes, and a curious expression. “Are you sure it wasn’t all an act?”

He wasn’t sure why he said it.

No, that was a lie. He knew. She’d insulted him with her suspicions and her doubts and no amount of Dracos or genuine smiles would let him truly forget that.

She sighed, but her smile didn’t falter. “I’m sorry for my hostility earlier this week. Our dinner left me…concerned, and I just had to be sure. I may not know you, but I do know what you aren’t.”

What he wasn’t?

Not his father? Not a liar? Not the boy he once was? He couldn’t tell which answer she meant, and hated that it stung.

He nodded—words refusing to form.

“I also wanted to thank you,” she continued. “For your clear support of the Equity Act. To say that its promise is of the utmost importance would be an understatement. It’s a giant leap toward ridding our world of prejudice and I’m glad that you see it that way as well.”

Don’t look at her. Don’t—

He kept his eyes on a far end of the table. If he had lingering doubts about where she stood, they were gone now. Honoria had been right. She hadn’t lobbied because she hadn’t needed to and there was nothing more to it.

“No thanks necessary, Granger. Blood purity has no place here, everyone should be fighting our fight.”

It slipped out before he could stop himself. Our fight. It wasn’t theirs, they weren’t a team. They only shared similar beliefs.

Heat crept, unwanted, up the back of his neck.

“Still,” she said with a smile. “I need you to know that I appreciate it.”

He nodded again—this time because the reality of it all refused to fit into any shape his mind could hold. He tightened his grip on his glass instead of speaking.

The silence stretched and grew almost painful. Somewhere, cutlery chimed against china and the quartet began a waltz he couldn’t place.

“I didn’t know you and my mother were on hugging terms,” he muttered, just to say something.

Granger let out a soft laugh. “She’s very charming. She invited me over for tea the other day.”

His brow furrowed. What on earth did his mother think she was doing?

Granger’s expression remained pleasant, like she wasn’t at Malfoy Manor. Like she wasn’t sitting next to Draco Malfoy. Like she hadn’t just called Narcissa Malfoy charming and admitted to coming over for tea.

Then he realized she’d already been back to Malfoy Manor and he’d had no idea. She’d been in his home, and he didn’t know.

But she was just sipping her champagne like this whole night was some inside joke he wasn’t quite in on.

Then, curse the powers that be, Granger leaned in just a touch, and her perfume caught in his throat.

Her voice was low without actually inviting any intimacy. “Pansy told me why you did it.”

He stiffened. “Did she.”

“She said you couldn’t bring yourself to ask, afraid I’d laugh you out of Le Serpent Noir.” Draco looked at her sidelong, trying to keep his expression neutral. Merlin, he was going to hex Pansy after this. And Theo too, probably.

“I’ve always thought you were a lot of things, Draco Malfoy, but shy was never one of them.” Her tone wasn’t teasing. Just curious and friendly, but it landed like a hand wrapped lightly around his throat.

He cleared it. “Pansy says a lot of things, Granger.”

She let out a soft chuckle. “True.” She turned back to the table, taking another slow sip. “But I figured I’d let you off the hook. I’m not seeing anyone.”

Draco blinked. Granger didn’t smirk. She wasn’t smug—just that same maddening calm.

He turned behind him. “Pipkin.”

With a crack, his house-elf appeared at his elbow, blinking up at him.

“Please,” he gestured to his glass. “I don’t want to see the bottom of this tonight.” To hell with watering down his whiskey and not slurring.

Pipkin nodded, his glass refilled. He could’ve sworn he’d seen her hide a smirk as she vanished with a crack.

He took a sip. Then another.

He was fine. Granger wasn’t flirting. She was being polite. But why? Why was she being polite?

Draco decided it didn’t matter. He’d keep drinking and in the morning, this nightmare would be over.

When he glanced sideways again, she was already watching him.

And fucking smiling.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He’d push her into hexing him like he knew she must want to. This whole thing was a performance, a lie, some tightly controlled act of politeness she’d crack under eventually.

“No judgement from the holier-than-thou Granger about my use of a house elf?” he asked, forcing his lip into something that felt like a sneer but probably read closer to desperation.

She didn’t blink, just hummed noncommittally. “She’s a free elf. Narcissa told me all about them. You pay them quite well. Very generous of you, Draco.”

Draco. She kept saying it like it belonged to her. It couldn’t.

It didn’t.

He drained the rest of his drink, his jaw tense.

Maybe she was under the imperious curse, he thought, grasping at anything that made sense. Forced into good, compliant behavior.

Pipkin appeared with a crack, refilled his drink, and vanished without a word.

Granger just watched it all, serenely unbothered, her fingers idly toying with the stem of her glass.

“If you’re trying to impress me,” she said, voice low and dry, “you might want to slow down. You’re starting to sweat.”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” he said too quickly.

“Mmm.” Her smile deepened, and there was an infuriating glint in her eye, just faint enough that he couldn’t pin it down.

He was just about to say something else—something sharp, something that would finally pierce her calm, collected mask—when Theo appeared behind him, clapping a hand to his shoulder with a grin far too wide to be innocent.

“Well, this is cozy,” Theo said, sipping his drink with a smugness that made Draco want to throttle him. “Glad to see you two are getting along. Pansy’s going to weep.”

Draco gave him a look that should have killed him on the spot, but Theo just raised his eyebrows and wiggled them.

Granger turned slightly in her chair. “Nice to see you, Theo. I’m surprised you’re not betting on how long it takes before Draco has a public breakdown.”

This has to be a nightmare. He must be asleep and none of it was real.

“Oh, we’re running a pool,” Theo said brightly. “Neville’s got one hundred galleons on a dramatic exit before dessert. Personally, I’m holding out for a drunken toast with an accidental confession. You wouldn’t let me down, would you, mate?”

He gave Theo a look that promised retribution.

“Fuck off,” he muttered. He was going to kill Theo in the morning. As if this hadn’t all started because he was trying to keep them all out of Azkaban. Ungrateful twats.

Theo laughed and sauntered off, calling over his shoulder, “Enjoy the rest of your date!”

“It’s not a date,” Draco growled, too late.

Granger chuckled softly, then turned to him, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“Would you like to dance?” She asked.

He blinked. “What?” She stood gracefully, brushing invisible dust from her gown. “There’s another waltz starting. I’m told I should make a show of being the gracious guest of honor. You’re already used to being on display. Might as well play your part.”

Draco stared at her for a beat too long. Her hand was extended toward him, polite and patient, like she didn’t care if he said yes or no. And somehow that made it worse.

This was madness. She must be planning to kill him on the dance floor or worse, humiliate him.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, he threw back the rest of his drink. He stood and took her hand before he could think better of it. “Whatever.”

The worst part was that when her fingers closed around his, he didn’t even want to let go.

When he stood, Granger released his hand and immediately laced her arm around his. Draco was so stunned he couldn’t do the rational thing and pull away.

They were steps away from the open floor where the waltz was beginning, when the most unwanted interruption materialized—Astoria.

“Draco, darling,” she cooed. Her gaze slid over Granger and froze on her arm through his. “Granger.”

“You’ll address her as Madame Undersecretary,” Draco snapped, unsure of what came over him.

Astoria’s eyes narrowed, but her saccharine tone remained. “Of course. Madame Undersecretary, step aside. Draco ought to be dancing with me, his…proper partner.”

“Astoria—”

“Draco,” Granger cut in, placing her hand lightly on his arm. He glanced at her and she smirked. A second later, her features cooled, and she met Astoria’s gaze with a lethal one of her own.

“Astoria—I’ll call you that because a title worth addressing is something you lack.” Her hand fell from Draco’s arm and he felt its absence immediately.

She leaned in just enough so that only he and Astoria could hear, her smile bright for the rest of the room. “I’m not sure what impression I’ve given you—but you appear to have mistaken me for some kind of cunt who’d let you speak to her that way. It’s distasteful, but I’ll excuse it as stupidity, just this once. Now, channel all those pureblood comportment classes you seem to have forgotten, and excuse yourself, properly. Draco can find you later if he’d like—though I get the distinct impression that won’t be happening.”

Astoria’s eyes went wide. Honestly, Draco couldn’t even blame her; his own brows had climbed to his hairline. He had to have been hallucinating. Proud was the wrong word for what he felt, but it arrived anyway. Proud of Granger? That was laughable. And yet…he was.

A bright flush bloomed across Astoria’s cheeks and she looked at Draco as though he might defend her.

“What Granger said,” he deadpanned.

Astoria scoffed and spun on her heel, stalking off dramatically.

Granger hummed. “Far be it from me to judge, but I don’t think that would get her an Outstanding in those classes of hers.”

Draco couldn’t help himself, he laughed. The kind of laughter usually reserved for Pansy or Theo. Granger was funny—and she knew exactly how to bite.

And that made all of this so much worse.

She was laughing too as she led them toward their original destination, where the strings swelled and other couples crowded the floor. Draco’s confusion returned as the laughter subsided. Thank the gods for his forward thinking in bringing his glass. To no one’s surprise, he finished it again.

The music swelled as they joined the dance floor. Granger fit neatly into his arms, her hand warm against his shoulder, the other resting light in his palm. Too light, like she wasn’t really there and yet she was.

They moved in time, his feet remembering the steps even if his mind was foggy. The firewhiskey had finally dulled his panic, but not his fixation. Her hair smelled like citrus and something floral. Honestly, what the fuck was that—lilies? Every time her eyes flickered up at him, it was like she was watching him think.

“You haven’t been using Occlumency,” he said, voice low. Too low. Too drunk. “Not once.”

He felt her fingers stiffen slightly. A pause, barely there but he noticed. Then she recovered, lifting her chin like he’d said nothing at all.

“Why would I need to?” she said smoothly, a smile returning to her lips. “What secrets do you think I’m keeping, Malfoy?”

“Don’t call me that,” he muttered. “You’ve been calling me Draco all night.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him—definitely the firewhiskey.

It sounded wrong, her calling him Malfoy now, like she was undoing something he hadn’t realized had been holding him together.

Her eyebrows rose. “Would you prefer I switch to Ferret?”

“Ha. Hilarious.”

Another twirl. Another drink still working its way through his veins.

The music kept time while his pulse did not. Every inch of her was too close and too sharp, and he’d seen her finish the champagne in her glass before they’d left the table but her eyes were still so clear.

“You’re enjoying this,” he murmured. “Whatever this is. Playing me.”

“I’m just dancing,” she said innocently, stepping in closer as the music slowed. Her lips were close to his ear now. “Isn’t that what you wanted? You said yes after all.”

“I don’t even know what I want,” he said.

Where had that even come from? Was it true? This only started because Pansy told a stupid fucking lie…hadn’t it?

He looked down at her then, really looked, and something in her expression shifted. Her eyes fixed on his like she was searching for something.

Not accusing. Not warm. Just intent.

Her gaze bore into him with that calm, studious detachment he’d seen her have in school. He felt like a puzzle she was already halfway through solving.

His breath caught. He didn’t know why. Just for a moment, the room seemed to go quiet under the music, and he forgot to move.

Then—

“Don’t do that,” he said suddenly, his voice rough. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, blinking slowly, the moment gone. Her mask slipped neatly back into place.

“Like you see something I don’t,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

And then the music ended. The room erupted in polite applause, and the Minister stepped onto the dais, wand amplifying his voice.

“Thank you all for being here tonight, and thank you to Lady Malfoy, our excellent host,” he began, voice ringing out across the ballroom. “Tonight we honor progress, cooperation, and the bright future that would be made possible by the Magical Heritage Equity Act…”

Draco barely heard the rest.

Granger had stepped away.

“I should get back to my seat,” she said, smoothing the fabric of her dress. She looked up at him, unreadable once more. “Thank you for the dance, Draco.”

Something about the way she said it—Draco again—felt like punctuation, like closure. She was already halfway turned when he caught her wrist.

“Wait. What was all that? What—” She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes this time.

“Goodnight,” she said. “And thank you. Really.”

Then she walked away.

Draco stood in the middle of the dance floor—his head swimming, his pulse erratic, and his glass, his gods-damned empty glass, dangling uselessly from his hand.

He had no idea what the fuck just happened.

But he had the distinct feeling he’d just been used. And he hadn’t even seen the knife.

…

Draco awoke in agony.

He couldn’t remember the last time his head had been in this much pain after drinking. He groaned, rolling over in his bed, silk sheets brushing coolly against his skin. On the nightstand sat a small regiment of neatly arranged potions, no doubt left by whoever had dragged him into bed last night.

Last night.

His palm still felt the ghost of her hand; citrus and lilies clung to the back of his throat.

Merlin, he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around what had happened.

He had seen Hermione Granger. At his home. Sitting beside him. Dancing with him.

But she hadn’t acted like the girl he knew—sharp-edged, insufferable, always ready to fight him on principle alone. No, this version had been calm, warm, even, and it left him off balance.

Because if she could be like that—gracious, generous, unguarded—then maybe she always had been. Maybe he’d just never let himself remember it.

And that was a thought he couldn’t afford to entertain.

Not with everything he’d said and done to her. Not with everything she didn’t know.

He didn’t know how to reconcile the woman she’d been last night with the memory he’d clung to because that memory had made it easier to live with what he’d done.

And easier to pretend he didn’t care.

But…was that what she was like when she didn’t hate the person she was speaking to?

Draco.

Her voice reverberated in his skull like a fucking curse. He flinched, the name stinging in his head so fiercely it made his eyes water.

He needed answers, and he wasn’t going to find them in bed.

The dining room was empty. No breakfast. No mother. No trace of the previous night except the throbbing in his temples.

“Pipkin.” She appeared with a crack right in front of him.

“Master Draco!” she squeaked. “Is your head feeling alright? Pipkin left you many potions! She was knowing you would be hurting, but Master told her not to stop—”

“I’m fine,” Draco cut in, gently. “Thank you for the potions. Where’s my mother?”

“Mistress Malfoy is taking her lunch in the garden, sir.”

Lunch. Gods. He’d slept through breakfast.

“Thanks Pipkin. I’ll join her outside.”

She nodded so enthusiastically it made his head hurt more. “Right away!”

With another crack, she was gone.

Draco made his way to the garden, only slightly nauseated. The warming charms were already in place, the air was crisp but pleasant. His mother sat at a table overlooking her prized roses, one hand resting delicately on her teacup, the other idly twisting her ring.

“Good afternoon, darling,” Narcissa said, not even turning. “You had quite the night, didn’t you?”

She didn’t sound angry or disappointed, so maybe he hadn’t embarrassed himself that badly.

“Hello, mother.” He slid into the chair across from her. “Truthfully, I don’t remember much after—” His throat tightened. “After the Minister’s speech.”

She turned, her expression unreadable. “You mean after you chased Hermione when she left you alone on the dance floor?”

Brilliant. So he had embarrassed himself.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she added, tone softening. “No one noticed. Theodore and Pansy went after you, took you away. I didn’t see you again after that.”

He didn’t reply. He had nothing to say for himself.

Pipkin arrived with his lunch, and he ate like he hadn’t seen food in weeks. He only barely remembered going after Granger, like the memory was there but just barely out of reach.

Why had she left? Why leave in the middle of the gala that was, at least in part, celebrating her? Celebrating progress, the very thing she fought for.

And why, in Merlin’s name, did he care?

He needed his control back.

He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to like it when she said his name, or how her fingers had felt against his. He wasn’t supposed to be proud of her unforgiving take down of Astoria Greengrass. He wasn’t supposed to be entranced by her, and how golden she was.

He wasn’t. And he didn’t. That was the firewhiskey talking.

The firewhiskey and his terrible, meddling friends.

Pansy and Theo had a lot of explaining to do. Neville, too. And Ginevra and Blaise. Everyone seemed to be privy to what had been going on last night except for Draco. He hadn’t had any control over the situation and he’d hated it.

As though she was in his head, “They’re waiting for you in the basement,” Narcissa said, still watching the roses.

He looked up, mid-bite.

“They said to send you that way as soon as you’d eaten.”

He nodded, rose, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you, mother.”

Draco moved faster than he should have, considering his head was still splitting. He barreled into the study and found three of his traitorous friends waiting for him like a pack of smug kneazles.

Pansy was whispering something to Neville on the sofa. Theo was spinning lazily in Draco’s desk chair.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Theo chirped, grinning like a lunatic.

Draco had his wand out in an instant, pointed straight at Theo’s face.

Theo didn’t even flinch. Of course he didn’t.

“Someone had a rough night,” he said, sing-song.

“Draco,” Pansy began in that tone, “you can hex us all you want, but first, Neville has something to tell you.

Draco held Theo’s gaze a moment longer before turning—slowly, his head demanded it—to face Neville. Even the slight movement made him sway.

Neville’s mouth twitched. “The meet with Mortiferus is set. Tonight at the auction.”

Draco blinked. The rage fizzled into sudden, sharp focus.

“He agreed?”

Neville nodded. “Sent a charmed letter and it vanished after I read it. Said he’ll find us at midnight in the castle dungeons.”

A flood of something like relief hit Draco. Finally, a break. They were one step closer to finding Dolohov. One step closer to finding out what was really going on.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Now, can someone explain what the fuck happened last night?”

Neville glanced at Pansy. Theo cackled quietly from the chair.

Pansy smiled sweetly. “Hermione may have mentioned that she wanted to mess with your head for trying to poke around in hers.”

Draco’s jaw clenched.

“I may or may not have helped her figure out the best way to do it.”

His wand twitched.

“Theo, Neville, Blaise, and Ginny were all in on it,” she added quickly, hands raised. “And if it makes you feel better, she told me she doesn’t hate the idea of you two being friends anymore.”

He froze.

“What?”

Pride flared, absurd and unwelcome. He stamped it out immediately.

“She said she left because she felt guilty, Draco. She said she realized you weren’t as insufferable as she thought you were and couldn’t bear to mess with you any longer.”

Draco stared at her. His brain tried to keep up.

“She thought I was insufferable?” he said slowly. “She—”

But the words died on his tongue.

None of it had been real. She’d been playing him, pretending to be his friend to get even. He didn’t want to consider the implications of why that had affected him so much—or why Pansy’s stupid, idiotic plan had bloody well worked.

Granger was the insufferable one. And he certainly did not want to be her friend…

…right?

…

The auction party was held in a refurbished castle tucked behind charms so sophisticated it felt like the fortress itself didn’t want to be found. It had once belonged to a pureblood family long extinct, now resurrected as a neutral zone. A grey palace glittering with just enough decadence to make people forget they were doing business in the shadows.

Inside, the rooms bled gold. Low chandeliers cast soft light over towering vases filled with dark blooms, and waitstaff in enchantment-woven uniforms moved like ghosts. The air shimmered with glamour charms and expensive perfume. People here wore masks, even if they weren’t physical. The powerful, the dangerous, the desperate. They were all here.

This was no ordinary party—it was a front. An excuse for criminals, politicians, and reformed Death Eaters to brush shoulders without consequence. Favors were traded and secrets changed hands faster than galleons. The auction items were mostly irrelevant, just magical artefacts with dubious provenances and a cursed painting or two. It was the conversations in the corners that mattered.

Draco stood near the edge of the ballroom, drink in hand, his headache mercifully dulled by potions and adrenaline. From here, he could see Pansy gliding through the crowd like a duchess in her natural element. Every look she gave and every flick of her wrist was a transaction.

Neville, meanwhile, looked smooth and dangerous, clean cut in his tailored robes but with a stare that dared anyone to think he didn’t belong here. He leaned against a marble pillar, casually, exchanging low words with a foreign Ministry attache.

If Draco really considered him, Neville could be terrifying. The bravery and determination of a Gryffindor, but one that had finally stopped pretending they were playing fair.

And then, of course, his mind wandered.

Granger.

He’d been trying not to think about her all evening, but every glass of champagne made it worse. Her voice had been echoing in his head all day. Her laugh was there too, sharper than he remembered, and warmer too. He pictured her and the way she’d looked at him while they danced, the way her fingers had tightened against his shoulder, like maybe she hadn’t hated it—ike maybe she didn’t hate him.

That was the problem Draco was having. He’d remember all these things, and then remember that none of it had been real.

Pansy said she’d felt guilty and that she couldn’t go through with the game. But something nagged at Draco in the back of his mind. This was Hermione Granger. She couldn’t stop herself from fighting for the rights of house elves, even if they were free and paid, more than she could stop herself from breathing. What if getting back at Draco wasn’t her only goal?

He’d been thinking about it over and over, replaying their conversation, and the way she’d looked at him when he said he didn’t know what he wanted. There’d been a moment, a flicker of something in his chest, like she’d seen something in him he didn’t mean to show.

Like she knew.

Hadn’t she? He’d said as much—he’d asked her not to look at him like that, like she had seen something he didn’t.

That’s when it hit him.

Legilimency.

Draco stiffened, drink frozen halfway to his lips.

She’d been in his head, that had to be it. But how? He hadn’t felt a single thing except for the firewhiskey. There wasn’t a tug, no shift, not even the whisper of magic brushing past his mind. Draco should have noticed, he was trained—practiced, precise.

He felt a chill ripple through him, sudden and cold, despite the enchanted heat of the ballroom. Was that why she’d left?

Not because she felt guilty for playing him, but because she had found whatever she’d come looking for?

No. Draco would have felt it.

“Draco.” Theo’s voice cut through the noise like a spell. He clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder, his face more serious than usual. “It’s time.”

Draco blinked at him. “Where’s Neville?”

“He said he wouldn’t be joining us,” Theo said. “He didn’t want Mortiferus to see too many of us.”

Of course not, that made sense. Everything made sense and yet…

Draco tossed back the rest of his drink and it burned like truth.

He followed Theo into the dark, both of them donning masks to conceal their identities.

The castle’s lower levels were cold. He knew the dungeons had once housed much crueler things. He followed Theo through twisting corridors and stone staircases lit only by flickering torches. The deeper they went, the less sound there was—no other footsteps, no voices from the party above. It was like the castle had gone quiet to listen.

A voice cut through the stillness. It was smooth, unbothered, and foreign.

“You’re late.”

Draco froze. It wasn’t what he expected, although he wasn’t even sure what he had been expecting. Mortiferus was American and not gruff like some of the mercenaries he’d encountered from across the pond, but fluid, studied, and controlled.

Theo raised a brow. “Are you hiding in there for dramatic effect, or is this just your thing?”

A quiet chuckle echoed. “I haven’t gotten this far by letting everyone see my face. It’s hard to be an elusive assassin if everyone knows who you are.”

Draco stepped forward, trying to get a glimpse through the dark, but an enchantment had been laid across the threshold of the dungeon that kept him cloaked in shadow.

“How do we know you’re not a spy for the Ministry?” Draco said carefully.

“If the Ministry knew what this party was really about, you would not be a free man, Mr. Malfoy.”

Every nerve ending in Draco’s body began firing, immediately on high alert. “How the fuck do you know who I am?”

Mortiferus chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me. As is Mr. Nott’s. There was no way I was meeting Atrarius without knowing his true identity. Why do you think it took so long for me to reach out?”

Something in the man’s voice made Draco shiver. “How do we know we can trust you?”

“You don’t—but you can,” he said simply. Draco glanced at Theo, who just shrugged. It was too late now, Mortiferus knew, and their only options were to use him or kill him.

He couldn’t afford to kill him, not when he could get them Dolohov. He just had to hope it was the right call. “Right then. I trust I don’t need to tell you how sensitive the truth of my identity is.”

“Correct. Now, you requested this meeting. What is it that you want?”

Theo shot Draco a look, he took the cue.

“Antonin Dolohov. We need to know what he knows, and then he needs to be dealt with.” Draco said, voice clipped.

“That’s what I figured. First the explosion at your potion storehouse, next the Ministry raid on your distribution waypoint. I’m surprised you haven’t found him already. What makes you think I’d help you with that?”

“You agreed to this meeting.” Theo said. “Didn’t think it was just a tea party.”

Draco frowned. “How did you find out it was him?”

Another pause, then that voice again, casual and infuriatingly calm. “I’ve been following Dolohov’s movements for a while now, hoping he’d lead me to the rest of the Death Eaters. I didn’t realize he was tipping the Ministry off to your operations until I got word you wanted to meet. After that I just put two and two together.”

There was something off about Mortiferus and Draco just couldn’t place it.

“What do you want in return?” he asked finally.

“We’ll get to that,” the man said. “When I know what you’re worth.” Draco clenched his jaw. Before he could respond, Mortiferus added lightly, “By the way, Malfoy Manor is lovely. Your mother really knows how to throw a party.”

Draco and Theo shared an uneasy look. “You were at the gala?”

“Once I learned your identity, I had to see what I was getting myself into.” He said, very matter of fact.

It seemed like an idle comment but Draco stiffened. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, that something just wasn’t adding up. Before he could piece it together, the presence in the dark began to recede.

“Time’s up. You’ll hear from me soon.”

“Wait,” Draco said, stepping forward.

But there was nothing left. The darkness was gone and Draco could see the rest of the dungeon, empty and cold.

Theo let out a long breath. “Creepy bloke. Didn’t expect him to make me feel so uneasy.”

Draco didn’t answer. His thoughts were elsewhere, everything felt so out of his control. Mortiferus already knew what they’d wanted and who they were, why meet with them at all? He held all the cards and Draco was just at his mercy.

His mind returned to the moment before Theo came to get him.

Granger hadn’t been using her Occlumency, and that was the trick—along with everything else that happened last night. He’d been so thoroughly disarmed he wouldn’t have noticed her getting in. His stomach turned.

“Fuck.”

Theo glanced at him, concern etched into his features. “What?”

Draco didn’t respond. If she had been in his head and he hadn’t even felt it…what all had she seen?

Chapter Text

Draco had gone to the Ministry every day since the auction party, desperate to find Granger. If she had really managed to get inside his head, then there was no telling what she saw. He had existed in a sheer panic since he abandoned Theo in the dungeons without bothering to tell him what was going on.

He found himself hoping—both irrationally and stupidly—that if she had seen anything, it was only the surface chaos. His exhaustion with politics and his general irritation at her confusing existence.

That was manageable.

If she’d seen more, if she’d looked too closely, if she’d caught even a glimpse of what he was actually hiding…

Draco didn’t let himself finish the thought. He wouldn’t survive that. She wouldn’t let him.

She would never understand. She would take one look at Draco Malfoy, Prince of Darkness, and be unable to comprehend that it was her suffering that made him—his refusal to ever do nothing again. He’d be in Azkaban before he’d even realized what happened.

But Granger had been conveniently unavailable. Her home almost appeared to be a barren wasteland—no movement, no lights and she was never at the Ministry when he stopped by her office. He was certain Susan Bones believed him to be some sort of unhinged fanatic with how frenzied he’d been in his insistence to see her.

Draco was pacing now, like everything would implode if he stopped trying to find her.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to burn a hole through my rug.” Pansy said dryly. “It’s Persian."

Draco scoffed.

“I’ll buy you another one, Pansy.” Draco snapped, running a hand through his hair. “We have bigger problems than your rug being ruined.”

Pansy hadn’t looked up from the documents she was sifting through at her desk. “Are you finally going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Draco considered it for a moment, before turning to face her. “I think Hermione got inside my head at the Magical Heritage gala.”

Pansy smirked. She should be panicking at the possibility of what that would mean for them, for the Tenebrae Arcanum, but she was just smirking.

“You called her Hermione.”

Draco blinked. “No I didn’t.”

“You did.”

And then he lost it.

“What does it matter what I called her!?” Draco was pacing again. “Did you not hear what I said? If she knows who I really am, then we are completely fucked.”

When Draco looked at her again, she was back to whatever she was working on.

Unbelievable.

“Pansy!” he barked.

She gave him a look. “She did not get inside your head.”

He glared back at her. “How could you possibly know that?”

She shrugged. “I saw her yesterday and everything was totally normal.”

That meant nothing, especially when it was Hermione Granger they were talking about. Every day she surprised him, and every day it became harder to hold onto the version of her he’d kept in his head for years.

“She could be pretending. She could have already told Potter and they could be building a case against us right now. As we speak.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, clearly unperturbed.

“When have you ever known Hermione to be a good actress?” she asked. “If she knew the truth, there’s no way she’d be able to act like my best friend wasn’t running a criminal empire.”

Draco was struggling to accept what Pansy said as fact. He’d spent years seeing Granger only through the lens of her disgust for him. It had been easier to reduce her to the parts that hated him. Easier to ignore everything else. Until the gala, when it all shifted.

“What if that’s just what she wants everyone to think? It’s the perfect cover. No one suspects you being able to play it cool if you’ve only ever shown people that you can’t.” Pansy just blinked at him.

“Draco, honey—I think you’re being a little paranoid.” Her tone was soft, the same one she used when she thought Draco was behaving like a child.

He rubbed a hand down his face in frustration. “It had to be Legilimency, there’s no way—” His voice cracked.

Pansy was smirking again. “There’s no way that maybe Hermione realized she didn’t hate you and she freaked out just as much as you did when you realized you enjoyed being with her like that at the gala?”

She laughed, as if this wasn’t a serious thing at all. “Honestly, Draco, I said you two would be a perfect match for a reason.”

He needed a drink. Several drinks.

Draco was sure it was Legilimency, it had to be. There had to be a bigger picture here than just Granger playing into what Pansy had told her. Otherwise, the alternative forced Draco to consider things he wasn’t ready to face.

One thing was certain, Pansy was no help. “Where are Theo and Blaise?”

Pansy spun around in her chair to file away the paperwork she’d been working on. “No idea where Theo is. Blaise is with Adrian finding new ways to blow things up.”

Draco turned on his heel, moments away from Disapparating, when the bright light of a patronus came bounding into Pansy’s study. It was Neville’s lion.

“Dolohov is dead. They found his body outside of Hogsmeade.”

Draco heard Pansy let out a soft gasp. Mortiferus had made quick work of it. He’d hoped that would be the case considering he’d already been on Dolohov’s tail.

Draco needed to see it with his own eyes.

He held out his arm. Pansy didn’t hesitate. She rose and slipped her fingers into his.

With a sharp crack, they vanished.

They landed on the outskirts of Hogsmeade with a crack that was lost beneath the noise.

It was chaos.

The sleepy village looked like a war zone, late winter frost still clinging to the cobblestones as cloaked figures swarmed the streets. Aurors were everywhere, barking orders, setting perimeter wards, and pushing back gathering onlookers with charmed barriers that glowed faintly in the afternoon light.

“Bloody hell,” Pansy murmured beside him.

Draco said nothing. He was already scanning the crowd, letting instinct pull him towards the source of the tension. That’s when he spotted Potter and Weasley, flanked by two unfamiliar Aurors just beyond a stone fence. They were talking in low voices near the treeline.

That had to be where the body was.

Draco broke from the footpath, ignoring Pansy’s quiet, urgent warning.

“Malfoy,” Potter’s voice rang out the moment he saw him approaching, all clipped authority and thinly veiled surprise. He stepped forward, wand already in hand, not pointed but not far from it either. “You can’t be here.”

Draco didn’t stop. “I need to see him.”

“You’re not an Auror, Malfoy. I can’t let you into an active crime scene.” Weasley was watching him from Potter’s side, hand gripping his wand so tight his fingers were white.

“He tortured me,” Draco snapped, sharper than he meant to. “And my mother. All throughout the war. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

Potter hesitated. For a moment, his eyes flicked to Pansy behind him, then to Weasley, but something in Draco’s voice must have struck him, because after a beat, he gave a reluctant nod.

“Stay inside the charm,” he said. “And don’t touch anything.” Weasley started sputtering next to him, face red, but Potter was already pulling him away.

The barrier shimmered as Draco stepped through.

The charm muffled sound on the other side. It was quiet here, unnaturally so. The frost was untouched, and there, leaning against the thick base of a tree at the forest’s edge, was Dolohov.

He almost didn’t look dead.

Slumped like he’d simply sat down and closed his eyes, one arm stretched across his lap, head tilted back against the bark. But the word carved into his forehead told a different story.

Mortiferus.

Draco stared at the letters, clean and deliberate, the skin still raw around them. Draco felt a tight satisfaction curling low in his chest.

Dolohov was a monster. He deserved worse, but he was finally dead.

And yet…

“Why here?” Draco murmured aloud. Hogsmeade didn’t make any sense. Dolohov had to have been operating out of the darker fringes of the world and the Tenebrae Arcanum houses he’d been seen around weren’t anywhere near here.

He wondered if Mortiferus had brought him here, or if he had found him here.

Draco stepped back through the charm just as Potter turned away to speak with another Auror, Weasley nowhere to be found. The sounds of the village returned like a rush of cold wind. He looked around, half-expecting Pansy to have grown bored and wandered off, but he found her nearby, standing not with any stranger, but his mother.

“Mother,” he said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

Narcissa turned toward him slowly, all poise despite the chaos. She clutched a wrapped parcel in one gloved hand.

“I was shopping,” she said simply. “The apothecary here carries a tincture I can’t find anywhere else. Then the Aurors began to arrive, and I…” She glanced toward the forest. “I thought it best to stay and see what all the commotion was for.”

Draco frowned. The timing was too precise. His mother didn’t leave Wiltshire unless she had to.

“Why not send Pipkin?” Draco asked.

“I normally do,” she said, still glancing at the forest. “But today I just needed some fresh air—to get out of the Manor.”

She turned to Draco, eyes narrowing as she took in his expression. “Did you see him?”

Draco nodded once. “He’s dead.”

A brief wave of satisfaction washed over his mother’s features.

He stood beside his mother and Pansy, as he watched the Aurors fan out, casting tracking spells that he knew would turn up nothing. Mortiferus didn’t make mistakes like that.

Just before he was going to share his concern at the timing between Dolohov’s death and his mother’s rare departure from Wilshire, something shifted in the air. There was a subtle, yet specific, flicker at the edge of his magic. It was unfamiliar, something he’d never felt before.

It wasn’t a spell, just a tug, a thread pulling taut, brushing against something in his core that no one else seemed to feel.

Draco stiffened. The pull strengthened, warm and humming low in his bones. This was a summons, and it was just for him.

“I have to go,” he said suddenly, turning to Pansy and his mother, both glancing at where he’d just been looking.

“Absolutely not,” Narcissa said at once.

“Draco,” Pansy reached for his robes. “Don’t be stupid. We’ll come with you.”

But Draco was already stepping back. “No. I need to go alone.”

He didn’t wait for their protests. He turned and walked towards the trees.

The pull guided him through the edges of the forest, deeper into the shadows where winter still clung to the branches and the air was sharp with magic. He walked until even the sounds of the village vanished behind him.

The air shimmered, the same enchantment Mortiferus had used in the dungeons, blocking his view.

“Nice of you to answer the call,” came the low, calm voice.

Draco didn’t hesitate. “Did you bring him here or did you follow him here?”

Mortiferus confirmed his growing fear. “I followed him. From Wiltshire.”

“And you didn’t think to let me know he was following my mother?” Draco hissed.

“It was the first time he’d ever shown any interest in your mother. That’s why I killed him here, so he couldn’t accomplish whatever it was he’d been sent to do.”

A chill crawled up Draco’s spine.

“Sent?” Draco faltered. “What did you find out?”

Mortiferus’ tone turned dark. “He was merely a pawn, answering to a much darker force.” A pause. “He said something was coming, something we can’t stop—that it's already begun.”

Draco’s stomach tightened. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know yet. But I intend to find out.”

There was a rustle behind him. Draco spun around.

Four figures stepped into view, silent and masked.

Not the traditional silver masks of the Dark Lord’s inner circle. These were different—blackened bone, elongated and twisted like nightmare visages. These weren’t just designed to conceal the wearer's identity, they were designed to terrify.

Death Eaters. Or whatever new version of them that had been bred.

Draco reached for his wand. One of them raised theirs in response, but before Draco could take a step forward, Mortiferus pulled him, shoving him hard and pinning him to a tree with an arm across his chest. His enchantment in the air was beginning to fade slowly.

“Stay down.” He commanded, his voice a snarl.

Draco fought back. “I think you’re forgetting who I am.”

But Mortiferus didn’t care. He shoved him hard, and turned fast, shielding Draco’s body with his own.

Then he moved.

It was chaos—and it was beautiful.

Mortiferus was on them before the first curse left their lips. He moved low and fast, kicking up dirt as he slid into a crouch and hurled a knife upward into one’s thigh, dropping them with a shout. Before they could recover, he was already throwing curses, deflecting every spell that came his way.

Another Death Eater caught a slicing curse across their mask that cracked it down the middle, but he did not fall.

Draco pushed off the tree, wand raised. “Confr—”

Mortiferus threw a wild elbow behind him, slamming into Draco’s shoulder and forcing him back down.

“I told you to stay down!” he growled.

He didn’t wait to see if Draco listened. He turned and caught a curse on his arm, rolled with the impact, and threw something from beneath his sleeve. It was a small, silver orb that hit the ground and exploded in a violent burst of smoke and ash. One of the Death Eaters screamed as the smoke clung to their skin and began to burn.

Draco nearly flinched. He’d never seen that kind of magic.

Mortiferus rose out of the smoke untouched, his shadow illuminated by the cursed flames he’d conjured behind him, and sent a bone-breaking hex at a Death Eater that hadn’t moved fast enough. There was a wet crunch and the Death Eater dropped.

The others faltered as shouts signalling the arrival of the Aurors filtered through the chaos.

The Death Eaters didn’t hesitate, they Disapparated without a word, taking their wounded soldiers with them.

The enchantment masking the glade had finally dropped completely, falling like mist around them. Mortiferus stood still for a moment, chest heaving, fingers twitching like he wanted to throw another curse or knife just to be sure they were gone.

Draco could see him clearly. Just a man in a mask.

Mortiferus turned his head slightly, just enough to look back at him. And then with a sharp crack he vanished.

The forest was still again, the shouting from the Aurors getting louder as they approached. Draco was bruised where he’d been slammed into the tree, his heart pounding. He was utterly stunned.

Draco was a formidable duellist, years of practice having shaped him, but Mortiferus—that was art.

Draco snapped out of the haze as he remembered what the man had said.

His mother.

But before Draco could get out of the clearing, Potter appeared, his wand raised.

“Malfoy?” he called out, stepping forward.

Draco stood stiffly, still braced against the tree where Mortiferus had thrown him.

Potter slowly lowered his wand. “What happened here?”

Draco glanced around as if just realizing where he was. There was no sign of the fight. No scorch marks, no smoke, no blood. Not even a broken branch.

“Nothing,” he said simply.

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “We heard shouting. Spells. What the hell do you mean ‘nothing’?

Draco didn’t flinch. “I needed to blow off steam.”

Potter frowned. “Blow off steam?”

“I told you what he did. Seeing his body brought up a lot of painful memories.” Draco kept his voice steady and low. “I just needed to let something out—where no one could get hurt.”

The Aurors were watching him, one took a cautious step forward. Potter’s eyes flicking toward the untouched forest floor. But he didn’t say anything.

“Draco!’ Pansy’s voice rang out through the trees.

She arrived first, heels sinking into the soft ground, face flushed and furious. “You absolute idiot, you didn't even wait for us!”

Narcissa followed close behind, pale and regal as ever. Her gaze passed over Draco once, eyes searching for signs of injury. When she saw none, she turned to Potter.

“Is there a problem here?”

“No,” Draco said quickly, before Potter could open his mouth. “I was just leaving.”

Pansy stepped between them, looping her arm through Draco’s. “Come on. Neville’s waiting for us, let’s get out of this freezing forest. We’ve had enough drama for one day.”

Draco let Pansy pull him away, even as he felt Potter’s eyes linger on the back of his head.

He didn’t look back. His mind was already somewhere else, with a masked man who didn’t fight like any wizard Draco had ever seen.

Draco’s jaw clenched. His mother was a target, and whatever was coming, had already begun.

…

Draco paced in front of the living room hearth, every movement sharp and impatient. Pansy was seated languidly on one of the high-backed armchairs, watching Narcissa with quiet dread. His mother stood like a statue near the window—spine stiff, chin lifted in quiet defiance.

“You’re not leaving the manor,” Draco said again, his voice clipped. “Not until we know what’s going on.”

Narcissa turned slowly, her eyes cold. “You would lock me in my own home like a prisoner?”

“I would keep you safe,” Draco said through clenched teeth.

“I have never been a woman in need of guarding.”

“Well, you are now,” he said. “Dolohov was in Hogsmeade. Do you think that’s a coincidence, that he was there the one time you decided to make that trip yourself?”

Her lips thinned, but she said nothing.

“This wasn’t random. You know what kind of people we are dealing with.”

“You think I’m a target?” she asked, voice low.

“I think we are very publicly in support of reform. A disgrace to the pureblood name of Malfoy,” he paused, a dangerous edge to his voice. “I think they’ll stop at nothing until we’re dead.” That finally seemed to silence her.

Before she could respond, they heard the distant sound of the Manor’s main floo. Moments later, Theo, Blaise, and Neville came striding in.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Theo said. “Is it true?”

“That Dolohov is dead? Yes,” Draco said.

Theo grinned wolfishly.

“Bloody hell,” Blaise muttered.

Narcissa swept past them without a word, her robes hissing against the marble floor. Draco made no move to stop her. Pansy raised an eyebrow at him as she rose from her seat. “Well. That went well.”

“She’ll sulk,” he muttered. “Let her. The only thing that matters is that she’s safe.”

Theo dropped into a nearby chair. “Tell us everything.”

Draco launched into it—Dolohov’s body outside hogsmeade, the forest, Mortiferus waiting for him under another bloody enchantment, the warning, the Death Eaters, the Aurors nearly catching them.

“Wait, wait, he fought four Death Eaters by himself?” Blaise said. “And kept you from helping?”

Draco scowled. “I tried. He shoved me against a tree every time I moved.”

Theo cleared his throat. “Are you sure Dolohov was after your mother?”

Draco sighed, “Yes. Mortiferus confirmed it.” Anger swept across Theo’s face.

“Did he say anything else about what was coming?” Blaise asked.

Draco shook his head. “No. Apparently Dolohov chose to keep that to himself before he died.”

“What did Potter say?” Theo asked, his eyes searching Draco’s.

“He just asked what happened, I played it off.” Draco shrugged.

“Did he believe you?”

“He didn’t not believe me.”

Neville chimed in. “I was at the Ministry checking in after I got word about Dolohov when Pansy sent for me, I saw Harry and Hermione. He didn’t mention you, just that Dolohov was dead and that we’d probably read about it in the Prophet.”

Draco straightened. “Granger was there? You saw her?”

Neville looked confused. He saw a protest forming on Pansy’s lips out of the corner of his eye. “Yes. Although she said she was heading home for the day.”

Draco was going to get some fucking answers.

“Where are you going?” Pansy asked as he stormed past her. The rest of his friends confused and clearly out of the loop.

“To see Granger,” he snapped. “She’s going to talk to me whether she bloody wants to or not.”

“Draco—” Pansy began.

But he was already gone, the crack of his apparition echoing like a warning shot.

He landed right in front of her home. Draco felt very unwelcome standing in front of the gate to Granger’s estate, but he didn’t care. He stood there at the boundary, pacing like a caged thing, his wand glowing faintly at his side.

“Granger!” he shouted, his voice bouncing off the invisible wards.

No response. He tried getting through the wards but it was no use. Of course not, they were hers.

“Granger!” He shouted again, growing impatient. “Get out here! Unless you’re too busy poking around in someone else’s head!”

There was a loud creak, the manor’s front door opening, and there she was, storming down the long pathway like she meant to hex him back to Wiltshire.

She didn’t bother opening the gate. She just stood on her side of the boundary, arms crossed, eyes empty.

“You’ve lost your mind, Malfoy,” she said cooly.

“And you’re a bloody hypocrite,” Draco hissed. “You used Legilimency on me at the gala.”

She at least had the sense to look offended. “I did not,” she ground out. “I wouldn’t. The whole point was to get back at you for doing that to me!”

“You’re lying!” he barked.

“I’m not. You caught on to my Occlumency, yes, but I am not a trained Legilimens.” She let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice sharp—his restraint hanging on by a thread. “Why else would you have behaved so,” he searched for the words, “so un-Granger like?”

“I thought…” she exhaled, like the words tasted bitter, “maybe we could try being friends.”

“Friends?” He laughed harshly. “Friends don’t play each other like that.”

A lie—his friends did. Yet, somehow it was so much worse when Granger had done it.

She took a step forward. “Are you really standing there, outside of my home, upset about something you claim I did!?” She was seething. “You, of all people, Malfoy, acting offended like you’ve somehow forgotten how cruel and vile you used to be towards me.”

He flinched like she’d slapped him. She saw it, and for a moment her expression faltered, but then it steeled again—always fucking unreadable when he needed her not to be.

“I apologized to you. I tried to make amends,” he ground out. The walls in his mind were shaking with guilt.

She scoffed. “No you didn’t. You pretended to care about making amends as an excuse to do the very thing you’re here accusing me of!”

He could practically feel her Occlumency at work. There was a pressure he could see behind her eyes, her emotions flattened and her rage expertly controlled.

“The Granger I know wouldn’t have played me like that!” he yelled.

“The Granger you know?!” she laughed, almost manically. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Malfoy, only the things you think you’ve seen.”

He glared at her.

“Have you stopped to ask yourself why it bothered you so much?” she placed a hand on her hip defiantly. “You could have just walked away from me. You could have sat somewhere else. You could have chosen not to dance with me.”

He didn’t respond and the silence stretched between them. For someone who claimed not to be a Legilimens, she seemed to have a pretty good idea of what he was thinking.

Except he definitely wasn’t thinking that—he was sure it was Legilimency.

She shifted, just slightly, and he could have sworn he saw her wince. It was small, barely perceptible—a flicker of discomfort as she adjusted her arm.

He blinked. He watched her closely but she didn’t move. He must have imagined it. He opened his mouth to say something but she beat him to it.

“You should go,” she said. “You’ve gotten what you came for.”

He scoffed. “Have I?”

“You came to yell. You yelled. Mission accomplished.”

“No, I came for the truth,” he bit back.

“And you got it. You just don’t want to accept it,” she countered.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she turned away before he could speak. Her hair caught the light like a curtain of fire. She didn’t look back as she walked up the path and disappeared into the house again.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the closed gate. The version of Granger he’d built in his mind—easy to understand and easy to ignore—was falling apart. And he didn’t like what that meant.