softone-ao3

[softone-ao3]

Chapter 6: Scarlet Trails and Hidden Ties

The air was sharp with the chill of early morning as Hermione and Malfoy approached the meeting point, a narrow alleyway tucked between two decrepit buildings. Shadows clung to the brick walls, and the faint glow of a lantern flickered at the far end, revealing the silhouette of their contact. Hermione was getting rather tired of freezing her arse off continuously in the early winter days.

“Charming,” Malfoy muttered, his boots scraping softly against the cobblestones. “I always dreamed of starting my mornings in a place that smells like despair.”

Hermione shot him a warning look, though her lips tugged upward in a barely suppressed smile. “Focus. We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”

Malfoy shrugged, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes sharpened as they stepped closer. The man waiting for them was wiry, with darting eyes that reminded Hermione of a cornered rat. His hand hovered near the pocket of his cloak, and his stance screamed paranoia.

“You’re late,” the man hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Malfoy replied smoothly, slipping easily into the role of a detached, confident operative. “Let’s not waste time.” 

Hermione wondered just how long he'd had to perfect this role. Focus.

The man’s eyes narrowed, flitting between them. “You sure you’re not Ministry?”

Malfoy scoffed, his expression twisting into something almost offended. “Do I look like I’m interested in propping up their little regime? Get on with it, or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

Hermione felt her pulse quicken as the man’s gaze lingered on her. She schooled her features into indifference, letting her partner's words fill the silence. But when the contact turned to her, she forced herself to speak, her voice cool and clipped.

“You think the Ministry would trust someone like me?” She gestured at herself with a sardonic smile. “I’m here because I know my way around these circles, not because I have any love for authority.”

Laid it on too thick. A quick glance to Malfoy told her as much. She squared her shoulders subtly.

The man grunted, seemingly placated, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “You’ll be working separately for this one,” he said abruptly. “Two parts of the job, two of you. Keeps it clean.”

Hermione’s stomach sank, but she kept her expression neutral. Beside her, Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Separate tasks? That wasn’t the arrangement.”

“It is now,” the man snapped. “You, Malfoy”—he jabbed a finger toward Malfoy—“you’ll head to the warehouse on Gibbins Lane. Handle the exchange with our supplier. And you—” He turned to Hermione, his eyes narrowing. “You’ll take this.”

He pulled a small, nondescript box from his cloak and handed it to her. The moment Hermione touched it, her fingers tingled with the unmistakable buzz of cursed magic. “Deliver it to the tavern on Finch Street. Ask for Lyle. He’ll know what to do.”

Malfoy shot her a glance, his grey eyes no doubt calculating whether protesting again was worth the risk. “Splitting us up seems counterproductive,” he drawled, though there was an edge to his voice.

“It’s how it’s done,” the man said curtly. “Unless you’d rather walk away.”

Hermione didn’t miss the flicker of tension in Malfoy's posture, but he nodded once. “Fine. We'll see you when it's done.”

"You'll report to Barrett when you're done."

As the contact disappeared into the shadows, Hermione turned to Malfoy, lowering her voice. “This is a bad idea.”

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll be fine, Granger. Try not to trip over your righteous indignation while you’re at it.”

“Helpful,” she muttered, but the box in her hands felt heavier with every passing moment. “Just don’t mess this up.”

Malfoy gave her a lazy salute before heading off down the alley, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the cursed object.

The cursed box pulsed faintly in Hermione’s hands as she approached the dimly lit tavern. Each step felt like a calculated risk, the cobblestones beneath her boots uneven and slick from last night’s rain. The familiar tingling of magic danced across her palms, a silent warning that the artifact she carried was far from benign. She forced herself to breathe evenly, rehearsing her cover story in her mind, but the unease growing in her chest was harder to ignore.

The tavern loomed ahead, a squat and grimy structure tucked into the corner of a narrow street. Light spilled out from the cracks in the shutters, and muffled voices drifted through the damp air. Hermione squared her shoulders and stepped inside, bracing for what awaited her.

The interior was as uninviting as the exterior. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of spilled firewhisky, and the patrons—rough-looking witches and wizards hunched over their drinks—barely glanced her way. Hermione made her way to the bar, where a hulking man stood cleaning glasses with a rag that did more smearing than polishing. His dark eyes flicked toward her, assessing, and she noted the jagged scar slashing across his cheek.

“I’m looking for Lyle,” she said, her voice steady despite the growing tension in her chest.

The barkeep didn’t respond immediately. His gaze dropped to the box in her hands, lingering for a beat too long before he jerked his head toward the back. “Wait there.”

Hermione nodded and moved to the indicated table, her footsteps muffled by the sticky floorboards. She slid into the chair with her back to the wall, scanning the room as subtly as possible. The box on the table in front of her seemed to hum faintly, a vibration she could feel in her bones.

She cast a surreptitious diagnostic spell beneath the table, the wand movements small and controlled. The response was immediate—a web of layered enchantments sprang into her mind’s eye, glowing faintly as the magic responded to her probing. The artifact was cursed, as she expected, but it was worse than she’d feared. The layers of magic were designed to detect tampering, and the curse was reactive—explosive, in fact.

“Perfect,” she muttered under her breath, clenching her jaw.

Moments later, a man emerged from the shadows. He was wiry, with sharp features and a predatory glint in his eyes. He approached the table without a word, his gaze flicking between Hermione and the box.

“Lyle?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

The man nodded and gestured toward the box. “Let me see it.”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edges of the artifact. Every instinct screamed that something was wrong, but she forced herself to play along. She slid the box toward him, careful to keep her expression neutral.

Lyle reached for it, but the moment his fingers brushed the surface, the box emitted a sharp, high-pitched whine. Hermione’s heart plummeted as she felt the curse activate.

“Stop!” she hissed, snatching the box back before the magic could escalate further.

Lyle froze, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “What the hell are you doing?”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. Her mind raced as she held the box close, the vibrations intensifying against her skin. The curse wasn’t just defensive—it was adaptive. It had keyed itself to her touch, and any interference from another person would trigger it.

“They didn’t tell me it was keyed,” she said, keeping her voice low and even. “Do you have any idea what this thing will do if you try to force it?”

Lyle’s expression darkened. “That’s not my problem. Hand it over.”

“Not unless you want this place to go up in flames,” Hermione snapped, her patience wearing thin. She placed the box carefully on the table, her wand slipping into her hand beneath her cloak. “Give me a minute to stabilize it.”

The other patrons were beginning to notice the tension. A few glanced their way, murmuring to each other, and Hermione knew she didn’t have long before someone decided to intervene. She closed her eyes briefly, focusing on the curse’s intricate layers.

It was like unraveling a spider’s web—one wrong move, and the whole thing would collapse. Hermione’s fingers moved in delicate, precise motions as she cast counter-curses under her breath, sweat beading on her forehead.

“What’s taking so long?” Lyle demanded, his voice sharp.

“Do you want to die?” Hermione shot back, her wand hand steady despite the strain.

The magic resisted her efforts, surging against her counter-spell with an almost sentient malice. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, using the pain to ground herself. She adjusted her spellwork, focusing on the curse’s weakest point.

The room seemed to hold its breath as the hum of the box grew louder. For a terrifying moment, Hermione thought she’d made a mistake. The enchantments pulsed violently, the box vibrating against the table as if it might explode.

Then, with a final flick of her wand, the curse settled. The vibrations ceased, and the box went still.

Hermione exhaled shakily, her hand dropping to her side. She met Lyle’s gaze with a glare. “There. It’s stable. You can take it now—but if you botch the handoff, it’s on you.”

Lyle grunted, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, but he reached for the box and slid it into his cloak. “You better hope this doesn’t come back to bite you,” he muttered before turning and disappearing into the shadows.

Hermione didn’t move for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. The lingering traces of the curse’s magic still buzzed in her fingertips, a stark reminder of how close she’d come to disaster.

She stood abruptly, drawing her cloak tighter around herself as she headed for the exit. She didn’t let herself relax until she was several streets away, the cold air biting at her cheeks.

“Too close,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. But there was no time to dwell on the close call.

*****

The alley was suffocatingly silent, broken only by the occasional shuffle of Barrett’s boots on the cobblestones. Hermione had been waiting for what felt like hours, though her watch claimed it had only been twenty minutes. She hated being here alone, hated the way Barrett loomed nearby, watching her with eyes that missed nothing.

She forced herself to stay still, her back straight and hands folded neatly in front of her. Eva Blake wouldn’t fidget. Eva Blake wouldn’t be nervous.

But Barrett wasn’t making it easy.

“Your partner’s late,” he muttered, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Hermione didn’t flinch, though her stomach twisted at the implication. “He’ll be here,” she said coolly, tilting her head just enough to feign confidence.

Barrett smirked, the expression sharp and unpleasant. “You sound sure of that. Hope you’re right. Not everyone survives this kind of job, you know.”

Hermione’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she refused to let it show. Instead, she quirked an eyebrow and offered him a tight smile. “Draco Malfoy isn’t ‘everyone.’”

Barrett studied her for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing. “We’ll see.”

The minutes dragged on. Hermione was careful to keep her breathing steady, her face impassive. Inside, her thoughts spiraled. Where was Malfoy? Had something gone wrong? Was he... No. Stop spiraling. Stay in character.

Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the mouth of the alley. Hermione turned her head sharply, her relief quickly replaced by shock as Malfoy stepped into view.

He was a mess. His cloak was torn, one sleeve shredded entirely. His hair, usually immaculate, was matted with dirt and something darker. And then there was the blood. It smeared across his jaw, streaked down his neck, and soaked into the fabric of his shirt beneath his cloak.

Hermione’s breath hitched before she caught herself, forcing her expression to remain neutral. Barrett was still watching her—watching both of them.

“About time,” Barrett said, his tone dripping with disdain. “What the hell happened to you?”

Malfoy didn’t answer immediately. He stopped a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, scanning the alley. When he finally looked at Barrett, his expression was pure Malfoy—aloof and unimpressed.

“Had to take care of a complication,” he said smoothly, his voice steady despite the tension in his frame. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Barrett barked a laugh, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “Complications, huh? You better hope there’s not another one where you’re going.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, fighting the urge to glance at Malfoy again. She couldn’t react—not here, not now. Barrett’s eyes were on her, and Eva Blake wouldn’t care if her partner showed up covered in blood.

Still, her stomach churned as she caught the faint coppery scent of it in the air.

“You’re late,” Barrett continued, his tone sharp. “And that means we’re behind schedule. Let’s move.”

Malfoy gave a single nod, falling into step beside Hermione as Barrett turned and led them deeper into the alley.

Barrett stopped at a dead end, where the faint shimmer of magical wards marked the edge of their meeting point. He reached into his robes and pulled out two folded pieces of parchment, handing one to Malfoy and one to Hermione.

“You’ll be working separately for the next week and a half,” Barrett said, his voice brusque. “Malfoy, you’re shadowing a potential ally—he’s likely a rat, tied to the Ministry‘s lot, but we’re not sure how deep. Your job is to find out.”

Malfoy unfolded the parchment, his expression unreadable as he scanned the details.

“Blake,” Barrett continued, turning to her. “You’ll be retrieving these.” He gestured to the parchment in her hand.

Hermione unfolded it and felt her heart sink. The list was long and terrifyingly specific—dark artifacts she recognized from her time in the war. Some of them were notorious for the destruction they had caused. Others were obscure enough that finding them would take every ounce of her resourcefulness.

“Some of these artifacts haven't been seen since the First Wizarding War. What if I can’t retrieve all of them?” Hermione asked, keeping her tone level.

Barrett smirked. “Then you’d better hope you’re good at hiding.”

"One and a half weeks isn't enough to guarantee for my success."

"If you're unable to obtain everything on this list by then, you're not skilled enough for Mulciber to have use for you."

Hermione bristled at that.

Malfoy stepped forward, angling his body in front of hers, his voice cutting through the tension. “We’ll get it done,” he said, his tone sharp and final. “You’ll have what you need.”

Barrett didn’t look convinced, but he waved them off with a curt gesture. “Don’t screw it up.”

The moment they turned the corner out of sight from Barrett’s meeting point, Hermione stepped in front of Malfoy, blocking his path.

“What the hell happened to you?” she demanded in a fierce whisper, her eyes darting to the blood streaking his collar and soaking his shirt.

Malfoy shook his head, brushing past her. “Not here.”

“We’re alone!”

“No, we’re not,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp. “You think Mulciber’s people aren’t watching? Or Barrett’s? Keep your voice down.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she fell into step beside him as they walked briskly down the street. His pace was uneven, and now that she looked closer, there was a slight sway in his step, as though he were fighting to stay upright.

“You’re injured,” she said, her tone softer but no less firm.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Still fine,” he muttered, though his words lacked conviction.

Hermione felt her frustration mounting. She glanced around, her eyes scanning for any signs of Barrett’s associates. “Come to my house. You need to clean up before someone—”

“No,” he cut her off, his tone cold and final. “I’ll manage.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, Malfoy's foot caught on an uneven cobblestone, and he stumbled. He caught himself against a lamppost, hissing in pain as his hand came away slick with blood.

“Malfoy!”

“I said I’m fine,” he growled, though his pallor and the way he swayed told a different story.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She stepped closer, grabbed his arm, and gripped it tightly. “You’re not fine, and you’re going to draw attention. We’re going to my house—now.”

He pulled back, but the motion nearly unbalanced him again. “Gra-Blake, don’t—”

“Too late,” she snapped. Before he could argue further, she twisted on the spot and Apparated them both to the front garden of her cottage.

The moment they landed, Malfoy pulled free of her grip, staggering slightly before catching himself on the gate.

“Warn me next time,” he bit out, glaring at her.

Hermione ignored him, stepping ahead to open the door. “Get inside before someone sees you.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his pride clearly warring with his common sense, before he followed her in. The moment the door closed behind him, Hermione spun on her heel and pointed to the nearest chair.

“Sit,” she ordered.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at her, but the effect was diminished by the blood trickling from a cut near his temple. “I don’t take orders, Granger.”

“You’re in my house, and you’re dripping blood on my floor,” she shot back. “Sit down, or I’ll make you sit.”

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, but he dropped into the nearest armchair with a weary groan.

Hermione barely spared him a glance as she summoned a small wooden box from the corner of the room and grabbed a nearby stack of towels. She set the items down on the coffee table in front of him.

“A Muggle first aid kit, Granger?” he drawled, his lips curling into a faint smirk despite the dried blood streaking his jaw. “I’m touched by your faith in modern wizarding medicine.”

“You’re lucky I don’t just dump a bottle of disinfectant on you and call it a day,” she snapped, yanking out a pair of gloves. “Now shut up and let me work. If you move, I’ll bind you to the chair.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, but she’d already moved in, cutting his ruined shirt open with a small pair of scissors. The sarcastic quip died on his lips as she surveyed the damage.

There was a deep gash across his side, still sluggishly bleeding, and several smaller cuts along his arms and chest. A purpling bruise stretched from his temple to his cheekbone, and she didn’t even want to think about what might be hidden beneath his ribs.

“We should go to St. Mungo’s” she muttered under her breath, grabbing a sterile gauze pad and pressing it firmly to the worst of the wounds.

Malfoy hissed sharply but didn’t flinch away. “Because showing up at a hospital covered in blood with my last name is such a great idea,” he bit out. “I'm sure that wouldn't raise questions at all."

Hermione rolled her eyes, peeling the gauze away and reaching for a bottle of antiseptic. “Fine. Hold still.”

The sting of the antiseptic made him suck in a sharp breath, his knuckles white as he gripped the arm of the chair. “Merlin’s sake, woman—”

“Oh, stop whining,” Hermione said briskly, tossing the gauze aside and reaching for a small vial of Essence of Dittany. She uncorked it with one hand, carefully tilting it over the wound.

As the magical liquid dripped onto his skin, the gash began to knit itself back together, the edges closing with a faint hiss of steam. Malfoy watched in silence, his lips pressed into a tight line.

Hermione used the time it took Dittany to close it up to cast a diagnosis spell on his head. It came out clean, which made her exhale in relief. She applied some drops of the same tincture to his head injury.

Once the wounds were sealed, Hermione leaned back, wiping her brow. “That’ll hold for now, but you need rest. No heavy lifting, no magic above a first-year’s level—”

“Granger,” Malfoy interrupted, his tone softer but still edged with weariness.

“-and definitely no fighting, physical or magical. And also-”

"Granger!"

She stilled. "What?"

His silver eyes met hers, the usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. “Thank you.”

Hermione blinked, startled by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond.

“You’re welcome,” she said finally, her voice quiet.

Malfoy leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Hermione let out a soft huff, gathering the bloodied gauze and broken shards of fabric. “Trust me, it won’t.”

But as she turned away, she couldn’t shake the image of him sitting there, vulnerable and oddly human.

Malfoy shifted in the armchair, his head falling to the side as exhaustion finally overtook him. Hermione paused mid-step, watching him for a moment. His features, usually sharp and guarded, seemed softer in sleep, the tension etched into his brow now faint and fleeting.

She shook herself. He’d earned that rest—not that she’d ever say so aloud.

Turning away, she focused on cleaning up the remnants of her impromptu first aid session. The bloodied gauze and torn scraps of his shirt were tossed into a bin she charmed to incinerate its contents. She carefully wiped down the scissors and stowed the Muggle first aid kit back in its usual corner.

It was only when she sat down at her kitchen table, her hands finally still, that she noticed the tremor in her fingers. Hermione stared at them, flexing her hands in and out of fists as though to force the reaction away.

Her breath caught in her chest. It wasn’t fear—it wasn’t exactly relief, either. It was the slow, creeping realization that the moment her 'emergency' mindset had switched off, the weight of what could have happened came crashing down.

Draco could have died.

The thought jolted her like a Stinging Hex. She didn’t even like the man—did she? Of course not. He was insufferable, condescending, and frustratingly smug. But still, the idea of him bleeding out in some dark alley, or worse, being discovered by their enemies, made her stomach churn.

Her gaze drifted back to the armchair, where he was curled slightly to one side, the blanket she’d draped over him half falling to the floor. She stood, crossing the room to pull it up over his shoulder.

Could they ever be... friends? The thought was absurd. Friendship required trust, and they had so little of that between them. But this uneasy truce they’d been forced into—it was changing things. At the very least, she’d started to care whether he lived or died.

Hermione clenched her jaw. No. This wasn’t the time to indulge in sentimental nonsense. Draco Malfoy was her partner on a mission, nothing more. And if she was worried about his safety, it was only because they couldn’t afford for him to fail.

That’s all it was.

She pushed away the lingering unease and headed for her bookshelf, summoning a stack of books with a wave of her wand. Focus. If tonight had proven anything, it was how badly she needed to come up with some sort of edge for the two of them to use against the world they stood to infiltrate.

Hermione cracked open the first book and was immediately met with a dense block of text detailing advanced signaling spells. The terminology was archaic, and the explanations were circuitous, as if the author wanted to gatekeep the information rather than share it. She huffed and set the book aside, reaching for another.

The second tome, Runic Enchantments and Their Practical Applications, held more promise. She flipped through the pages, her fingers skimming over diagrams of runes and step-by-step instructions for creating small enchanted objects. A faint smile tugged at her lips. This was familiar—this was home.

The methodical process of decoding instructions, analyzing theory, and envisioning practical applications was like slipping into a warm, well-worn jumper. For a while, the events of the evening melted into the background as her quill scratched across parchment, jotting down potential techniques.

“Enchanted coins,” she muttered, circling a section that described how to link two objects with synchronized charms. She remembered her days in Dumbledore's army with bittersweet feelings. “Portable, durable... but prone to interference if not shielded properly.” She tapped the feathered end of her quill against her chin. “We’d need a protective ward...”

Her mind raced with possibilities, her notes growing increasingly detailed. But as she tried to map out the precise sequence of runes needed to ward the coins, she realized one problem: if their enemies found the coins, they could trace the magic back to her.

She frowned and pushed the book away, leaning back in her chair.

“Back to square one,” she sighed.

Several hours and three more books later, Hermione’s frustration had mounted, but so had her determination. She was surrounded by open tomes, loose parchment, and a steaming cup of tea she’d forgotten to drink. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across the table, and her eyes burned from staring at tiny script for so long.

“Come on, Granger,” she muttered to herself, flipping through Experimental Spellcasting in the Modern Era. “There’s got to be something better than enchanted coins...”

And then she saw it—a half-page entry tucked between two unrelated spells.

Temporary Sigils: A Communication Network for the Cautious Wizard

Her heart skipped a beat as she read on. The method described enchanted sigils or temporary tattoos, drawn onto the skin with a specialized ink. Once linked, they could transmit short messages, magical pings, or even sensations to the corresponding sigil. The markings could be set to fade after a set period, making them both discreet and impermanent.

She grinned, excitement bubbling in her chest.

The instructions were complex, but that only made her more eager. It required a mix of ancient runes and wandwork, along with a specialized binding charm. The ink, made from powdered moonstone and crushed billywig stingers, wasn’t something she had lying around, but she knew where to source it.

Grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment, Hermione began copying the spell in detail, carefully annotating the runes with her own observations.

“This could actually work,” she murmured. “Tattoos are impossible to lose... and they’re tied to us directly.” She smirked, imagining Malfoy's reaction when she suggested the idea.

Then she stopped smiling, as she thought of another marking he had on his body.

Sighing, she rubbed her temples. She doubted she was going to find a different approach in the time she had left until he woke up, though she could certainly try. She'd just have to be... gentle, in delivering her idea. Another sigh slipped out. Not exactly her specialty.

The coins weren’t off the table entirely then, but this was more secure, more innovative. More her.

She dove back into her work instead of worrying about it.

By the time she’d filled half a dozen pages of notes, the tension in her shoulders had eased, and her earlier rattled nerves had all but disappeared. This—diving into theory, solving puzzles, expanding her understanding—was where she thrived.

She stretched, standing to brew another cup of tea. The quiet hum of activity around her, from the kettle on the hob to the soft rustling of parchment as a breeze from the window caught it, was comforting in its own way.

For a moment, she let herself feel proud. Not about the mission, or about Malfoy surviving—just about her. Even after the war, after everything that had happened, she still had this part of herself. The part that loved learning, that could lose hours in pursuit of knowledge and not feel like they were wasted.

Hermione returned to her table, eyeing the stack of books still to be read. There was more work to be done. She wasn’t certain which method would suit them best—coins, tattoos, or something else entirely—but by the time Malfoy woke, she’d have options.

And maybe, just maybe, she’d have an answer to this strange, uneasy partnership they’d forged.

[softone-ao3]

Chapter 5: Unlikely Sanctuary

Hermione could feel her shoulders relax as she stepped into her office, the familiarity of the room instantaneously soothing her fried nerves. The Ministry was mostly quiet, as most others had gone home for the night. 

A glance at the clock told her she should head out soon, too. But not before documenting what happened on their first mission while the memory was still fresh in her mind.

Her office felt safe, steady, and anchored in routine. She didn’t have to be "Eva Blake" here or play pretend in a world where one wrong word could be deadly. But no matter how much she tried to lean into the security of her space, her mind kept drifting back to the mission—to the weight in her chest, the phantom ache of the panic that had almost undone her.

Almost.

With a sigh, she stood up to glance out of her office's windows, checking to see if Harry still had his lights on in his one so they may debrief quickly, but no. Everything was dark. Hermione watched as the last person sitting at one of the little desks in between the offices turned off their little desk lamp, too, and got up to leave. 

Her throat felt dry as the echo of the shutting door lingered in the hallway. Alone.

Hermione rubbed her eyes. Alright, focus, Granger. If I concentrate I should be able to be done with documentation in 30 minutes.

She turned back to her desk, taking comfort in the mundane task of organizing her scattered papers. As she stacked them into neat piles, her hands trembled slightly, betraying the tension she thought she’d shaken off.

The images came unbidden: the dark alley, the too-familiar pressure in her chest, the burn of bile in her throat.

It wasn’t real. Not now. Not anymore.

She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, counting silently. One, two, three… She pressed her hands flat against the cool surface of her desk, grounding herself in the present. This is real. The smooth texture of the wood, the faint hum of the Ministry’s wards. Here, now.

But Draco wasn’t here now.

That realization hit harder than it should have. She'd resented him for being a distraction during the mission, for his quick wit and sharper barbs—but in hindsight, his presence had tethered her in a way she hadn’t fully appreciated. Left alone, the silence felt too heavy, too open, and her thoughts drifted to places she didn’t want them to go.

Hermione exhaled sharply and grabbed her quill, anchoring herself to the task at hand. The methodical process of documenting their progress was soothing—a controlled, predictable process that required focus but no emotional investment.

As she wrote, a creeping unease settled in the back of her mind. Something about the room felt... different. She glanced around her office, her brow furrowing. The bookshelves were as orderly as ever, her ink bottles precisely where she'd left them. But the pile of parchments on the corner of her desk—had she left them that way?

She shook her head, brushing off the thought. You’re overthinking. Paranoia’s not going to help.

She tapped her quill on the paper. Just finish up now and then head home. 

Her thoughts lingered on the end of the mission.

Despite their shared victory in delivering the package and securing Barrett’s cryptic assurance that “he’d be in touch,” the air between Malfoy and herself had felt precariously thin, as if the slightest misstep might ignite a firestorm. She rubbed her temples, the memory of his sharp, infuriating smirk mingling with the fleeting moments where he almost seemed... genuine.

She couldn’t figure him out. Malfoy clearly had his own motives for his involvement—motives he guarded fiercely behind his usual mask of arrogance. He irritated her to no end, and yet, just when she was ready to write him off as irredeemable, he’d surprise her. A quick quip meant to lighten the mood, a gesture that felt like he might actually care whether she unraveled or not.

And then, just as quickly, he’d be back to being insufferable.

Hermione exhaled and reached for her tea, grimacing at the cold liquid. She set the mug down harder than intended. Enough about Malfoy.

Trust—or lack of it—could be dissected tomorrow with Harry, or perhaps Luna. Tonight, she had nothing but time, stretching like a yawning chasm between now and whenever Barrett decided to summon them. She frowned at the thought. They hadn’t exchanged any method of communication. How exactly did Barrett intend to contact them?

For a fleeting moment, paranoia gripped her again. Had she missed something critical? She scanned her desk, her papers, and the corners of the room, looking for anything out of place. Her office still felt slightly off, as though someone had passed through in her absence, but everything appeared to be where she’d left it.

You’re imagining things, she told herself firmly, though her pulse didn’t seem to get the message.

With another deep breath, she forced herself to refocus on the parchment in front of her. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could leave this hollow silence behind.

*****

The early evening sun streamed through the windows of the Leaky Cauldron, casting long shadows across the table where Hermione, Harry, and Luna had gathered for a rare moment of respite. It was the kind of quiet night Hermione hadn’t realized she needed so badly—the kind where the weight of the world could take a backseat, if only for a few hours.

After a long day of catching up on paperwork, her mind still buzzed with the aftershocks of the mission. But now, here, in the company of her closest friends, she was determined not to let it haunt her. Not tonight.

Hermione sat back in her chair, finally able to take a deep breath without the tension that had been lingering in her chest for days. She looked around at Harry and Luna, who both appeared far more relaxed than she’d felt in days. The fire crackled merrily in the corner, and the faint smell of fresh-baked scones drifted in from the kitchen.

Harry glanced up from his glass and gave her a knowing look, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. “You’re a bit quieter than usual tonight, Hermione,” he said, setting down his drink. “Everything alright?”

Hermione forced a smile, but it felt more like a reflex than a genuine expression. "I’m fine," she said, her voice lighter than she felt. "Just… tired, I suppose. The last few days have been a bit much."

Her friends gave her sympathetic smiles, then Harry spoke. "I know you well enough to be able to tell when you want to talk about it, or when you just need a distraction." He took a sip from his drink. "Tonight is definitely the latter. So," he inclined his head toward Luna. "I've heard some really interesting things from Ginny about a certain Hogwarts Professor that you've been spending a lot of time with, Luna."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly, and she glanced over her shoulder at the bar, where Hannah Abbott, Neville's wife, was busy serving a group of customers. Hermione quickly shot a look at Harry, then lowered her voice. “Harry, not here,” she said quickly, her gaze darting back to Hannah to make sure she hadn't overheard. “His wife works here, for Merlin’s sake.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at her response, but there was an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "What? You don’t want to hear about Neville?" he teased, though his voice was much quieter now.

Hermione leaned in, curiosity piqued but still cautious. “I—well, of course I do, but we really should be quieter about it,” she muttered. "Hannah could hear us."

Luna, ever serene, glanced from Hermione to Harry and smiled. “It’s alright, Hermione,” she said gently. “You don’t have to worry. Neville and I have a very platonic relationship… but I do enjoy the company.”

Harry gave a knowing look, clearly enjoying himself as he leaned back in his seat. “Right, of course. Just a little platonic relationship.” He winked, earning a light chuckle from Hermione.

She gave him a pointed look before turning to Luna. “Alright, I’ll bite. But only if we keep it quiet. I quite like the Leaky Cauldron these day, so I don't want anybody getting the wrong idea.” She raised an eyebrow at Luna, a teasing note in her voice. “What exactly do you mean by 'you enjoy the company'? What have you been up to?”

Luna’s gaze turned from the flames to Hermione, her eyes wide and distant, as though she were seeing something entirely different from the rest of them. “Oh, I don’t think anyone would get the wrong idea, Hermione,” she said dreamily, her voice unhurried. “Neville’s energy is so very… grounding. Sometimes, when he looks at me, I can almost feel the weight of the earth itself in his gaze. It’s... comforting.” She paused, her voice dropping a little lower. “But I suppose he does have that particular charm about him.”

Hermione blinked again, trying to make sense of Luna’s words, though it was hard to keep up with the strange way Luna saw the world. “So, you enjoy the... grounding energy, huh?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds a little more than just friendly.”

Luna smiled softly, her head tilting slightly to the side as though she were thinking about the very question in a way that no one else could. “Mmm... Neville is the sort of person who would never rush a storm. He’s very patient. Sometimes, he reminds me of a well-tended garden... calm, steady, and full of life,” she murmured, her tone unfathomable yet oddly gentle.

Hermione, intrigued despite herself, leaned in a little closer. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard Neville described like that,” she said, half-amused, half-curious.

Harry chuckled and chimed in.  “I suppose that’s Luna for you. Always seeing things no one else can.” The look he gave Luna was warm, and for a moment, Hermione felt that familiar pull, the feeling of Home, sitting and chatting in the Gryffindor common room together, as she looked at her friend, the firelight reflecting in his glasses.

Luna’s lips curved into a knowing, dreamy smile. “Perhaps,” she said softly, her eyes distant again as though the conversation had already floated away. “But I do think there’s more to Neville than anyone might realize... when they’re not looking too closely.”

Harry, listening to her story with growing amusement, couldn’t resist adding, “It’s definitely more than just platonic, isn’t it?”

Hermione shot him a look, her eyes narrowing with mock disapproval. “You really enjoy stirring the pot, don’t you?” she said dryly, though the amusement in her eyes betrayed her words.

Luna just smiled peacefully, her gaze flicking between the two of them as though they were merely part of a much larger, more cosmic picture. “Maybe,” she said dreamily, “But sometimes, the best things happen when we stop trying so hard to figure them out.”

The conversation drifted off as Hermione, Harry, and Luna enjoyed the quiet, but Hermione’s mind couldn’t help but wonder just how much more there was to Luna’s words about Neville—and whether the grounded, patient Neville she had known from school had indeed changed, or if Luna had simply seen something no one else had yet.

*****

The air outside the Leaky Cauldron was crisp and cool, the last hues of twilight fading into a deep indigo sky. Luna had departed with a wave and a mysterious smile, leaving Harry and Hermione to step out into the cobbled street alone. The muffled chatter and laughter from the pub faded behind them as they wandered toward Diagon Alley, their breath visible in the chilly evening air.

Hermione wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, glancing sideways at Harry. “You were really enjoying yourself back there,” she said dryly. “You know, stirring things up.”

Harry smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Can you blame me? It’s not every day you get a front-row seat to one of Luna’s cryptic romances.”

Hermione shot him a disapproving look, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “It’s not cryptic—it’s Luna. She doesn’t see things the way we do. And it’s not a romance, anyway. Neville is married.”

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Harry drawled, his grin widening. “Even you have to admit something’s going on there. Did you hear the way she talked about him? Grounding energy? A well-tended garden?” He shook his head, his voice dripping with faux seriousness. “That’s not how you talk about a friend. That’s how you talk about someone who’s kissed you in a greenhouse under the moonlight.”

Hermione stopped mid-step, turning to face him with wide eyes. “Harry James Potter, stop it! Neville would never cheat on Hannah!”

Harry held up his hands, feigning innocence. “I didn’t say he was. I’m just saying there’s something there, and honestly? I’m living for it.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Luna didn’t exactly deny it, did she?”

Hermione groaned, resuming their stroll and rubbing her temple as if trying to ward off a headache. “You’re impossible. Neville is one of the kindest, most decent people I know. He would never—”

“I know, I know,” Harry interrupted, waving her off. “Neville’s a saint. I’m not saying he’s off sneaking around or anything. But you have to admit, the way Luna looks at him? And the way she talks about him?” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “If Hannah wasn’t in the picture…”

Hermione let out a long sigh, but her expression softened into thoughtfulness. “I suppose Luna does see the world differently. Maybe she sees something in Neville that even he doesn’t realize yet.”

“Exactly,” Harry said with a grin. “Which means we get to sit back, grab the popcorn, and see how this plays out.”

“Harry!” Hermione swatted his arm, though she couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “You’re incorrigible.”

He laughed too, the sound light and carefree in the quiet of the alley. “Maybe, but you can’t tell me you’re not at least a little curious about what’s really going on.”

Hermione hesitated, glancing up at the stars beginning to twinkle overhead. “I suppose I am,” she admitted, her tone quieter now. “But not in the way you are. If there’s something there, it’ll come to light eventually. Luna isn’t one to keep things hidden, not if they truly matter to her.”

Harry nodded, his grin softening into a thoughtful smile. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Still, it’s fun to speculate.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled all the same as they continued their walk, the easy rhythm of their friendship a comforting constant amidst the uncertainty of everything else.

***** She regretted her decision to come with Harry to his house the moment she had gripped his arm for side-along Apparition. She felt that familiar pull in her navel and then, they were standing in front of the adorable house Harry and Ginny were living in now. 

It had been a sanctuary for Hermione not too long ago, but now... now her stomach twisted in anticipation of the witch that was likely waiting or cooking dinner inside.

Harry, oblivious to her conflicting feelings - Ginny must not have told him about breakfast the other day, then? - marched on ahead, calling for Hermione with a friendly "Come on!"

Hermione forced a smile and followed him up the path, doing her best to ignore the way her hands were sweating in the cool air. When Harry pushed open the door, the warm scent of something delicious wafted toward her, but it didn't do much to ease her tension.

"Harry!" Ginny's voice called from somewhere in the house. She appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, her smile widening when she saw Harry. But then her gaze shifted to Hermione, smile faltering a little, and that now-familiar flicker of suspicion passed over her face. "Hermione, you're here!" she exclaimed, voice a little too tight to be friendly.

Hermione, in turn, smiled tightly, her eyes darting around the room as she stepped inside after Harry, hoping for a distraction. 

But then, Hermione froze. There, sitting at the kitchen table, looking uncomfortable and clearly trying to appear casual, was Ron.

Her stomach dropped. Of course, he’d be here. Why wouldn’t he be? That's just her luck. It had been months since their last confrontation, but the memory of the final fight still felt fresh in her mind. The last time she had seen him—truly seen him—what he'd done... it had fractured their relationship forever.

“Ron,” she said quietly, her throat dry.

He looked up at her, his face unreadable. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of something—guilt, regret, maybe? —but it was gone before she could be sure.

"Er, yeah," Ron muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "Ginny invited me over for dinner. Didn't know you'd be joining, Hermione."

Ginny shot Ron a sharp look, as if noticing the awkwardness in the air, but she said nothing. Harry, stiffened besides Hermione, if only slightly. He shot Hermione an apologetic look, as if to say I'm sorry, I didn't know he was going to be here.

Ron’s presence felt suffocating, and she hated how vulnerable it made her feel. This was supposed to be a break—a chance to breathe and distract herself from the constant weight of her memories from the war, the mission and her complicated relationships. But now, with Ron and Ginny both in the same room, the walls seemed to close in on her. Ginny she could've handled, she thought. But both? No way. She took a step back towards the entrance.

Ginny’s eyes flashed with a mix of concern and confusion as Hermione took a step back, her face pale. "Hermione?" she asked, her tone softening, though still laced with an edge of uncertainty. "Are you alright?"

Hermione’s heart was pounding in her chest, and her mind raced as she tried to compose herself. She wanted nothing more than to leave, to Apparate away and put miles between herself and this house, but she couldn’t. Not with Harry looking at her like that—his brows furrowed, his mouth set in a frown of concern.

"Yeah, I just..." Hermione struggled to find the words. "I wasn’t expecting this," she finally muttered, glancing toward Ron, who was now fiddling nervously with a napkin on the table. The space between them felt charged, thick with unspoken history, too much pain and too many things left unresolved.

Harry’s brow furrowed, clearly sensing the tension in the room. "Ron, you didn’t mention you’d be here," he said, the warmth in his voice replaced by an undertone of confusion.

Ron shifted in his seat. "I—uh, didn’t think it’d be a big deal. Ginny invited me." His voice was more defensive now, and Hermione could tell he was starting to regret whatever casualness he had assumed about the situation. He wouldn’t look at her directly, his gaze focused on the edge of his mug.

"I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable," Ron muttered, as if the words were foreign on his tongue. "I didn’t think it’d be like this."

Hermione wanted to say so much, wanted to scream at him, ask him why everything had to go so horribly wrong, why he couldn’t have just... no. He had changed too much. Instead, she took a deep breath, and nodded stiffly, feeling like she was drowning in all the things she hadn’t said to him. "It’s fine, Ron," she replied, her voice as cold as she could make it, even though every part of her ached to say something else. Anything else.

Harry stepped between them, his smile strained as he gestured toward the table. "Let’s sit down, alright?" he said, trying to break the tension, but it was futile. Hermione knew that dinner wouldn’t erase the years of hurt, of everything that had been left unsaid.

"Oh, no, thank you," Hermione said quickly, her voice sharper than she intended. "I’m just not hungry."

Ginny’s expression softened, but there was still an edge of something unreadable there. "You should eat something," she insisted, her voice quieter now. "You know I didn’t cook this for nothing." There was a pause, and then her gaze turned back to Ron. "We both did, actually."

Hermione nodded, forcing her lips into something resembling a smile, but she couldn’t meet Ginny’s eyes for long. She could feel the weight of Ron’s presence like a lead weight on her chest, and as the tension between them simmered, she realized that it wasn’t just the room that had shifted. She had.

"Alright," Hermione said, her words brittle. "I’ll... sit down for a bit."

Ginny opened her mouth as if to say something, but before she could, Ron spoke up again, his voice low but pointed. "Look, I didn’t come here to make things worse. I—"

She straightened her spine, carefully placing her bag on the floor by the table. Her hands itched to grab her things and leave instead, but that would mean acknowledging him, acknowledging this, and she wasn’t sure she could survive it. Not without breaking.

Something in Ron's expression changed at seeing her stiff posture. Hermione clocked the familiar rage building behind his eyes immediately, her hand inching toward her wand holster little by little. Never again, she thought.

Ron leaned casually on the kitchen table, arms crossed like he had every right to address her now. “Didn’t think you’d show your face here,” he said, voice deceptively light. But his eyes were sharp, the anger now clearly visible in the rest of his face.

There was the man she'd grown to resent.

And fear, at one point, though she refused to admit that to herself.

She squared her shoulders and glanced at Harry, who looked torn between stepping in and letting them handle it. Ginny, too, looked like she was holding her breath.

“I didn’t realize you still felt entitled to an opinion about where I go,” Hermione replied, her voice flat but trembling with restraint.

“Entitled?” Ron said, laughing bitterly. “Merlin, Hermione, it’s not like that. I’m just saying—it’s awkward, isn’t it? For everyone?”

“For everyone?” Her tone sharpened, disbelief lacing her words. She locked eyes with him, and his smirk faltered. “It wasn’t awkward for you when you—” She stopped herself. Don’t do this. Not here.

But Ron seized the pause like a lifeline. “When I what?” he pressed, his voice rising slightly. “When I tried to keep us together? When I put up with—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked like a whip, silencing him. “Don’t you dare rewrite history, Ronald.”

“You think you were perfect?” His voice rose further, the anger bubbling over. “You were impossible, Hermione! Always nagging, always trying to control everything—”

“And you were lazy!” she snapped, finally losing her composure. “You thought love was something you could demand instead of earn!”

“You’re unbelievable,” Ron growled, stepping closer. “Always the victim. Always so bloody innocent, like you never made mistakes. Maybe if you weren’t such a—”

“That’s enough!” Harry shouted, stepping between them. Ginny grabbed Ron’s arm, but he wrenched it free, glaring at Hermione.

Her heart pounded, her throat tight. She couldn’t breathe in this house, in this room, in this life where Ron still had the power to twist everything into her fault.

“Move,” she said to Harry, her voice low and trembling. He hesitated but stepped aside.

Ron shouted after her as she reached the door. “Yeah, run away! That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

She didn’t stop to respond. Her vision blurred with fury and humiliation, and the moment she crossed the threshold, she disapparated with a deafening crack.

*****

Hermione apparated onto the quiet street in front of her little house, the evening chill biting into her skin. Her breathing was still uneven, tears running down her cheeks, the confrontation with Ron replaying in her mind on an endless loop. She wanted nothing more than to step inside, tuck herself in, and be alone with her thoughts.

But Fate wasn't kind enough to grant her that wish, it seemed.

Standing on the stone path leading up to her door was Draco Malfoy, pacing with a restlessness that made him look as though he’d been caged. He noticed her arrival as the sharp crack of her Apparition startled him, causing him to whirl around. His wand hand flew up out of instinct before his eyes landed on her.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice light but his gaze sharp. He lowered his wand again. “Granger, I was beginning to think you’d vanished into thin air. Though I must say, your warding is obnoxiously thorough—almost gave me a headache.”

Hermione stiffened, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?” she asked, though it lacked the bite she usually gave him. Her tear-streaked cheeks felt raw, her emotions barely held together. If at all.

Malfoy tilted his head, examining her closely in the dim light. The corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, but something more restrained. “What’s the matter? Ministry too crowded for you, or did something else drive you to Apparate here looking like—”

He stopped mid-sentence. His sharp eyes flicked over her face, lingering on the redness around her eyes and the faint trail of tears she hadn’t managed to wipe away.

“—like you’ve had a rough evening,” he finished more carefully, his tone softening by a fraction.

Hermione pressed her lips together, turning sharply toward her door. “I don’t have the strength to fight with you today, Malfoy,” she muttered, fumbling for her wand to disengage the wards. Her voice was brittle, and she cursed herself for how thin it sounded.

Malfoy didn’t reply immediately, which surprised her. She felt his gaze heavy on her back, but for once, he didn’t press.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, forcing her voice into steadiness as she worked the familiar motions of her wards.

“I told you,” he said after a beat, his tone quieter now. “You weren’t at the Ministry. Barrett wanted me to find you. Something about tomorrow’s briefing and next steps.”

She exhaled sharply, finally feeling the wards lift as her house responded to her magic. “Fine,” she said curtly, pushing open the door and stepping inside. The comforting scent of books and parchment greeted her, but it wasn’t enough to ease the tension in her chest.

She paused in the doorway, debating whether to close it behind her and leave him outside. But before she could decide, Malfoy stepped inside, uninvited but purposeful.

“What—Malfoy!” she snapped, spinning to face him.

“You looked like you were about to collapse,” he said simply, glancing around the small, cozy living space. “Didn’t want to risk you falling apart before you heard what I had to say.”

Hermione gaped at him, torn between indignation and disbelief. “I’m perfectly capable of standing upright, thank you very much. And I didn’t invite you in.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched, but there was no real humor in it. “Would you have listened if I shouted the news at you from the doorstep?”

She glared at him, but the fight drained out of her almost instantly. She turned away, brushing a trembling hand over her face. “Just—say what you came to say and leave,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Malfoy hesitated. She heard the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight, and when he spoke, his tone was devoid of its usual sharpness.

“Barrett wants us ready for tomorrow,” he said. “A proper debrief at eight. He has intel on the next phase, something about narrowing down our targets in the north. You’ll want to look over it before we move forward.”

Hermione nodded stiffly, her back still to him. She felt the tension in the room shift, the silence between them heavy but not hostile.

“Granger.”

She flinched at the sound of his voice, low and steady.

“What happened?” he asked.

She spun to face him, anger flaring again. “It’s none of your business,” she snapped, though the edge in her voice wavered. “You don’t need to know.”

Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on her face, his sharpness replaced with something uncharacteristically measured. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d expected.

“Fair enough,” he said, holding his hands up slightly, as though in surrender. “Not my business.”

Hermione blinked, her lips parting in surprise. That was… unexpected.

Malfoy looked around the room briefly, his eyes taking in the bookshelves, the worn armchair, the quiet warmth of the space. He seemed to assess it without judgment, as though he was trying to read something beneath the surface.

“You’ve got quite the fortress here,” he said, his voice almost thoughtful. “Comfortable. If I’d known you’d retreat to something like this, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to reach you.”

Hermione found herself smiling faintly, despite herself. It was the first time he’d ever commented on anything about her or her space like that, without any sarcastic undertones.

“Well, you’re here now,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. She couldn’t help but soften at the quiet way he spoke.

Malfoy hesitated before speaking again, his posture less guarded than usual. He looked... concerned.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, and I’m not going to pry again. But…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Whatever it is, take a breath. You’re no good to anyone if you’re falling apart. Not to Barrett, not to the mission, and not to yourself.”

His words hit harder than she expected. They were blunt, but there was something strangely sincere about them.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, but even she could hear the lie in her voice.

Malfoy looked at her for a long moment, his gaze steady but lacking the usual judgment. Then he spoke again, a bit softer this time.

“You’re allowed to have bad days, Granger,” he said quietly. “Everyone does. Just… don’t let them ruin you.”

For a moment, Hermione stood there, staring at him, unsure of what to say. She couldn’t help but appreciate his candor—strangely, it felt like the most genuine thing anyone had said to her in days. It felt like he spoke from experience.

“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice low but sincere. “I… I didn’t expect that from you.”

Malfoy gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his lips curling into a half-smile. “Neither did I,” he replied, sounding almost amused by the unexpected shift in their conversation.

With one last look, he stepped toward the door, giving her space to breathe again. But before he left, he glanced back at her.

"Look, this isn't my specialty. Feelings... and talking about them. But we both need to have our heads in the game, so if you ever decide you do want to talk... I'm here." The words seemed to leave him before he could stop them, and he winced almost imperceptibly, no doubt expecting a sarcastic quip Hermione had thrown so many of at his head as of late.

This surprised her so much, she found herself blurting: "Do you want tea?"

Malfoy’s eyes flickered in surprise, but he didn’t hesitate long. “Tea?” he repeated, almost amused. “Well, I suppose I could use something warm. It’s been a long night.”

Hermione nodded and quickly turned toward the kitchen, relieved that her offer wasn't smacked down, as she had had enough humiliation for one night. As she moved, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. The words were awkward but gentle, and the space between them still held its usual tension, but there was something more... human about it now.

She took a few moments to set the kettle to boil, her mind racing as she focused on the comforting, mundane task. The kettle clicked, and she set about gathering the tea, feeling the heat of the kitchen replace some of the cold she’d been carrying around in her chest.

Malfoy’s footsteps followed her into the room, though he didn’t say anything immediately. He leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her, not judgmental, but watching, studying, in that silent way he had.

“I’m not used to... this,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, almost thoughtful. “You offering tea, I mean. I’ve seen you stand your ground with plenty of people, myself at the top of the list, but this... this is different. Nice, even.”

Hermione paused, glancing over her shoulder at him, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite herself. “Is that a compliment, or are you mocking me?”

“Is it such a stretch to think I might actually appreciate your hospitality, Granger?” he asked, his tone soft, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Her smile widened at that, and for a moment, the familiar tension between them seemed to dissipate, replaced by something warmer. Something surprising.

“It’s not much,” she said, as she carefully poured the hot water over the leaves, “but it’s all I can offer for now. It’s the least I can do after you…” She trailed off, unsure of how to express it, but Malfoy’s presence here—quiet and unexpectedly considerate—seemed to deserve acknowledgment.

Malfoy looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. “After I what?”

She turned back to face him, offering him a small, half-smile. “After you weren’t a complete prick for once. For just being decent.”

He looked taken aback for a moment, and then, surprisingly, he chuckled, the sound warming Hermione's bones. “Well, that’s a first.”

“Maybe you’re not as hopeless as I thought,” Hermione teased lightly, setting the two steaming cups of tea on the table in front of him.

He took the cup without another word, and they stood in the quiet of her kitchen for a moment, the only sound the gentle clink of the spoon as he stirred the tea.

Malfoy took a sip of his tea, then looked back at her, his gaze a little softer than usual. “This is... surprisingly good,” he admitted. “I expected something more like poison.”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. “I’ll have you know, I’m not that bad at making tea.”

He didn't respond to her, he instead settled on giving her a look that said as much as no, but you are mean enough to poison me. She snorted.

They shared a brief, almost awkward smile, the tension lingering but different now, tempered by their quiet, shared moment.

For the first time in what felt like a long while, Hermione didn’t feel completely alone. It was a strange thought, and one she wasn’t sure what to do with, but it was there. And for now, that would have to be enough.

[softone-ao3]

Chapter 4: Into the Web

The alleyway was damp, reeking of mildew and something metallic. Hermione stepped carefully, her boots scuffing against cobblestones worn smooth by time. The shadows pressed close, obscuring the crooked edges of buildings leaning into each other like drunks at the end of a bender. Beside her, Malfoy moved with practiced ease, his gait steady, almost casual. He had the air of someone who belonged—or at least someone who could pretend he did.

“Keep your head down, Eva,” he muttered under his breath. His voice was low, clipped, carrying just enough derision to set her teeth on edge. “You’re supposed to be nervous, not surveying the architecture.”

Hermione resisted the urge to snap at him, swallowing her retort as she adjusted her posture. Nervous, not defiant. She was supposed to be Eva Blake, a brilliant but reclusive cursebreaker with a murky moral compass. It was a role Hermione had carefully constructed over the past few days, but stepping into it felt like putting on a pair of ill-fitting shoes.

“Don’t micromanage me, Malfoy,” she hissed back, just as the outline of a door materialized ahead of them. A single lantern hung above it, casting flickering shadows on the warped wood. It looked inconspicuous—exactly the kind of place you’d find someone willing to work for Caleb Mulciber.

Malfoy shot her a glance, his smirk sharp enough to cut. “Fine. Sink or swim, Granger.”

She didn’t have time to respond. The door creaked open before they reached it, revealing a thin man with a pinched face and watery eyes. His wand was in hand, pointed downward but clearly ready to rise at the first sign of trouble.

“Name?” the man barked, his eyes flicking between them.

“Eva Blake,” Hermione said, keeping her voice steady. She added a hint of irritation, as though she found the question beneath her. “This is Malfoy. I believe you know him.”

The man’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before shifting to Malfoy. Recognition flared in his expression, but it didn’t soften.

“She’s new,” Malfoy said smoothly. “Brought her in myself. Thought she might be useful.”

The man’s lips twisted into something that might have been a sneer. “Useful, huh? We’ll see about that. Come in.”

The interior was worse than the alley. The air was thick with smoke and the bitter tang of spilled alcohol. A few cloaked figures occupied a table in the far corner, their conversation halting as Hermione and Malfoy entered. The man—their gatekeeper, it seemed—gestured for them to follow him to a smaller room in the back. It was cramped, lit by a single sputtering candle.

“We’re not taking anyone new right now,” the man said bluntly, turning to Hermione. “So unless you’ve got something real impressive up your sleeve, this’ll be a short conversation.”

Hermione’s stomach fluttered, the weight of his words sinking in. She had prepared for this, rehearsed every detail of her fabricated persona, but now that it was happening, it felt too real. Her palms were clammy, and she could feel the muscles in her jaw tightening. She glanced at Malfoy, who stood lazily against the doorframe, his usual air of confidence suffocating the space between them.

"I specialize in cursed objects," she said, her voice a little too steady, even to her own ears. "Identification, dismantling, reconfiguration. If you have something that needs handling, I’m your witch."

The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Anyone can say that.”

“And anyone can botch it if they don’t know what they’re doing,” Hermione replied sharply. “Give me something, anything, and I’ll show you. Unless you’d rather risk someone less qualified cracking it open and blowing up half the block.”

The man’s lips curled into a slight sneer as he appraised her. After a long pause, he turned toward the back of the room and muttered something under his breath. He returned moments later, carrying a small, ragged pouch. He upended it on the table with a sharp motion, and a dark, twisted object—a ring—clattered onto the wood. The air around it seemed to hum faintly, like the echo of a far-off scream.

Hermione froze for a moment, her heart beating faster. She couldn’t touch it directly—she knew that instinctively. The ring was cursed, but the curse was complex, layered. She’d encountered dark objects before, but this one... this one felt different. The hum reverberated through her, like a pulse under her skin.

"Disarm it," the man said, folding his arms, his voice flat.

Hermione’s fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her wand. The cool wood felt heavier than usual, as though it had taken on the weight of the moment. She hesitated, just for a moment, but then she took a steadying breath, grounding herself.

Her wand moved over the ring, its shape a faint blur as she murmured an incantation. For a moment, nothing happened. The ring lay still, mocking her.

Her breath hitched, and she bit back a curse. This wasn’t right. The curse was buried too deep, too intricate. She could feel it now, like an invisible force pressing down on her. The magic was suffocating, pulling at her concentration. She felt the familiar tension in her chest—like a knot tightening, making every breath a struggle. Her thoughts scattered briefly, and the doubt crept in. What if she couldn’t break this one? What if she—

No. She wouldn’t let herself think like that.

The pieces began to fall into place. She scanned the curse again, letting her mind sift through the layers, the slight cracks she had missed before. There. The faintest fissure in the enchantment—a weak point, waiting to be exploited.

Her movements grew more fluid, more confident, as she began unraveling the curse. Her wand hovered over the ring, flicking with purpose, her voice steady as the incantations slid from her lips. The hum grew louder, then faltered, then stopped entirely. The ring fell silent, the magic within it neutralized.

The room felt still as she looked up, meeting the gatekeeper’s gaze. He was silent, his face unreadable as he stared at the now inert object. After a long beat, he finally spoke.

“Not bad.”

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her nerves still humming in her chest. Malfoy's smirk had shifted into something more thoughtful, though it was gone in an instant. He didn’t say anything, but she noticed the flicker of surprise in his eyes. The surprise was brief, quickly masked by his usual arrogance, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

The air in the cramped room thickened as the gatekeeper’s eyes flicked between Malfoy and Hermione. The faint scent of smoke mixed with something metallic that lingered in the corners of the space. It was clear that they were being assessed—not just for their abilities, but for their loyalty.

Malfoy straightened up from the doorframe, stepping forward with that effortless confidence that always seemed to make the world bend around him. Hermione stayed a step behind, resisting the urge to fidget. The gatekeeper’s silence stretched out, like a challenge they had yet to answer.

“So,” the man said finally, his voice low and suspicious. “What’s your story, Eva?”

Hermione hesitated, but only for a moment. She had rehearsed this. She’d practiced her backstory over and over, until it was second nature—an expertly crafted web of half-truths and convincing details. But now, under the weight of the gatekeeper’s gaze, her words felt hollow.

She took a breath, her tone cold and confident as she spoke. “I don’t have one. I’ve kept my distance from the Order, the Ministry—anyone who might want to track me down. I’m just here to make money, like anyone else.”

The gatekeeper studied her, his eyes calculating, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned to Malfoy.

“And you trust her?” The question was more of a challenge than a query.

His smirk didn’t falter as he met the gatekeeper’s gaze. “She’s competent. I wouldn’t have brought her in if she wasn’t.”

There was a long pause, and Hermione’s fingers tightened around the fabric of her robes. Malfoy's easy confidence didn’t help her nerves—if anything, it heightened them. How much could she really trust him? He was playing this game for himself, not for her. But the sharp edge in his voice—something she couldn’t quite place—seemed to be more than just casual disdain. Maybe it was genuine respect. She couldn’t be sure.

The man crossed his arms, his sharp gaze raking over Hermione. “Alright, I can see how you could be useful. But - anyone can disarm a toy curse,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. “I need to know you can handle yourself with a real job.”

Malfoy straightened, the smirk gone. “And what exactly do you have in mind, Barrett? A pop quiz?”

Barrett ignored him, his focus pinned on Hermione.

He gestured toward the door they had come through. “We’ve got something that needs delivering. Small job, but important. You two can handle it.”

Hermione stiffened slightly but nodded. Malfoy, on the other hand, slipped into his usual nonchalance, one brow arched as he extended his hand.

“What kind of delivery?” he asked lazily.

Barrett smirked, pulling a small, sealed box wrapped in black cloth from his robes. “The kind where you don’t ask questions.”

Malfoy took the package, his fingers brushing the fabric as he weighed it in his hand. The way he held it looked like it was impossibly light. Hermione did her best to keep her face neutral. “Fine,” he drawled. “Where are we taking it?”

“You’ll get the instructions along the way,” Barrett replied, his smirk widening. “And don’t lose it. Caleb doesn’t take kindly to incompetence.”

Hermione exchanged a glance with Malfoy, tension coiled tightly in her chest. Something about this felt off, but she kept her expression neutral. She couldn’t afford to show doubt.

Barrett stepped aside, motioning toward the door. “Best be on your way. Tick-tock.”

Malfoy didn’t wait for further prodding. He pivoted smoothly, striding toward the exit with Hermione close behind.

They stepped back into the damp alleyway, the faint echoes of their footsteps swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Hermione glanced at Malfoy, her voice low. “Do you trust him?”

He snorted. “I don’t trust anyone. But Barrett’s too much of a coward to try something outright. This is just another of his little games.”

“Comforting,” Hermione muttered, her wand tucked tightly in her grip.

They rounded a corner, the alley widening into a crooked, cobblestoned path. Shadows loomed at odd angles, the air thick with an uneasy stillness. Hermione’s instincts prickled.

Malfoy slowed his pace, his sharp gaze sweeping their surroundings. “Granger,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with warning.

Before she could ask what he meant, two figures stepped out from the shadows. Wands drawn, they blocked the path ahead.

“Well,” Malfoy muttered, a touch of sarcasm in his tone, “this is subtle.”

The larger of the two men—burly and sneering—tilted his head. “Package, Malfoy. Hand it over.”

Hermione’s grip tightened around her wand. “So much for just delivering it,” she said under her breath.

“Relax,” Malfoy replied, though his stance had shifted, tense and ready. “What’s the game this time?”

“No game,” the smaller man said, his voice sharp. “Think of this as a test. I don't trust you, Malfoy. So let’s see if you’re as good as they say.”

Hermione barely had time to register the words before the first curse flew toward them—a streak of deep purple light. She sidestepped swiftly, her wand already snapping up in a silent Protego.

Draco shot back with a cutting curse, the sharp edge of his magic forcing the smaller man to dive for cover. “Blake,” he said sharply, “don’t let them flank us.”

“I know,” she hissed, her focus already shifting to the larger man, who was advancing with a predatory grin.

Hermione moved fast, flicking her wand in a tight arc. Confringo! The blasting curse hit the ground near his feet, the explosion of rubble forcing him back. She used the distraction to send a silent Expulso, the shockwave slamming into his chest and knocking him into a wall.

The smaller man attempted to take advantage of her focus, firing off a hex aimed at her side. Hermione dropped into a crouch, rolling to avoid the spell and retaliating with a sharp Incarcerous. Ropes shot toward him, but he twisted away, his wand lashing out with a spell she didn’t recognize.

Draco was already on him, his movements quick and fluid. “Keep up, Blake!” he barked, his wand sending a jet of silver flames that forced the smaller man into retreat.

Hermione didn’t reply. Her attention was locked on the larger man, who had recovered and was charging toward her again. She switched tactics, her wand weaving a more intricate pattern. Oppugno! The loose stones around her rose into the air, hurtling toward him like a swarm of angry wasps. For a brief moment, Hermione could have sworn she could smell the damp air of the tower she had been in as she used this spell on Ron, many years ago. She shook her head, trying to clear it of useless thoughts.

The man bellowed - snapping her out of it - and raised a shield, but Hermione didn’t let up. She pressed forward, her spells flowing in quick succession—Stupefy, Reducto, Glisseo. The ground beneath his feet turned slick, and he slipped, his shield faltering.

She didn’t hesitate. Her wand slashed down, and a silent Langlock hit him squarely. His mouth moved, but no sound came out, his incantations rendered useless.

"Should have learned to cast wordlessly," she hissed, fired up. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She looked to the side to check on Malfoy.

Malfoy was already moving toward the smaller man, his wand flicking sharply. A silent Expelliarmus snapped the wand from the man’s grip, but his opponent recovered quickly, rolling to retrieve it while hurling a Stinging Hex that grazed Malfoy's shoulder.

“Sloppy,” Malfoy muttered, sidestepping fluidly. He retaliated with a nonverbal Depulso, slamming the man back into the nearest wall.

The man staggered but didn’t go down, raising his wand for another curse. Malfoy's wand moved faster, his incantation sharp and low. Levicorpus! The man was yanked into the air by his ankle, his curses dying in a startled yelp as he dangled helplessly.

Malfoy closed the distance, his wand leveled steadily. He didn’t need anything flashy to finish this and from the looks of it, he knew that, too. A precise Petrificus Totalus locked the man’s limbs in place, and Malfoy released him from the levitation spell, letting him drop to the ground with a heavy thud.

“Stay down,” Malfoy said, his voice cold, as he flicked his wand to conjure shimmering ropes that bound the man’s hands and legs.

The fight was over. The dim alley was eerily quiet, save for Hermione’s ragged breathing. Her wand trembled slightly in her grip, her knuckles white against its polished wood.

As her adrenaline ebbed, the world seemed to close in on her. The metallic tang of blood in the air, the faint sizzle of residual magic—all of it brought her back.

Back to Hogwarts, the battle raging. The sounds of curses ricocheting, screams tearing through the chaos. A flash of green light streaking past her head. The acrid smell of fire as part of the castle collapsed around them.

Back to the forest. The bitter cold slicing through her as she stumbled over roots and rocks, the panicked rhythm of her breath matching the pounding footsteps behind her. The snatchers were close, too close, their crude jeers cutting through the silence like blades.

“Keep running, Hermione!” Harry had shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. She had, her legs burning as the forest seemed to stretch endlessly around her. A curse shot past her, so close it singed her sleeve.

And then—capture. The tight grip of rough hands on her arms, the sickening sense of helplessness as they wrenched her wand away. The way her stomach had plummeted when she realized where they were taking her.

Her gaze snapped back to the present, to the man Malfoy had subdued. His sleeve had ridden up in the scuffle, and there it was: the Dark Mark, stark against his pale skin. It wasn’t fresh—its edges had faded, the ink more shadow than substance—but it was unmistakable.

Hermione’s stomach lurched. She tried to look away, to pull herself back to the present, but her mind wouldn’t let go.

“Granger.”

Malfoy's voice cut through the haze. He was standing in front of her now, his expression unreadable. His hand brushed against hers, steadying her trembling wand arm.

“Snap out of it,” he muttered, his voice quieter but no less insistent.

“I’m fine,” Hermione said, though her voice cracked. She wasn’t fine. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and her knees felt like they might give out.

Malfoy's gaze flicked over her face, his sharp eyes narrowing. He didn’t press her, but he didn’t move away either.

The bound men groaned faintly, one of them starting to stir. Malfoy's head snapped toward the sound, and his jaw tightened. “We can’t stay here. Come on.”

He grabbed her arm—not roughly, but with enough force to pull her into motion. Hermione stumbled after him, her legs leaden, her mind still reeling. He led her deeper into the shadows, weaving through a maze of alleyways until they reached a dead end.

Malfoy released her, scanning the area before turning back to her. “What the hell was that?” he demanded, his tone low but sharp.

His gaze flicked over her face, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re pale as hell. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Her voice was clipped, defensive, but her trembling hands betrayed her.

Malfoy's eyes dropped to his arm, his robe obscuring the skin underneath. His brow furrowed as his eyes snapped back up, back to the alley they had come from, realization dawning. “Is it the Mark?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Her jaw was tight, her teeth clenched against the bile rising in her throat.

Malfoy frowned, his irritation giving way to something more like confusion. “You’ve seen worse, haven’t you? During the war?”

Her breath hitched, and his expression shifted again, this time to something almost cautious. “This isn’t your first fight, I know it isn't. I've met the pointy end of your wand before personally." The look in his eyes almost seemed to say 'Come on. Play with me.'

Hermione pressed her back against the wall, her chest heaving as she fought to steady herself. “It’s not that simple,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

Malfoy's gaze sharpened. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Granger. I’m not a bloody mind reader.”

She closed her eyes, exhaling shakily. “It’s... It’s the first time I’ve faced them since the war. Out in the field, I mean.”

His silence was heavy. She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze, and saw something she hadn’t expected—understanding.

“I see,” he said slowly. “You’ve been sitting in an office this whole time, haven’t you? Researching, planning. Letting someone else do the dirty work.”

She bristled, her anger flaring. “I’ve done my share of dirty work, Malfoy. Don’t you dare—”

“I’m not judging,” he interrupted, his voice unusually soft. “I’m just saying—it’s different when you’re here. When it’s real.”

Hermione looked away, her throat tight.

Malfoy sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You did well,” he said, his tone grudging but sincere. “For what it’s worth.”

The praise caught her off guard, but before she could respond, he continued.

“You need to get it together,” he said bluntly, the gentleness disappearing from his tone. “If you freeze up like that again—”

“I didn’t freeze,” Hermione snapped, though her voice shook.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow in silent response.

“I handled it,” she insisted.

“Barely.” He crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “Look, I get it. First time back in the field is always a mess. But you need to pull yourself together, or we’re both dead.”

Hermione glared at him, her anger cutting through the lingering nausea. “I said I handled it.”

Malfoy studied her for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. You handled it.” He leaned against the wall, his smirk flickering back. “But don’t expect me to hold your hand next time.”

“Good,” she shot back. “I don’t need your help.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Despite herself, Hermione felt a faint spark of satisfaction at the annoyance in his tone. At the normalcy.

“Let’s go,” Malfoy said finally, pushing off the wall. “Before someone else shows up to test your nerves.”

[softone-ao3]

Chapter 3: Cracks in the Armor

The midday sunlight streamed through the towering windows of the Ministry conference room, casting a golden glow on the table where Hermione sat, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. She glanced at Draco Malfoy, who lounged in his chair as if they were here to discuss the latest office gossip rather than a life-or-death mission.

Harry stood at the head of the table, his expression grave. “Three days.” His voice broke the tense silence. “That’s how long you’ve got before we need you both undercover. The window to infiltrate this group is narrow, and we can’t afford to wait.”

Hermione straightened in her seat, her fingers twitching to take notes. “Three days? That’s hardly enough time to—”

“It’s what we have,” Harry interrupted, his tone clipped but apologetic. “The Minister wants results, and the intel suggests their next meeting is imminent. If we miss this, we might not get another chance.”

Malfoy tilted his head, his expression equal parts amused and disinterested. “I take it we’re not allowed to say no to this brilliant plan?”

“No,” Harry replied flatly, his gaze narrowing. “You’re not. And you both know why.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she held her tongue. Malfoy, of course, didn’t.

“Well,” he drawled, glancing at Hermione, “I suppose Granger’s got her spreadsheets ready. Shouldn’t be too hard for her to conjure up a whole new personality, right? Something delightfully boring, no doubt.”

Before Hermione could snap back, Harry gave Malfoy a sharp look. "There is a reason the Minister decided to bring in Hermione as a second set of eyes and ears."

Malfoy tilted his head, his expression equal parts amused and disinterested. “Right. Because a mission like this needs two people instead of just the one who’s already been doing it.”

Harry’s gaze hardened. “Your cover is intact, Malfoy, but we need someone on the inside who isn’t… you.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to smirk. But Malfoy caught the flicker of amusement on her face.

“Well,” he drawled, glancing at her, “if I’m stuck with a partner, at least it’s someone who’ll keep the paperwork organized. I’m sure Granger’s already got color-coded plans for every eventuality.”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “At least I’ll be prepared, unlike you, who’ll probably just charm your way through and hope no one notices your total lack of substance.”

Draco smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Charming people is a skill, Granger. Maybe I’ll give you a lesson or two—if you ask nicely.”

“Enough,” Harry cut in, raising a hand to silence them both. “You’ve got your assignments. Hermione, I need your undercover identity finalized and submitted for approval by six tonight. Malfoy, you’re assisting her with this.”

Hermione’s head snapped toward Harry. “What?”

Harry met her incredulous stare without flinching. “You heard me. He’s got more experience with deception than you do, and you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Malfoy’s smirk widened. “Finally, some recognition for my talents.”

Hermione groaned inwardly, already dreading the hours ahead.

*****

The office Harry had assigned them was cramped, with walls painted a drab shade of grey and a single desk barely large enough for two people. Hermione sat at one end, a quill in her hand, furiously scribbling notes in her journal. Malfoy, of course, was draped lazily across the only chair with a decent cushion, twirling his wand between his fingers.

“You’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes, Granger. Surely you’ve come up with something by now.”

“I’m brainstorming,” Hermione snapped without looking up.

“Oh, I can see that. Very inspiring. The furious scribbling really screams ‘master of deception.’”

She slammed the quill down, spinning to face him. “Unlike you, Malfoy, I don’t rely on snide remarks and a trust fund to get through life. Some of us actually put in the effort.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re calling this? Effort? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re preparing for an interview at Flourish and Blotts, not infiltrating a group of criminals.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to throw something at him. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“I am helping. I’m helping by pointing out that your current approach is rubbish.” He leaned forward, his tone softening slightly, though the smirk remained. “Look, this isn’t about being the cleverest witch in the room. It’s about being convincing. What kind of person do you think these people would trust?”

Hermione hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her notebook. She hated to admit it, but he had a point.

“Well,” she said slowly, “My alias needs to have a rich backstory—where I grew up, my favorite dessert, maybe even a pet. I was thinking she’s from an academic family in Edinburgh—”

Malfoy groaned, cutting her off. “Merlin, Granger, you’re not writing a novel. Just pick a name and don’t talk about books for five minutes. It’ll be an improvement.”

She flushed, glaring daggers at him. “Would you like me to hex your mouth shut, or are you actually going to contribute something useful?”

Malfoy smirked. “I’d like to see you try, but let’s stay focused, shall we? They’re criminals, not Ravenclaws. They’re not looking for ‘intelligent’ or ‘resourceful.’ They’re looking for someone who fits in. Someone who can talk their way out of a tight spot without resorting to a textbook definition.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned, but she refused to let him see her falter. “Fine,” she said curtly. “What do you suggest, then?”

Malfoy’s smirk widened. “Let’s see… How about you try being someone a little less… Hermione Granger? Give them a reason to let their guard down. Start small, listen to the great master of deception in the room because he tires of repeating himself and give me a name.”

Hermione stared at him, contemplating to turn his stupid face green, and then looked down at her notebook. A name. That seemed easy enough. Except every suggestion that came to mind sounded ridiculous. She hated feeling this unprepared.

“Fine,” she muttered after a pause. “Call me… Eliza Carter.”

Malfoy snorted. “Eliza Carter? Sounds like someone who sells overpriced cauldrons on Diagon Alley. Try again.”

“Then what would you suggest?”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully, his expression far too smug for her liking. “Something simpler. Less posh. How about Eva Blake?”

Hermione frowned, turning the name over in her mind. It wasn’t bad, she had to admit. But she wasn’t about to let him win this easily. “Fine. Eva Blake. But if you mock me one more time—”

“Yes, you'll hex my mouth shut, I remember.” He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Please, Granger, as if you’d waste that level of effort on me.”

She exhaled sharply, muttering under her breath as she returned to her notes. “Three days,” she murmured. “We’ll see who’s laughing when this mission is over.”

From his chair, Malfoy’s soft chuckle lingered in the air. “Looking forward to it, Eva.”

*****

The briefing room was pleasantly quiet, save for the soft shuffle of parchment and the ticking of an old clock in the corner. Kingsley Shacklebolt sat at the head of the table, his broad shoulders filling the chair, his usual calm demeanor betraying no hint of the tension in the air. Hermione sat across from him, her hands gripping her spreadsheet paper so tightly that the edges curled. Malfoy stood beside her, leaning casually against the wall, his expression unreadable.

"Alright, Granger," Kingsley said, his deep voice cutting through the stillness. "Present your identity."

Hermione nodded stiffly, her throat dry. She had worked hard on this, and yet, now that the moment had come, she felt unprepared. She’d been given until 6 p.m. to present her identity—less than six hours—and though the identity was solid—she and Malfoy had devised it carefully—it still felt like she was about to walk into a lion’s den with nothing but her nerves to help her. They weren't being very helpful currently.

"Her name is Eva Blake," Hermione began, her words coming out a little too quickly. She cleared her throat, trying to steady herself. "She’s... a freelance consultant working in the darker corners of magical commerce. She’s... not well-known, but she’s... connected. She deals in rare and, uh, dangerous artifacts. People who don’t ask questions come to her for their needs."

Her mind raced as she tried to remember the rest of what she'd worked out with Malfoy. She felt like her mouth was moving faster than her brain. "She’s not one of them—she’s not a known sympathizer, but she’s known to work with Death Eater sympathizers. She’s not someone you’d notice, but if you need something dark, you know who to ask."

Kingsley’s eyes never left her face, and the weight of his gaze made her throat tighten. "And how does she operate? How does she survive?" he asked.

Hermione blinked, forcing herself to focus. She had to get this right. There was no turning back now.

"She’s adaptable. She’s... always moving between the cracks," Hermione continued. "She knows how to avoid being noticed, how to manipulate situations. She’s... cutthroat when she has to be. She’s been involved in shady dealings before, and she’s not afraid of... using violence if necessary."

Kingsley nodded slowly, clearly assessing the weight of her words. He gave a brief glance to Malfoy, then back to Hermione. "What does she have to gain from becoming a part of their organisation? And how do we know that ‘Eva Blake’ won’t blow our cover the moment she steps into the field?"

Before Hermione could respond, Malfoy’s voice cut in, his tone dismissive and dry. "With how uptight and nervous she sounds, she’ll blow our cover before we even make it out the door," he said, his eyes flicking to Hermione with thinly veiled annoyance.

Hermione’s jaw tightened. "Excuse me?" she snapped, giving him a sharp look.

Malfoy didn't smile, but it was clear he was unfazed by her outcry, amused, even. "You can’t go pretending to be Eva Blake with that much bloody uncertainty in your voice. People will smell the doubt from a mile away."

Hermione clenched her fists, but she held her ground. "If you're so high and mighty, how about you give me some actual pointers instead of spewing bloody mockery all day?" Oh, how she wished to strangle him in that moment.

Kingsley cleared his throat, interrupting before the argument could escalate further. "That’s enough," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Granger, you’ve given us the basics, but Malfoy’s right. You need to be more convincing." He glanced between them, his gaze lingering for a moment on the tension brewing between the two. "Get it right. You’ve got two more days until the mission starts."

Hermione nodded stiffly, swallowing her frustration. She could feel Malfoy’s eyes on her as she turned to leave, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

Once they were in the corridor, Hermione didn’t wait for him to catch up before she started walking. He had to jog to match her pace, a small satisfaction. Her thoughts were racing as she tried to focus. She wasn’t sure she could pull this off, but she didn't have a choice. She had to get convincing, fast.

After they turned a third corner, Malfoy glanced over at her, his expression unreadable, and broke the silence. "You’ve got a long way to go before you’re ready to walk into a room full of people who would kill you for a single slip-up, Granger," he said, his voice low but sharp. "You need to be Eva Blake. Not just her name, but her attitude. Her... everything."

Hermione clenched her jaw. He was right and she knew it, but she was far too annoyed with him to give him even an inch right now. "And I’m supposed to do that in a couple of days? Get real, Malfoy."

"Yes, that’s the plan," he said, not breaking stride. "You don’t have a choice."

Hermione felt a surge of irritation. "Don’t you dare tell me what I can or can’t do." She knew she was being nonsensical, but she couldn't stop her mouth from moving.

Malfoy didn’t flinch. "Well, I’m telling you now. If you don’t get it together, we’re both as good as dead."

She swallowed the retort she wanted to fire off. There were certain boundaries she wasn't angry enough to cross yet. She shot him a withering look instead.

Malfoy, in turn, quirked his eyebrow, but seemed to also consider his words. Hermione felt a small sense of relief at the thought of him shutting up for once, before he spoke again. She didn't suppress her eyeroll.

"Granger," Malfoy muttered, quickening his pace. "You need to practice. You’ve got two days to make yourself unrecognizable to anyone who isn’t a Death Eater."

"Thank you for stating the obvious, Malfoy," she retorted, but her voice lacked the bite she had had a few moments ago. 

He used the opening she had given him with that. "Apologies, I wouldn't want to take over your job for you." She scowled at him.

Malfoy must have finally gotten tired of her half-run through the Ministry, as she suddenly got halted to a stop by his hand grabbing her by the elbow. She recoiled and immediately ripped her arm free from his grasp. "Don't touch me, Malfoy."

Malfoy raised both hands in mock surrender, his smirk faltering for just a moment. A flicker of something—surprise, maybe?—passed through his eyes at her sharp reaction. He recovered quickly, though, his usual air of indifference snapping back into place. "Relax, Granger," he said smoothly. "No need to get your knickers in a twist."

Hermione scowled, her pulse hammering in her ears. She didn’t trust herself to respond without snapping, so she stayed silent. This had escalated enough already. The last thing she needed was to lose control in front of Malfoy.

Unfazed, Malfoy filled the silence, his tone irritatingly light. "For someone so desperate to save the world, you’ve got a funny way of making allies." He crossed his arms, feigning a thoughtful expression. "But fine. No touching. Message received."

He stepped back, giving her space, though his gaze remained fixed on her. "Look," he said, his tone hardening again, "you’re not going to bluff your way through this mission with sheer indignation. You're not me. You need help."

Hermione let out a short laugh, entirely devoid of humor. "Help from you? You’ve got to be joking. All you've been doing is crack jokes. Unfunny ones, by the way."

His smirk returned, wider now. "Oh, of course. I find nothing more amusing than the prospect of getting killed because you can’t act your way out of a paper bag. The funniest thing to happen to me all year." He paused, his tone dropping. "This isn’t a joke, Granger. You need to pull it together."

Her fists clenched at her sides. "I’m working on it, Malfoy," she said through gritted teeth. "But forgive me if pretending to be someone who associates with Death Eaters isn’t second nature to me."

Malfoy’s eyes darkened, his voice turning colder. "You think it’s second nature to me?" he said, stepping closer. "You think I don’t have to fight every instinct telling me to get as far away from this as possible? This isn’t about what you’re comfortable with, Granger. It’s about what’s necessary. And right now, what’s necessary is you being convincing enough not to get us both killed."

The weight of his words hit her like a blow, leaving her breathless for a moment. Hermione forced herself to take a slow, deliberate breath. Her hands still trembled, but her voice was steady when she spoke. "Fine," she said, her tone clipped. "Then help me. But if you’re just going to keep acting like a prick, Malfoy, I swear—"

"Alright," he interrupted, his tone clipped. "Meet me tonight. Seven o’clock."

Her brow furrowed. "Where? Why?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "The Leaky Cauldron. Public enough to keep things civil but private enough to work. You and I are going to practice."

Hermione stared at him, weighing her options. There weren’t many. She still hated the idea of relying on him, but he wasn’t wrong—she couldn’t afford to fail. "Fine," she said, more firmly this time. "But if you show up late—"

"You’ll what?" he interrupted, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Lecture me to death?"

Her glare could have melted steel. "Just be there on time," she snapped, turning sharply on her heel. She marched down the corridor, her footsteps echoing, determined not to let him get the last word.

Malfoy didn’t follow this time, but she could feel his gaze boring into her back. She refused to look back, not even once. Two days wasn’t long, but it would have to be enough. Failure wasn’t an option—not for her, not for this mission. And if it meant enduring Malfoy’s insufferable company to succeed, she would have to find a way to make it work.

*****

The cold bit at Hermione’s fingertips, and she shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. A biting November wind howled through Diagon Alley, pulling at her hair and stinging her cheeks. She stood just outside The Leaky Cauldron’s entrance, glancing at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. It was seven o’clock on the dot, and Malfoy, surprisingly, wasn’t late.

Of course, he wasn’t early, either.

She spotted him the moment he turned the corner, his unmistakable silhouette moving with infuriating ease through the bustling street. His scarf was perfectly knotted, his coat tailored to fit him like a second skin. He exuded the kind of effortless poise that Hermione had long since decided was both natural and deeply irritating.

Malfoy’s eyes met hers as he approached, his lips curling into a smirk. "Waiting out here in the cold, Granger? Were you that eager to see me?"

Hermione’s scowl deepened. "You’re right on time, Malfoy. Barely. Shall we?" She turned sharply on her heel, pushing open the pub’s door without waiting for a response.

The warmth of the Leaky Cauldron enveloped her instantly, though it did little to ease her annoyance. The pub was alive with chatter and the clinking of mugs, a haze of pipe smoke curling near the ceiling. Hermione made a beeline for a corner table, far enough from the other patrons to allow for some privacy.

Malfoy followed, shedding his coat and scarf with an exaggerated flourish before draping them over the back of his chair. "Cozy little spot you’ve picked," he remarked, sliding into the seat across from her.

"I’m not here for coziness," she replied tersely. "Let’s just get this over with."

"Ah, there’s that charm you’re so famous for." He leaned back in his chair, his smirk firmly in place. "Alright, Granger. Lesson one: you need to stop looking like you’re about to hex someone every time you speak. It’s not the most convincing act for someone trying to blend in with Death Eater sympathizers."

Hermione crossed her arms, her posture rigid. "Maybe if you explained how I’m supposed to act, instead of just criticizing me, we’d make some progress."

Malfoy’s smirk widened, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It’s simple. Confidence, Granger. You’re playing the part of someone who believes they belong. Someone who doesn’t flinch at the idea of… unsavory company."

"I don’t flinch," she shot back defensively.

"Really?" He arched a brow. "Let’s test that theory."

Without warning, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the tabletop. She snatched her hand back as though burned, her eyes narrowing into a glare.

"Are you demented? I said don’t touch me quite literally an hour ago," she hissed, her voice low but venomous.

Malfoy regarded her for a moment, his gaze sharper now. "You’re going to have to do better than that," he said, his tone cooling. "If you freeze up every time someone gets too close, we’re both as good as dead. Let’s try again. Pretend I’m an old friend. Someone you trust."

Hermione let out a humorless laugh. "Trust? With you? I take it back, you are funny."

She could swear he saw real enjoyment flash across his features. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and she wondered if she had imagined it. "Not me, Granger. Your role. Remember? This isn’t about what you feel. It’s about what they see."

She hated that he was right. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to meet his gaze, willing her voice to remain steady. "Fine. What do I say, then?"

Malfoy leaned forward, his expression a mixture of mockery and challenge. "You start by looking like you’re happy to see me. Smile, Granger. You remember how to do that, don’t you?"

The glare she shot him could have melted steel. But she plastered on a stiff, unconvincing smile, her jaw tight.

"Terrifying," he drawled, his lips twitching with barely concealed amusement. "Let’s try not to scare anyone off, shall we?"

The back-and-forth continued, with Hermione stumbling over phrases and Malfoy’s constant interruptions doing little to help. But by the time their drinks arrived—two pints he’d ordered without asking—Hermione was at least managing a passable imitation of someone who didn’t loathe the man sitting across from her.

"Not bad," Malfoy admitted grudgingly, raising his glass in a mock toast. "For a fourth attempt."

Hermione ignored the jab and raised her glass stiffly, her fingers tightening around the cold, condensation-slick surface. "Let’s not celebrate mediocrity," she muttered before taking a small sip, wincing at the bitter taste.

Malfoy grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "And let’s not downplay progress, either. Baby steps, Granger."

She set her glass down with a clink and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Fine. What’s next, then? Are we moving on to practicing secret handshakes or—Merlin forbid—how to deliver Death Eater small talk?"

Malfoy’s grin widened, and he tilted his head as if considering her suggestion. "Tempting, but no. We’re sticking to the basics for now. The next lesson is about body language."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Body language?"

"Yes. Your posture screams ‘head girl on patrol.’ Straight-backed, arms crossed, chin raised. It’s very… authoritarian." He took a deliberate sip of his drink. "And very obvious."

Hermione resisted the urge to cross her arms more tightly. "What’s wrong with good posture?"

"Nothing, if you’re lecturing first-years about cauldron safety. But we’re aiming for subtlety here. Relax, Granger. Lean back. Look at me like you’re enjoying this conversation."

Her eyes narrowed. "That’s asking a lot."

"And yet, here you are," he quipped, gesturing for her to follow his lead.

With a sigh that spoke volumes of her reluctance, Hermione leaned back in her chair, her shoulders stiff despite her best efforts. She forced herself to uncross her arms and rest them on the table instead.

"Better," Malfoy said, scrutinizing her with an almost unnerving intensity. "Now, soften the eyes a bit. You look like you’re planning my funeral."

"I might be," she muttered under her breath, earning a low chuckle from him.

"And relax your mouth," he added, ignoring her barb. "That tight little line is very… Hermione Granger. Not exactly what we’re going for."

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes and instead took a deep breath, forcing her jaw to unclench. She felt ridiculous, like a schoolgirl practicing for a drama production.

"Much better," Malfoy said after a moment, leaning forward again. "See? You’re a natural."

She gave him a withering look. "I’m not sure I want to be a natural at pretending to enjoy your company."

"Then consider it an act of self-preservation," he said smoothly. "Because if you can’t sell this out there, they’ll eat you alive."

The words sent a chill down her spine, and for a moment, Hermione’s annoyance gave way to something heavier—fear, perhaps, or the weight of the task ahead. She glanced away, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass.

"Granger," Malfoy said, his tone softer now, though still edged with his trademark drawl. "You’ll do fine. You just need to get out of your own head."

Her gaze snapped back to his, and for once, she didn’t have a quick retort. She hated to admit it, but there was something oddly reassuring about his confidence, even if it was laced with smugness.

"Are you always this insufferable when you’re teaching someone?" she asked after a moment, her voice lighter now, almost teasing.

He smirked. "Only when the student is particularly hopeless."

Hermione snorted despite herself, shaking her head. "Hopeless, my arse. Let’s see if you’re still laughing when I’ve mastered this and leave you in the dust."

For a fleeting moment, Malfoy’s expression shifted—surprise flickering in his eyes, followed by something softer, though she couldn't figure out what it was. He lifted his glass, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he were fighting back a genuine smile. "I’ll hold you to that."

This time, Hermione didn’t hesitate to clink hers against his. The sound was small but significant, a brief truce amidst their endless sparring.

As the night wore on, their conversation shifted, the tension between them loosening just slightly. They were still far from friends—miles apart, even—but in that dim corner of the Leaky Cauldron, they found a fragile rhythm.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

*****

The chill in the air nipped at Hermione’s skin, and she couldn’t help but shiver slightly. They had made their way deep into Knockturn Alley, past its twisted, crooked shops and the shadowy figures who seemed to blend with the darkness. It felt like stepping far away from civilization, and Hermione’s every instinct told her she should be elsewhere, anywhere but here.

“This was a bad idea,” she muttered, pulling her cloak tighter around herself.

Malfoy, walking effortlessly beside her, didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were trained on the alleyway, his posture relaxed but alert. "You're fine," he finally said, though his tone held the slightest hint of amusement. "Just follow my lead, and you won’t have to worry about anything."

Hermione glanced at him sharply. “Yeah, because that worked so well earlier.”

He shrugged. “One step at a time, Granger.”

They passed a dark storefront that seemed abandoned, the windows shuttered but with faint glimmers of movement inside. Hermione was just about to comment when a sudden commotion from a nearby alley caught her attention. She paused, squinting into the shadows.

A group of men stood around a cart, its contents spilling out onto the cobblestones in an unsettling display. There were crates filled with various items—some of them in wrapped parcels that seemed far too neatly organized for anything legal. One of the men was holding up what looked like a bundle of potions, shaking them as if inspecting the quality.

Hermione’s breath hitched. She knew those potions—black market wares, easy to get if you knew the right people, but illegal nonetheless.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, her voice tense. “Those are—those are restricted potions. And that’s not even counting whatever else is in those crates.” She looked at him, her heart pounding. “We can’t just stand here. We should—”

“Don’t.” Malfoy's voice was low, but there was an undeniable authority in it. He reached out, grabbing her wrist before she could step forward.

She shot him a glare, her frustration mounting. “What do you mean, ‘don’t’?” She shook his hand off. “Those are illegal! We should be doing something.”

Malfoy's eyes flicked to the group, sizing them up quickly. The men were distracted, clearly too wrapped up in their business to notice the two of them. “What we should do,” he said softly, his tone steely, “is nothing. Not yet.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t rush in without knowing who you’re dealing with.” He glanced over at her, his expression darkening. “That lot? They’re exactly who we’re here to learn about. Making a scene won’t help us.”

“But we can’t just—”

“I know,” he cut her off, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s hard to just let this go. But we’re not here to play the hero, Granger. We’re here to gather intel and help you fit in so you don't get killed in two days, not make them suspicious.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, torn between her instinct to step in and her growing understanding that this wasn’t as simple as she'd hoped. She watched, frustration clawing at her chest, as one of the men tossed a handful of Galleons onto the cart in exchange for one of the potions.

The two of them stayed hidden in the shadows, watching as the transaction unfolded. The men exchanged a few more words, all of them gruff, one of them handing over a black leather pouch that jingled with the unmistakable sound of coins.

Hermione’s fingers itched to step in, to make sure something was done about it, but Malfoy's calmness anchored her. For now, they observed. She took a steadying breath and focused on observing their mannerisms, their way of speaking whenever she caught words that were carried over the wind.

She was nothing if not adaptable, she told herself. She could almost hear Malfoy's snort in her head as a response. Even if he hadn't actually done anything irritating right now, she still shot a glare at the back of his head, just because.

As the group of men began to disperse, Malfoy turned to Hermione, his expression now serious. “You’ll get your chance, Granger. But tonight, we walk away with information, not heroism.”

Hermione gritted her teeth but nodded. The adrenaline of wanting to act was still there, but she had to admit, he was right. They couldn’t afford to blow their cover before the mission had even begun.

*****

As they stepped back into the bustling heart of Diagon Alley, the sudden change in atmosphere was almost jarring. The dark, oppressive weight of Knockturn Alley seemed to lift, replaced by the familiar sounds of chatter and clinking glass from nearby shops. It was a world where nothing too dangerous seemed to be going on, at least on the surface.

Hermione couldn’t help but exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly. The air here was lighter, more predictable. People milled about, shopping for their potion ingredients or discussing the latest magical gossip, oblivious to the undercurrent of danger Hermione could still feel.

"Well," she said, turning toward Draco with a raised eyebrow, "that was certainly an... eye-opening experience."

Malfoy's lips quirked as he glanced around, clearly more at ease now. "Were you hoping for something a bit more exciting?" he teased, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No, I was hoping for a little less of that," she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction they’d just walked from. "I’m all for stopping dark magic, but sometimes I feel like I'm walking into a bloody hornet's nest."

He chuckled, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Yeah, well, that's sort of the point. You can't stop the hornets if you're too busy tiptoeing around their nest."

Hermione shot him a sidelong glance, her lips twitching. "And you know this from personal experience, do you? Should I be concerned?"

He looked at her, feigning innocence. "Only if you're afraid of getting stung."

She snorted, shaking her head. "You know, Malfoy, for someone who claims to be all relaxation all the time, you certainly have a way of talking like you’re the one leading this operation."

Malfoy grinned. "Someone’s got to take the reins around here, Granger. Besides, you’re not exactly a picture of calm and collected yourself."

Hermione crossed her arms, a challenge in her voice. "I am always calm and collected."

"Is that what you call that?" He gestured vaguely to her stiff posture and clenched jaw. "You were ready to hex someone back there."

She narrowed her eyes. "At least I don't look like I'm about to burst into a dramatic monologue at any given moment."

His smirk widened, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something like amusement?-Hermione was getting irritated at the amount of complex feelings she could see but not read on him.

"Touché. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure I was just as ready to hex someone."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief in her expression. "You? Really?"

"Shocking, isn’t it?" Draco said with a mock sigh. "I may have a reputation for being calm and collected, but every now and then, even I want to throw a good hex in there."

"Merlin forbid," Hermione quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We wouldn't want anyone to think you're not polished."

"Ah, but it's all part of my charm, Granger." He grinned, the smirk still tugging at his lips. "Polished enough to not be too intimidating at first glance, but menace enough inside to get to where I need to be."

He paused, another unreadable look in his eyes. "You know, you're tougher than you look. Maybe you will actually survive this."

Hermione’s expression softened slightly, though she kept her guard up. "I’m not sure that’s saying much, Malfoy. I’m pretty sure you just insulted me, but I’ll let it slide."

He chuckled again. "You know, Granger, I think I’m starting to understand why people find you so... intimidating."

She stopped walking, turning to face him fully, and raised a questioning eyebrow. "More insults coming my way?"

He put a hand to his heart and feigned offense. "I wouldn't dare."

Her lips twitched as she fought back a smile. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax, the tension between them fading slightly. Then, as if remembering herself, she stiffened, her gaze shifting away.

"I think I’ve had enough for tonight," Hermione muttered, her voice suddenly colder than before.

Malfoy paused, looking at her quizzically. "What, no witty retort?"

She shook her head, turning toward the direction of the nearest apparition point. "No. Goodnight, Malfoy."

He stared at her, a flicker of something again crossing his face, but he said nothing as she walked away.

[softone-ao3]

Chapter 2: Where We Lie

Hermione sank into the armchair by Luna’s small, cluttered hearth, cradling the steaming teacup in her hands. The warmth seeped into her fingers, grounding her as she tried to organize her thoughts. Around them, the room was alive with Luna’s eccentric touches—strings of dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, a crystal mobile catching the afternoon sunlight, and a small, crooked painting of a crumple-horned snorkack peeking out from behind a stack of books. Hermione only knew what those were supposed to look like because Luna had made her study her drawings of them over dinner several years ago, even going so far as explaining the details of their subtle changings of color during mating-season. She almost chuckled at the memory.

Luna perched on the floor across from her, cross-legged, with her own cup of tea balanced precariously on her knee. She was absentmindedly tracing patterns in the rug with a quill that seemed to have sprouted tiny feathers of its own.

“I imagine it was a bit of a shock,” Luna said gently, breaking the silence.

Hermione blinked, startled. “What was?”

“Seeing him again.”

The words hung in the air, light yet inescapable. Hermione’s fingers tightened on the cup as she looked down into the swirling liquid. She hadn’t said a word about the meeting—not yet—but Luna had always been unnervingly perceptive.

“It’s…” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s not just him. It’s everything. The mission. The stakes. The fact that Harry thinks this is a good idea.” She let out a bitter laugh. “And now I have to trust Malfoy of all people to make it work.”

Luna tilted her head, her quill stilling as she considered this. “Trust might not be the right word, though, right? You don’t have to trust him to believe he has his own reasons for wanting this to succeed.”

Hermione frowned. “That’s… surprisingly logical.”

Luna beamed. “Oh, I’ve been practicing! But I also think he might be a nargle-magnet. They do tend to attach themselves to people with unresolved guilt.”

Hermione blinked. “A… nargle-magnet.”

“Yes,” Luna said serenely. “You’ll want to keep an eye on that. They can be quite distracting in delicate situations.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure whether to laugh or argue. She decided to do neither.

“It might help to think of it like an experiment,” Luna went on, as if she hadn’t just veered into the absurd again. “You don’t trust a cauldron to boil perfectly the first time, do you? You watch it. Adjust as needed. And sometimes you have to throw the whole thing out and start over.”

Hermione let out a genuine laugh, soft but real. “That’s one way to put it.”

But her smile faded quickly. She set her teacup on the side table and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “It’s just… being near him. It brings things up, you know? Things I’d rather not think about.”

Luna nodded, her gaze drifting to the ceiling, where a small charm in the shape of a dandelion puff was spinning lazily in an invisible breeze. “The Manor?”

Hermione’s breath caught. She hadn’t spoken about that night in years. Not to Harry, not to Ginny—not even to Ron when they were still together. But Luna said it so gently, without judgment or pity, as if she were naming a particularly stubborn constellation.

“Maybe,” Hermione admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not just the Manor. It’s… everything. The war. The things we had to do. The things we didn’t do.”

Luna reached out, placing a hand over Hermione’s. “It’s okay not to have the words for it yet,” she said softly. “Sometimes, they come when they’re ready. And until then, it’s okay to just feel.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, and she looked away, blinking back the sting of tears. “Thank you, Luna,” she murmured.

“Always,” Luna said, her voice full of quiet conviction. She paused, tilting her head again. “Though you might want to watch your tea. The gillyroot in it tends to make one’s thoughts louder. Useful, but not ideal for secrets.”

*****

After tea with Luna, Hermione felt a little lighter. She could recognize that sharing her feelings with others was definitely not one of her strengths, and she was working on it, but that was part of why she loved Luna so much. The witch was perceptive and intuitive in a way that allowed Hermione to share without, well, sharing. Or at least having to deal with the discomfort of talking about emotions.

She had kept dinner light to keep her mind sharp, wanting to head back to the solitude of her office at the Ministry. She had to read through the information that had been given to her, had to be prepared. Eliminating any and all mistakes that could possibly be made. If she knew the rules of the game, she could control the board.

The steady hum of the Ministry outside her door was muffled in the late hour, and the only light in the room came from the flickering of her desk lamp. She reached for the folder Harry had handed her earlier, its contents now weighing heavily on her desk. The mission—dangerous, delicate, and complicated—was more than just another assignment. It felt personal, especially now that Draco Malfoy was involved.

"Focus," she muttered under her breath as she opened the folder and spread the papers across her desk. The map she had glanced at earlier was still there, marked with locations, some familiar, some entirely new. She knew that map inside and out, and still, something about it gnawed at her. There were gaps in the intel, shadows she couldn’t quite place.

As her eyes flickered over the details, her thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation with Luna. She’d barely acknowledged her own emotions about working with Draco; she hadn’t needed to. But now, alone, she allowed herself to admit that the thought of being forced into close proximity with him again unsettled her more than she was willing to let on.

She wasn’t naïve; she knew that Draco had changed. He had to have, right? The war had scarred them all, but Draco had made his choices then. The very idea of trusting him felt impossible. Hermione hadn’t even been aware that the Ministry had employed Malfoy at all. What kind of in did he have with them? What were his goals?

Sighing, the witch rubbed her temples. She couldn’t afford to be caught off guard. She had to be prepared for anything.

Hours passed as Hermione pored over the reports. She read each file carefully, scrutinizing the lists of contacts, the safehouses, and the potential threats. Every detail was critical, every misstep could mean disaster. Her sharp mind caught inconsistencies in the information. A safehouse near Diagon Alley had been compromised a few days ago, but the report didn’t mention why. There were vague references to sightings of suspicious figures in muggle areas, but no clear leads. The trail felt cold, but it was all they had to go on.

As she sat back in her chair, eyes bleary but her mind still sharp, she allowed herself a brief sigh. She was as ready as she could be—but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, something important she hadn’t yet uncovered.

The knock on the door was sharp, unsettling, and completely unexpected. Hermione’s hand instinctively shot to where she had holstered her wand as she glanced toward the door, her nerves taut. She didn’t expect visitors at this hour.

She certainly didn't expect his head to peek through the now halfway-opened door.

"Granger," Draco Malfoy’s voice sliced through the stillness, cold and clipped. "We need to talk."

She hesitated. Of all the people to show up uninvited, Draco was perhaps the least welcome. She decided not to bother with pleasantries. "I’m busy."

"I can see that," he replied, pushing the door open fully now, with a casualness that made her blood simmer. "You don’t mind if I come in, do you?" His tone betrayed how much he was enjoying this, like he wasn't bothering with being pleasant, either.

"Actually, I do," Hermione said, not bothering to look up from the files scattered in front of her. Her voice was steady but sharp, masking the tension coiling in her gut. She couldn’t help it—every inch of her wanted to throw him out. Or hex him back to where he came from. But she needed to be professional. She could manage a few more minutes of his presence, no matter how much it irked her, if only to hear him out about about whatever information he was about to give her.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with that infuriatingly smug expression. "Uptight as ever, Granger. It’s just a conversation."

"And I’m not in the mood to have one with you," Hermione snapped, her fingers tightening around the edge of the file. She could feel her pulse rising as he refused to leave.

"It’s about the mission," Draco continued, ignoring her thinly veiled hostility. "If you could get the stick out of your arse for five minutes, I'd highly appreciate it. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not get killed on this mission because the ministry decided to have us work together."

Hermione’s eyes shot up to meet Draco’s, sharp and challenging. "You think I’m the one with the problem?" Her voice was ice, her jaw clenched tight. "You waltz in here, without an ounce of tact, and now you want to lecture me about how we’re going to handle a mission that you’re barely qualified for?"

Draco’s smirk deepened, and he pushed himself off the doorframe with a fluid motion, stepping further into the room. "I’m qualified enough. I’m here, aren’t I? Which, by the way, you should be thanking me for." He circled her desk, looking down at the map she had been poring over earlier, as if he owned the room. "But, if it makes you feel better to pretend otherwise, by all means, go ahead and keep believing that your obsessive little plans are all that’s going to get us through."

Hermione stood up abruptly, sending the chair skidding back with a loud scrape. "I don’t need you, Malfoy," she bit out, stepping closer to him. "I can handle myself just fine, thank you very much. If anything, you’re a liability—someone the Ministry should have kept at arm’s length, not thrown into the fire with me."

Draco didn’t flinch, but his eyes narrowed. "I don’t need your approval, Granger," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "But the fact remains that this mission is bigger than your petty grudges. And if you want to live through it, you’d better start thinking outside your little box. I'm already the man on the inside, I'm the one whose reputation precedes him by so much, doors to dark wizard organisations aren't just opened for me, they practically roll out the red fucking carpet once they hear the name 'Malfoy'." He took a sharp breath, as if to calm himself, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. Hermione held hers in turn until he breathed out again.

They stood there for a moment, the tension so thick it felt suffocating. Hermione’s fingers twitched toward her wand, though she knew she wouldn’t act on it—not yet. But damn it, the way he was looking at her, like he was daring her to do something, was driving her mad.

"Why do you even care? You're already on the inside, and what-you want to work with me?" she asked, her voice trembling only slightly from the pressure building in her chest. "What exactly are you proposing? That I drop everything and listen to your grand plan? You said it yourself, Malfoy. Your reputation precedes you. You think I’m going to trust you just like that?"

His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that might have been regret, or maybe guilt. "I didn’t ask for your trust," he said quietly. "But you will need me. Whether you like it or not."

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, and for a split second, she faltered. He was right. Despite everything, despite how she hated to admit it, she knew this mission was beyond her alone. She didn't miss how he avoided the question why he would want to work with her on this, though. And working with him, especially after everything that had happened during the war? The thought made her stomach twist.

"I don’t need your help," she said firmly, taking a step back, forcing herself to regain control. "If the Ministry thinks you’re the best they can send, they’ve clearly lost their minds."

Draco’s lips parted, as if he was about to snap back, but then he seemed to reconsider. His gaze was hard, but his tone was calm. "Maybe they have. Or maybe you’re just too damn proud to admit that you can’t do this without me."

Hermione’s fists clenched, and her eyes narrowed again. "You don’t get to come in here, stand there like you own the place, and try to manipulate me into thinking I need you," she spat, her voice fierce. "I’ve worked with dangerous people before. I can do this on my own."

Draco’s eyes flashed, his patience fraying. "You’re not doing this on your own, Granger. And if you think for one second you can make it out of this unscathed, you’re as delusional as you’ve always been."

For a long moment, they stood facing each other, the air crackling with unspoken words and unshed anger. Hermione’s breath was coming fast, but she held her ground.

Finally, Draco let out a breath, his expression shifting, and for a fleeting moment, there was something almost... resigned in his gaze. "Look," he said, more evenly now, "I get it. I’m not here to be your bloody friend. But you need me on this mission. And whether you like it or not, I’m not going anywhere."

Hermione stared at him for a long beat, her mind racing with a thousand conflicting thoughts. Could she really afford to push him away? Could she trust him enough to work together, just for this mission? She didn’t know. But she had no other choice, really. It would be foolish not to at least utilize the intel he could bring.

With a sharp exhale, she finally spoke, the words leaving her mouth reluctantly. "Fine. We’ll work together. But this doesn’t mean I trust you."

Draco gave a slight nod, his lips twitching with something that might have been approval—or amusement. "It’s a start."

Hermione couldn’t suppress a bitter laugh. "A start?" she repeated, her voice a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "It's as far as this is going to go."

Draco’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something behind his cold eyes—was it exhaustion? Or maybe something like resignation? She wasn’t sure, but it irritated her to no end.

"Your ability to capture the obvious is as refined as ever, Granger. Just follow my lead when the time comes," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but she caught the faintest edge in it, as if he was trying not to show how much this whole arrangement grated on him too. "That's all I wanted to work out with you when I came here."

The tension between them was thick as ever, but there was a strange understanding lingering beneath it. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t even close. But it was something that made the air feel a little less suffocating.

Hermione folded her arms, her posture defensive, though she could no longer deny the frustration she felt at being backed into a corner. “Fine. We’ll follow your lead... for now. But don’t get too comfortable.”

Draco nodded, his lips curling into a half-smile that made her stomach twist. "Don’t worry, Granger. I never do."

He turned to leave, but as his hand hovered over the doorframe, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, and Granger? You might want to prepare yourself. It’s not going to be pretty.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve faced worse than you, Malfoy,” she shot back. If this was going to work, if they were going to survive the mission, she couldn’t afford to show any doubt.

Draco gave a sharp, humorless chuckle before disappearing through the door, leaving her standing there, her mind a whirl of unease and lingering tension.

As the door clicked shut behind Draco, Hermione’s thoughts hung heavy in the silence. His presence, his words, his smug expression—all of it lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. She stood there for a long moment, her body frozen, trying to piece together the whirlwind of emotions that had been stirred up.

Trust. That single word echoed in her mind. Draco’s quiet admission that he didn’t expect it. That they both needed each other for the mission, though he hadn't disclosed what his motivations for wanting to make this work were. But more than that, it stirred something deeper inside her—something she’d spent years burying.

Hermione’s hand clenched at her side, her nails digging into her palm as her gaze moved toward the small pile of papers and files scattered across her desk. This mission wasn't good for her, and she knew it. It had brought Draco Malfoy back into her life, it was filling her with unease. She didn’t trust him. Not now, not after everything that had happened. And yet...

What choice did she have?

Her fingers trembled, but she shoved the thought aside, grabbing the nearest file and forcing herself to focus. There were plans to be made, questions to be asked, but her mind was no longer fully on the work. She had already seen Draco leave, the door snapping shut behind him. It was the way he had looked at her—like he’d seen right through the walls she’d so carefully built around herself. It was that flicker of something, something she couldn’t quite name that unsettled her the most.

A sigh left her lips, shaky and unwilling, as she turned away from the desk. She couldn’t think anymore, not tonight. The whole day had been one long series of confrontations. First with Luna, then with Draco. The mission, the stakes, the risk... all of it felt like too much. She didn’t know how much more she could take.

*****

The faint light of early morning stretched across the room when Hermione finally crawled out of bed, the exhaustion from barely sleeping weighing down on her. Her cottage was still, almost too still, the quiet stretching over her like a blanket. The soft tick-tick-tick of the clock on the mantle was the only sound, the steady beat of time that moved forward whether she was ready for it or not.

She had barely slept, the gnawing unease of the night replaying over and over in her head. Memories of war, of fear, of Malfoy's cold words all mixed together in a storm she couldn’t silence. And now, with the first light of dawn creeping through the curtains, she was forced to face it. To face the fact that no matter how much she tried to distance herself from him, he was back in her life, tangled up in this mess.

She moved to the small kitchen, her movements automatic as she set about making coffee. Her hands shook slightly as she measured the grounds, the familiar routine of making the drink a small comfort in the face of everything else. The silence was a balm, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the war raging inside her.

Was it even possible to work with him? The question clawed at her.

She leaned against the counter, coffee mug cradled in her hands, staring out the window at the overgrown garden outside. The sun had barely risen, but the world outside already felt as if it was moving on without her. There was no escaping it. The mission. Malfoy. The past.

The old wounds from the war weren’t as easy to ignore as she liked to think. She had spent years pushing the pain away, burying it under layers of work and books and friendship. But here, in this moment, in the quiet of her cottage, they crept back in.

In the first years after the war had ended, she had tried to drown her trauma with any and all ways that she could think of. She'd picked up her studies, finished her last year at Hogwarts. She had spent most of her free time with Ron, with the Weasleys. Back then, she had thought if she just tried hard enough to feel normal, she would be back to normal eventually. Being with Ronald had been the 'normal', logical choice, seeing how the relationship had been building for years. The years-long crush she'd had on him. Everyone kept telling her how right they were together, and who was she to doubt her loved ones in this?

How wrong she had been. She sighed and tried to brush away the memories of last night.

Draco Malfoy—standing in her office, telling her she needed him. The audacity, the nerve. She felt like a fool, but she also felt... something else. He had been so calm, so sure of himself. And she had snapped back at him.

That was a small reprieve of the stress, at least. 

Her fingers tightened around the mug as she tried to ignore the way her chest tightened with the weight of everything she was holding in. The war had left its marks on her, just as it surely had on him. Maybe they really could find a way to work together, severe lack of trust aside.

As the steam from the coffee swirled upward, Hermione closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the cup seep into her cold fingers. The sun began to rise fully, casting soft light over the room, but it felt like she was the only one still trapped in the shadows.

*****

Luna’s quiet humming filled the room as she took another bite of her toast, her thoughts clearly somewhere else, as usual. Hermione smiled a little, appreciating the calm presence of her friend. It was nice to have a moment of peace, a break from everything else pressing in on her.

Ginny, on the other hand, was quieter than usual, twirling her fork absently through her eggs. Hermione couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about her seemed off. She glanced up at her, but Ginny’s gaze shifted quickly to Luna, avoiding Hermione’s eyes.

"So," Hermione began, trying to keep the conversation light, "How’s the Quidditch team shaping up? Any new recruits for the Harpies?"

Ginny’s lips quirked up, her mood lightening a little. "Oh, you know. A few hopefuls. But no one with the same fire as Harry, of course." Her tone was teasing, but there was a certain sadness lurking behind the words. It wasn’t unusual, but it made Hermione pause, as though Ginny were struggling to keep up the facade of normalcy.

Luna, who had been nodding along, turned to Hermione with an excited gleam in her eye. "I do think the Harpies need a good Seeker, though. Have you seen that young one, Theodore Pym? He’s quite quick."

Hermione chuckled, leaning back in her chair. "I haven’t, but I’ll keep an eye out for him. How's married life as a Potter treating you?" she asked, hoping to keep things from veering into uncomfortable territory, given Ginny's odd mood. Her recent wedding to Harry seemed like a safe enough option.

"It's been good." Ginny replied, setting down her fork and wiping her mouth with a napkin. She hesitated before continuing, as if weighing her words carefully. "He’s busy with his team, mostly. He’s been meeting with a few people over at the Ministry, as you probably know. Nothing too exciting, I don't see him as much as I would like." She gave a small shrug, as if to say it wasn’t worth discussing.

Luna, ever the oddball, took another sip of tea before speaking up, her voice whimsical. "Well, perhaps all the excitement can be siphoned into the moonflowers. You see, they bloom in synchronicity with the planets, but they only open fully under the light of a full moon. Using them to clear your head can be very helpful. Very fascinating, don't you think?"

Hermione nodded, playing along. "Sounds magical. I think I’ll have to take a trip out to the Greenhouse soon to see them for myself."

Ginny didn’t reply, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel the shift in the air. It was subtle at first, just a slight change in how Ginny held herself, but it was enough for Hermione to notice. She knew Ginny well enough to sense when something was brewing underneath the surface, something that needed to be said and was about to come out.

After a few moments of silence, Ginny set down her cup a little more forcefully than usual, her eyes flicking to Hermione, then to Luna, and back to Hermione again.

"Must be strange," Ginny said, her voice casual but with a tightness Hermione couldn’t ignore. "You and Harry are the only ones left of the trio still working on saving the world, huh?"

Hermione froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She hadn’t expected the conversation to take this turn, especially not so abruptly. The tension that Ginny was carefully holding in place threatened to spill over, and Hermione could feel her heart rate picking up.

Luna, sensing the change in mood, quietly took a sip of her tea, watching the exchange with quiet interest, as though she knew the storm was coming but didn’t dare interrupt it.

Hermione set her fork down without taking that bite, her stomach twisting. She didn’t want to address it, didn’t want to drag everything into the open. But she couldn’t avoid it forever. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

Ginny leaned back in her chair, her arms folding across her chest as she glanced out the window, the early light of the morning casting a soft glow on her features. "I just think it’s funny how things have turned out," she said, her words slow and deliberate. "I mean, Ron and I—" She stopped herself, but the words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning.

Hermione felt a lump form in her throat. She had known this moment would come, but that didn’t make it any easier. "Ginny," she said quietly, her voice tinged with frustration, "this isn’t the time to—"

"Isn’t it?" Ginny cut in, her voice sharper now. "You ended things with Ron without so much as a word, Hermione. You broke his heart. And now... now you’re working with Malfoy." She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "You expect me to just... accept that?"

Hermione felt a rush of heat to her face. She opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out at first. She wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t sure she even had a defense for what Ginny was implying. That old, wretched argument about Malfoy replaying in the back of her mind made her feel an equally as old frustration. The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, she spoke. "Ginny," she said, making an effort to keep her tone calm. "You know it was just a stupid game of 'Fuck, Marry, Kill'."

Her friend crossed her arms. "Yeah, doesn't change the fact that Malfoy is going to basically replace Ron's place in the group now. It feels wrong, considering."

Hermione bristled at that. "Malfoy isn't replacing anyone. It isn't as though any of us chose this."

"You chose to end things with Ron, which led to the split of your famous group." 

After a moment of uncomfortable silence of Hermione trying to ward off the shock at what her friend had just said, Ginny sighed. "I’m not saying you were wrong to end it with Ron," Ginny conceded, her tone softening just a little, though there was still a bite to it. "But you have to understand, we’re all still dealing with the aftermath. You weren’t the only one who was hurt, you know."

Hermione's heart picked up speed, and she pushed herself upright, her palms pressing against the table as she stared at Ginny, trying to find the right words. "I never wanted to hurt anyone," she said, her voice shaky. "But I couldn’t stay. Not when he became someone I didn’t recognize. I—I couldn’t keep pretending. You know that, Ginny. I thought you of all people would understand."

Ginny’s expression shifted again, softening just a fraction. "I do understand," she said, her voice quieter now, though there was a sadness to it. "But it’s just... hard. Ron loved you, Hermione. We all did. And when you walked away, it wasn’t just him you left behind."

The weight of her words hit Hermione like a physical blow, and she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself. It felt like everything—everything she had tried to bury, to move past—was coming back at her in full force.

"I didn’t want to be with him anymore," Hermione said, the words almost a whisper, her voice thick with emotion. "I couldn’t keep pretending."

"I know," Ginny said softly, though there was an edge to her voice that suggested she wasn’t fully done with this conversation. "But you didn’t have to leave us all behind."

The words lingered between them, an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Hermione didn’t know how to respond, how to fix the fragile thread of understanding between them. She hadn’t meant to push everyone away. She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. But it had.

Finally, Luna broke the silence, her soft voice a balm amidst the stillness. "Well, this is quite a lot of heavy talk for breakfast, isn’t it? Perhaps we should switch topics before we all start feeling too blue?"

But even as she said it, Hermione knew it wasn’t over. And a quick glance at Ginny confirmed that she was thinking the same thing. It couldn’t be. Not yet.

Though they were capable of having breakfast together without talking about it. For now.

[softone-ao3]

Trust Me, Trust You - by softone.

After the war, Hermione Granger is no stranger to impossible missions, but infiltrating the remnants of the Death Eaters requires more than courage—it requires her to work alongside someone she never thought she'd have to see again. Draco Malfoy - a man she has every reason to hate and no reason to trust.

Thrown together in a world of deception and danger, their partnership is anything but easy. Each mission pushes them closer to their breaking points, forcing them to rely on one another in ways neither of them is prepared for. Between tense standoffs, moments of vulnerability, and secrets they can’t afford to share, lines begin to blur.

What starts as hatred simmers into something neither of them can name—a connection that feels as dangerous as the world they’re trying to take down. But in a game where every lie could be their last, is trust the most dangerous weapon of all?

Enemies. Partners. Lovers. In the end, they’ll have to decide where they stand—and whether they’ll stand together.

Chapter 1: The Devil You Know

The meeting room was cramped, the air heavy with the exhaustion of too many late nights. The small, round table was cluttered with mugs of lukewarm coffee and half-empty bowls of stale biscuits. Hermione sat at the edge, arms crossed, staring at the map of wizarding hotspots spread across the table. The murmurs of her colleagues filled the room, but nothing seemed to settle the storm inside her.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Auror Jenkins asked, his voice tight with disbelief. “We can’t go in blind again. The Ministry’s been doing this for months—if we don’t have more intel, this whole thing will blow up in our faces.”

“I know, I know.” Harry’s voice was strained, an edge of frustration beneath his calm exterior. “But the Intelligence Division is tied up with the bigger players. We’re on our own for this one.”

Hermione shifted in her chair, her eyes narrowing. The situation had grown more volatile by the day, but it felt like they were circling a problem that no one had the courage to face head-on.

“What’s the real issue here, Harry?” she asked, her voice cutting through the rising tension. “We’ve been chasing shadows for months, and we still don’t have anything concrete. The Death Eaters are regrouping, but we can’t even figure out who’s leading them. This isn’t just a logistical problem—it’s political.”

She could feel everyone’s gaze on her, the subtle shift in the room as her words landed. It wasn’t just the information that was missing—it was the trust. Who could they rely on when the walls were closing in?

“We’ll deal with that when we know what we’re up against.” Harry rubbed his temples, frustration visible on his face.

He let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. “But plans have changed. Again. We’re not getting the reinforcements we expected, and the timelines have moved up.”

The tension in the room ratcheted up a notch. A few Aurors exchanged uneasy glances; others muttered curses under their breath.

“So what, we wing it?” Jenkins snapped, his face red. “We’re supposed to be the Ministry’s first line of defense, and they’re treating us like bloody house-elves fetching their tea!”

“Enough!” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the noise. “I know you’re angry. I am too. But sitting here and griping about it isn’t going to solve anything.”

The room fell quiet, though it wasn’t calm. Jenkins dropped into his seat, arms crossed, his glare fixed firmly on the tabletop.

Hermione leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. “What exactly has changed, Harry? What are we walking into this time?”

Harry hesitated, glancing down at the pile of reports in front of him. The pause was brief but heavy, as though he was trying to find a way to soften the blow. When he looked back up, there was no softness in his expression though, and Hermione wondered if she had imagined it.

“We’ve got confirmation that the Death Eater remnants aren’t just a scattered threat anymore,” he said grimly. “They’ve reorganized under someone new. And whoever it is, they’re smart. They’ve managed to evade every probe we’ve sent their way. Every lead dries up before we can act on it.”

“Brilliant,” muttered an Auror at the back. “So we’re fighting a ghost.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “What’s the plan, then?”

Harry’s gaze landed on her, and for a moment, she felt the weight of it pressing down on her chest. “We need someone inside. Someone who can earn their trust, gather information, and figure out who’s pulling the strings.”

The silence that followed was deafening, his stare pointed. Hermione could feel the shift in the room as every eye turned to her. She didn’t need Harry to spell it out.

“Absolutely not,” Jenkins barked, shoving his chair back. “You’re talking about sending one of our own into the middle of that mess on her own? It’s suicide!”

“It’s not suicide,” Harry shot back, his tone icy. “It’s necessary. And it’s not just her. There’s already someone embedded in the network. Someone with experience.”

Hermione frowned. “Who?”

Harry hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. The pause was long enough to make Hermione’s stomach churn.

“Draco Malfoy.”

The name dropped like a boulder in the room. Jenkins let out a bark of laughter, though there was no humor in it.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Harry said firmly. “He’s been working as a double agent for months now. And whether you like it or not, he’s our best shot at cracking this thing open.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. Memories of the war, of battles fought on opposing sides, flashed in her mind. She forced herself to breathe.

“Does he know I’m being brought in?” she asked, her voice calm despite the feelings raging inside her.

“He does,” Harry replied. “And he’s not thrilled about it either. But like the rest of us, he doesn’t have a choice.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Jenkins slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the room. “This is madness.”

“It’s what we’ve got,” Harry said sharply. “And it’s happening. So if anyone else has something useful to contribute, speak now. Otherwise, get to work. Dismissed.”

The room erupted into movement, chairs scraping against the floor as Aurors grabbed their things and filed out. Hermione stayed seated, her thoughts racing.

After a few short moments that seemed to stretch into forever with how busy she was inside her own mind, she noticed that Harry lingered behind, watching her carefully. “You alright?”

She met his gaze and squared her shoulders, her expression unreadable. “I will be.” ***** Hermione stayed seated as the room emptied, watching the other Aurors file out with a mix of frustration and exhaustion etched across their faces. Jenkins muttered something under his breath as he passed her, but she didn’t bother to catch it. Her thoughts were already miles away.

Draco Malfoy.

Of all the names Harry could have dropped, his was the last she’d expected. The war had ended years ago, but Malfoy was still a tangle of contradictions in her mind—arrogant, cowardly, redeemable, and infuriating in equal measure. Her stomach churned with an acidic mix of anger and unease. Memories she had buried deep—cold floors, jeering laughter, and the sound of Bellatrix’s voice—threatened to surface.

She clenched her fists under the table, her nails biting into her palms. No. She wouldn’t let herself spiral. Not here. Not now.

Harry sat down across from her, his tired eyes scanning her face. “You’re not going to back out, are you?”

She shook her head sharply. “No. But I need to know—can we trust him?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Trust isn’t the right word. He’s useful, and so far, he’s delivered results. But he’s still Malfoy. He’s not doing this out of the goodness of his heart.”

“Then why is he doing it?” she pressed, her voice tight.

“Self-preservation, mostly,” Harry admitted. “And maybe a shred of guilt, though I wouldn’t count on it. He’s walking a fine line, Hermione, and if he slips... Well, let’s just say it won’t end well for him.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus on the facts. “And you’re sure I’m the right person for this? No one else can do it?”

“You’re the best we’ve got,” Harry said simply. “Smart, resourceful, and more importantly, you’re not blinded by grudges. You’ll see things clearly, even with Malfoy in the picture.”

Clearly? Hermione nearly laughed. There was nothing clear about the tidal wave of emotions threatening to consume her. Anger, revulsion, fear—but also, strangely, a thread of grim determination. She’d survived worse than working with Draco Malfoy. She would survive this too.

“When do I meet him?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Harry glanced at his watch. “He’s in the briefing room now. I thought it’d be better to rip the bandage off sooner rather than later.”

“Brilliant,” she muttered, standing up.

As she followed Harry down the corridor, the weight of the mission settled heavily on her shoulders. She’d known this job would demand sacrifices, but working with Malfoy? That was going to take every ounce of restraint she had. The walls of the Ministry seemed to close in around her as they approached the briefing room. Her breath quickened despite her attempts to control it.

The door loomed ahead, and Harry opened it without hesitation. Hermione stepped inside, her heart pounding, and there he was.

Draco Malfoy leaned against the far wall, arms crossed and an expression of faint irritation on his face. He was dressed in dark, nondescript robes, his pale hair tied back neatly. Time had refined him—his features sharper, his posture more composed—but it was unmistakably him.

The air seemed to leave the room. Her vision narrowed, the edges blurring as her mind betrayed her with flashes of the past. Malfoy Manor. Her screams echoing off cold stone. Bellatrix’s wild eyes. The way he’d stood there, frozen, watching. Not stopping it. Not even trying.

“Granger,” he drawled, his voice pulling her violently back to the present. The sound was smoother than she remembered, but it still carried that same grating arrogance. “This should be... interesting.”

Hermione’s chest tightened, a flush of heat rising to her cheeks. She could feel the weight of Harry’s gaze on her, but she couldn’t look away from Malfoy. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to walk out, to refuse. Instead, she forced her lips to move.

“Malfoy.” The single word was cold, clipped, but it was enough.

Harry stepped between them, his tone sharp. “Don't start. You don’t have to like each other, but you do have to work together. Understood?”

Malfoy smirked faintly, but he nodded. Hermione’s hands were trembling, so she crossed her arms to hide them. This was going to be harder than she’d thought.

The room felt colder with Malfoy in it, though she couldn’t tell if it was him or the memories he dredged up. Even as Harry launched into the briefing, Hermione’s mind snagged on the details—Malfoy’s stance, the faint curl of his lip when Harry spoke, the way his eyes flicked briefly to hers and then away, like a predator taking measure of its prey.

His hands were too still, clasped loosely in front of him, and she hated that she noticed. Was it calm, or was it calculation? He was always a puzzle, one she’d long since stopped trying to solve, but now the pieces were forced into her hands again.

“Hermione,” Harry’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

She blinked, her focus snapping back to the present. “Sorry, what?”

“I said you’ll be taking the lead on this mission,” Harry repeated, his tone patient but firm. “Malfoy will provide the intel and support you need, but the strategy is up to you. He’s already embedded, which means—”

“You’ll be stepping into my world, Granger,” Malfoy interrupted smoothly, his voice like silk stretched over steel.

Hermione stiffened, her jaw clenching. “I’m well aware, Malfoy.”

“Good,” he said, his lips curling into a ghost of a smirk. “I’d hate for you to fall behind.”

Her fingers itched to hex the smugness off his face, but she forced herself to remain still. Instead, she let her gaze drift to the folder Harry had placed on the table—a thick stack of parchment bristling with clipped-on photos and hastily scrawled notes. She focused on the top photo, a grainy image of a cloaked figure slipping into a dimly lit alley, and let its details ground her.

The world narrowed to ink and paper. The curve of a streetlamp, the glint of a wand in the figure’s hand. She noted the angle of their stride, the way they seemed to favor their left leg.

“Do we have confirmation on their identity?” she asked, her voice steady now, crisp.

Harry nodded. “We believe it’s Caleb Mulciber. He’s been recruiting heavily in the north. This operation is our best chance to cut him off before he consolidates power.”

“And I assume he’s dangerous?” she pressed.

Malfoy chuckled softly, and she bristled at the sound. “Granger, if he weren’t dangerous, we wouldn’t be here.”

Her head snapped up, and their eyes locked. For a moment, she forgot about the photos, the mission, even Harry’s presence. All she saw was the man who had stood silent while she screamed, who had watched her break and had done nothing.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore. His face was harder now, his gaze sharper. There was something fractured in him, too, she realized—a shadow behind his arrogance that hadn’t been there before.

She looked away first, her stomach twisting.

“Right,” she said briskly, turning back to Harry. “Then we’d better not waste time.”