The Curious Case of Good Fortune - magicandquills23 - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: Brewing Fate

Chapter Text

Working in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office was not the prestigious Ministry position Hermione Granger thought she’d have post-war. But here she was, sitting in a cramped meeting room with her colleagues, desperately wishing they’d invest in better cooling technology than their defunct A/C unit from the 70s.

It had been five years since she was first offered the position in the immediate aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat, at a time when getting out of bed to shower felt like an insurmountable task. She was far too war-torn and traumatized to think about the day in front of her, let alone her future.

Arthur Weasley, head of the department, thought this job would be good for her until she settled more. Give her familiarity after seeing her entire world turned upside-down. It was the first offer she received and, so, it was the one she accepted. It had been fine, keeping her mind busy but not stressed. Giving her a reason to brush her teeth and put on clean clothes - offering enough income to pay her rent, groceries, and a few books each week.

MoMA’s mission statement had broadened significantly since she’d started. The field team still arrested wizards for tampering with non-magical objects and setting them loose on unsuspecting Muggles. But Arthur was also keenly interested with integrating the two societies (so far as the Statue of Secrecy allowed). As a result, his employees got tasked with a lot of information-gathering and report-filing.

So the past 1587 workdays (because she never had reason to take time off) were spent bent over her desk, battling eye-strain, chronic depression and dulled quill nibs. Hermione Granger, the once-crowned Golden Girl of wizarding society, was now nothing more than a paper-pusher.

Which was, frankly, perfectly fine for her.

Her eyes glazed over just as the A/C made a loud whirring noise. They were all huddled together for their weekly check-in, the space so tight that knees knocked together and someone inevitably got elbowed in the ribs by the end.

Unfortunately, the current heat-wave was making an uncomfortable situation feel even more claustrophobic. But Arthur insisted on keeping the calendar as is, priding himself on the collaborative workplace culture he carefully cultivated. One that Hermione, just as carefully, opted out of.

“Daphne, how’s the report coming along?” Arthur leaned against the wall in the same crumpled suit he wore to work every day. Though he’d clearly left his blazer at home, instead choosing to roll up the sleeves of his light blue button-down past his elbows.

Daphne Greengrass tucked a long blonde strand behind her ear and cleared her throat daintily. “Actually, I was hoping for some clarification before I dived in.”

Hermione fought a lengthy sigh, knowing that whatever questions her coworker might have probably didn’t need to be brought up in a meeting where everyone was sweating through their clothing.

“I’m just not sure whether to make the report historical or contemporary.” Penelope Weasley, née Clearwater, rubbed her pregnant belly and crossed her legs nervously as she met Hermione’s weary gaze.

“Ain’t the Olympics f*cking ancient,” Marcus Flint asked, his bushy brows nearly connecting in his confusion.

“There’s actually one taking place next summer in Athens.”

“Oh,” Arthur’s eyes alighted in surprise. “Any chance you could cover some of the more recent ones then? That sounds pretty interesting to me.”

Daphne nodded before jotting something down in her notebook.

“Arthur,” Penelope squeaked, “I’m so sorry. I have to run to the loo.” She uncrossed her legs, her feet tapping on the floor.

“Of course, Penny. Go!” The cloying scent of her jasmine perfume smacked Hermione in the face when Penelope stood up and waddled out. The smell lingered, intermingling with everyone’s body odor - the combination absolutely lethal.

Just then, the air conditioner decided to chug dramatically before promptly cutting off. A collective sigh worked its way around the room. Everyone had complained to Arthur that a cooling charm would be better at this point. But he insisted the unit worked perfectly fine, having repaired and charmed it himself.

Hermione took her notebook and started fanning herself before the now-airless room made her pass out.

“Guys,” Arthur held up his hands, trying to hold off any complaints. “We just have Dean and Hermione left and then we can get out of here.”

Dean quickly launched into a summary of his current project: analyzing the success of the Lord of the Rings franchise. Arthur seemed particularly interested in whether Tolkien himself had magical roots and, if so, how the films could be used to build bridges with non-magical folk.

She rolled her neck and looked around. Ernie Macmillan was unbelievably in a three-piece suit, his red face actually dripping with sweat.

“The Fellowship of the Rings is interesting, don’t get me wrong. But the man was not a wizard. Director might be though.”

After multiple people threatened to quit if he kept them any longer, Arthur agreed to table the explanation on what exactly a director was.

“And Hermione, what about you?”

She opened her mouth, having nothing prepared and unsure what to say.

On the very long list of regrets Hermione lived with every day, the smallest one was that she didn’t request the literature beat. She had no official specialization in MoMA, instead bouncing around where Arthur had demand. Currently, she was working through an exhaustive inventory of everyday household appliances.

She snapped back to focus after hearing her name again. Arthur was looking at her with a slightly worried expression on his face.

“Oh, well, I actually just finished up the kitchen report so … I can have that on your desk by day’s end.”

“Great,” he smiled tightly before nodding at the room. “Well, I think that’s it everyone. See you again next week.”

The rush to leave the cramped space was immediate - everyone getting up and surging towards the door in a mad dash for their magically-cooled offices.

But before Hermione could get up, Arthur stopped her with a hand on her elbow. “Got a second?”

She nodded, biting down a flare of disappointment - knowing that every second spent in this humid room made her hair grow ever larger and more unmanageable.

“Everything alright at home?” She couldn’t imagine any other reason Arthur would ask her to stay back.

“Of course. Molly’s been busy with the gnomes in the garden again.”

Her disappointment was drowned out by the grief that was always lying in wait to consume her. The Weasley children were once the resident de-gnomers of the Burrow but, after the Battle of Hogwarts, the ones left only came home for the holidays.

“I’ll talk to Harry tonight - see if we can swing by sometime later in the week.”

“Oh don’t worry about us, we get by okay.” His tone gave the impression that, in actuality, they were barely getting by in their empty house with only pests for company. “Though I suppose we could celebrate Harry’s birthday next week. I’ll talk to Molly, see what we have on the schedule.”

She already knew they’d be free. They always were.

“Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to pull you onto a case - a field case. But only if you have room to take on more.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Almost everyone else in the office had been put out into the field, even the new hires. But this would be her first case out there, in a world that never even knew about the war that changed Hermione’s everything.

But she also knew that she couldn’t really say no. After all, she was the sole person to walk out of the office at 4 p.m. on the dot every evening.

Arthur must have known he was asking a lot because he spent several sweltering seconds letting her process. She came down on feeling overwhelmingly negative about the prospect.

“I’m not sure if I’m the right person for the job,” she said to her feet.

“You don’t even know what the assignment is yet.”

She swallowed thickly, a trickle of sweat beading down her face.

Arthur sighed before casting a wordless cooling charm. Apparently, even he had his limits with broken Muggle technology.

“There, that’s better.” He loosened his tie as a rush of cool air filled the room. “What do you know about psychics?”

She laughed. What indeed. Her feelings about Divination were certainly not a secret. Namely, that the entire thing was bosh and not worth anyone’s time.

“I’ve never met a legitimate one.” That was the best she could do and still sound remotely professional at the same time.

“Neither have I. But we’ve had some reports come in about a psychic running out of Piccadilly. They say she’s a Seer offering real fortunes to unsuspecting Muggles.”

“Why would anyone bother,” she scoffed. “Everyone knows those shops are hogwash when you go into them.”

“True,” he conceded. “But imagine how much business you can garner if you actually tell fortunes with a penchant for correctness.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She looked and sounded absolutely exasperated. “Maybe you should ask Penelope.”

“She’s out on mat leave starting next week.”

“Ernie?”

“For some reason, he’s still absolutely swamped with his report on diabetes.”

“Dean?”

“Hermione, you’re the right person for this job.”

“It seems like I’m the only person for it,” she said wearily.

“Both things can be true at the same time. But if you think it’s too much,” he said hastily, “I can investigate it instead.” Which would mean leaving Molly alone for even more hours of the day.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take the psychic,” she said begrudgingly. Arthur’s eyes twinkled - clearly pleased by the closest thing to drive he’d seen in Hermione in years.

What was the worst that could happen, she thought as she finally left the meeting room. That she’d find an actual Seer that pointed out how meagre her existence had become? It didn’t take someone gifted with the sight to deduce that.

Hermione had only been undercover once in her life, when she Polyjuiced herself into Bellatrix Lestrange. But that was a different time. Now she only read about it in her books, none of which were how-to guides on avoiding detection. So in deciding what to wear for her impending investigation, she was at a complete loss.

“You’re thinking too much about it.” Harry’s face shimmered in her fireplace flames, his exasperation clear.

Her best friend had soared even higher than she believed possible after the war. He was now an Auror with a fantastic success rate and even taught an occasional Defense Against the Dark Arts lecture when McGonagall asked. But, most importantly, he was happy. So bloody happy to be free from Voldemort’s shackles.

“I don’t want her to think I’m a witch posing as a Muggle. I just want her to think I’m a Muggle.” Hermione tossed the scarves she held in each hand to the floor, having just asked which one would look more authentic. “It’s a delicate balance!”

“They’re scarves, Hermione.”

She pulled her hands down her face and groaned.

“I mean, look at me, Harry. I obviously don’t look like a person that puts any value in fortune-telling.”

She watched her best friend open his mouth and close it, clearly grasping for what to say.

Because truth be told, Hermione already looked like she would enter one of those shops, in the dead of night, desperate for something to keep her going. She never lost the dark circles under her eyes nor did she put back on the weight she’d lost from malnourishment during the Horcrux hunt.

All in all, Hermione just was - a person breathing, yes, but absolutely doing nothing akin to living.

“I think what you’re wearing now is fine.” Her thoughts turned back to the fashion crisis at hand, slowly registering what Harry was saying.

She frowned at him before looking down at herself.

“I think that might be the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She was wearing a threadbare striped tank-top and her favorite grey jeans. ‘Favorite’ being deemed by the frequency of wears and not by actually liking them. She was still donning the same clothes from when she was 17. Not because she didn’t go shopping … well, she didn’t - not unless Ginny forced her to. She just didn’t see the point in it. So what if the jeans were held up by little more than magic at this point. She was comfortable in them.

“I -” Harry scratched at his lightning bolt scar before turning his head as if hearing something deep in his apartment. “Gods Hermione, I think that’s Ginny getting home from work. I best be off.” He waved a hurried goodbye before disappearing from the flames without even giving her a chance to respond.

“Arsehole,” she muttered, crossing her arms and studying herself again in the mirror. “And he didn’t even tell me which one to go with.”

She stepped away from the Apparition point, hidden behind a large trash receptacle in central London. It was another sweltering day and the smell of hot garbage made her gag as she made her way onto the bustling street. Glancing again at the handwritten directions Arthur provided, she took off down the sun-baked pavement.

Hermione was wearing the same outfit she had on when Floo’ing Harry the day before, having decided on the bright blue scarf to hold back her hair. It made her look a bit like Professor Trelawney but she had no other non-magical way to tame her mane. She’d snapped three hair ties attempting a ponytail this morning and she couldn’t afford any more mishaps.

Black cabs honked in traffic while she walked past air-conditioned pubs filled with Londoners and tourists, more than happy to pay outrageous prices for sweating pints of ale. She wiped at the sweat dripping down her neck before turning onto a side-street - this one thankfully filled with small shops and not rubbish. Her feet coming to a halt outside of a vibrant purple building. A neon blue sign flashed in the shop window, depicting a hand, moon and star. Out of the cracked door wafted the heady scents of patchouli and myrrh, positively nauseating in the weather.

She was definitely in the right place then.

Hermione sighed, trying to stir what little willpower she had left, and stepped in to the shop.

At first glance, it looked completely empty. It was a one-room operation, replete with heavily-draped velvet curtains and plush maroon couches crowding out the corners. Given that it was midday in the middle of a heat wave, she was especially flummoxed at the amount of lit candles. They were on every viable surface, their wax dripping onto the fireplace’s mantlepiece and on a low-lying wooden table where a deck of cards rested, alongside amethyst and quartz crystals.

Hermione stared for a beat at the roaring fire. Any Seer or, scratch that, any person with an iota of common sense, would never light a bloody fire in the middle of summer. This had been easier than she’d expected.

She was about to turn around when a voice called from behind a beaded curtain.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

She fought against rolling her eyes but lost the battle, noticing that the shop’s ceiling was covered with exposed branches and drying herbs. This place was an utter fire hazard if she’d ever seen one.

If this pertained to anything other than her professional responsibilities, she would turn tail and storm out. But Hermione did have some self-preservation left. She knew she had to eat, which meant she needed the paycheck that the Ministry provided. So, instead, she just waited for the ethereal voice to develop a body.

The Seer, if anyone could legitimately be called that, had long raven black hair. Hermione was surprised to discover that the woman wasn’t wearing robes or really anything you’d expect from a fortune-teller. Instead, she was in an all-black tank top, shorts and combat boots. Though she was absolutely loaded with talismans and crystals. The effect was something akin to a magical warrior rather than your run-of-the-mill psychic.

“I’ve come to have my fortune read,” Hermione bit out, her hands clenched at her sides. She told herself to relax than reasoned other customers were probably equally uncomfortable coming in for their first time.

“As it happens, I’m unable to offer my traditional services today.” She spoke with a slight accent that Hermione suspected might be Eastern European but wasn’t sure from which country exactly.

“Because,” Hermione felt her eyebrows raise incredulously.

“It’s not an auspicious day for it,” the Seer shrugged, looking at Hermione for the first time. Her eyes were an almost glacial blue.

“I’ll just have to come back another time then.” Because, of course, it wasn’t the bloody day for it.

“Mm, you look like the type of person to choose your own fate anyway.” She jutted out her bottom lip. “I’m not so sure I can help you, little one.”

Hermione could feel the weighing assessment from the shop-keeper and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next. At least she definitely had an answer for Arthur. Whoever this person was, she wasn’t a Seer. Anyone who knew Hermione now would never say she took her future in her own hands.

She was just kinda letting it happen to her.

“Right,” Hermione nodded, knowing her face was a mirror to her unspoken judgment. “Well thank you … I guess. I’ll just be off.”

She was almost out the door when the Seer stopped her.

“Just because I can’t tell your fortune doesn’t mean we can’t have a cup of tea together.”

Hermione was on the verge of telling the woman she’d lost her mind, so close to it that she could taste the words on her tongue. Who on Earth would be drinking anything hot today? Not to mention, if she spent another second in this shop, she was likely to pass out from the heat of the flames.

But, a friendly reminder that she wasn’t rolling in money sang in the back of her skull. Plus, the more evidence she had of this woman’s ineptitude, the better.

“Tea would be lovely actually.” Hermione cleared her throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because you didn’t ask.” The Seer co*cked her head, an eyebrow arching knowingly. “It’s Milena.”

“Hermione,” she squeaked, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

“Let’s see here,” Milena floated towards a rickety old cabinet kept in the back. She dropped down in a flourish, opening a small door at the bottom where a dozen glass containers were stored. “Good fortune or good luck?”

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what she was asking.

“Good fortune, I suppose,” she sniffed. “I’ve never believed in luck.”

The Seer nodded her head, a small smile playing across her lips.

Hermione browsed the space while Milena patiently plugged in a dusty old kettle and set it to boil from water in the back. She had to give it to the woman, if she did have a magical bone in her body, she was keeping it rather well-hidden. So far, Hermione hadn’t found an ounce of magic in anything she’d touched. Certainly not the pillar candle wrapped in twine she was currently frowning down at.

“Banishment candles.” Hermione jumped, not realizing that Milena had come closer, her footsteps entirely silent. “Those are for people who need to cut ties with someone.” She looked at Hermione sympathetically before turning away. “Not very helpful if the person needing banished isn’t on this plane any longer.”

“Right …” She set down the candle, confused, and made her way over to the worn couch, sitting down in front of the tatty tarot cards that first caught her eye.

“Do you mind if I look through these while the tea brews?”

“Be my guest,” Milena said with a casual wave of her hand.

If the woman was practicing Divination illegally out of this shop, tarot readings would be the best place to start. That or a crystal ball, but Hermione couldn’t find any during her casual perusal.

As she shuffled the cards, stained with tea, she couldn’t help but appreciate the artistry.

“These are beautiful,” Hermione offered, still feeling somewhat awkward. But, what she’d said was true. Whoever the artist was had a true gift, having painted watercolor versions of the traditional Rider deck. Hermione only recognized them due to the utter mistake of signing up for Divination in third year.

These cards felt different in her hand though, heavier than they should be. She frowned down, wondering if this was the first hint of magic she’d come across before the idea abruptly disappeared from her head.

“Thank you,” Milena smiled while setting down a bright red tea-cup in front of Hermione.

“You made these?”

She nodded, blowing on her own cup before taking a sip. “Those were the first set I painted.”

“Wow, you’re quite the artist. I’m surprised you do this instead,” Hermione gestured around her.

“Well we all have to do something to pay our bills. Don’t we?” The Seer’s voice was sharp and Hermione internally cringed.

“Erm, do you sell any?” Hermione moved to set the deck down when a card fluttered free: Death, upright. She frowned and placed the card back on top.

Milena looked at it and then to Hermione before saying, “No. These cards are for my personal use only.”

Hermione nodded tightly and attacked her tea, which wasn’t terrible. It tasted like echinacea and raspberry. A bit too tart for her liking, but she was going to finish it if not to avoid having to fill the silence growing between them.

“You know, I think this weather will break soon,” Milena offered between sips.

“It must do, it can’t be this hot forever.” Hermione could actually feel sweat on her upper lip even though her companion didn’t even seemed fazed by the heat.

While they continued to drink, they discussed everything beyond the Seer’s services - much to Hermione’s annoyance. Anytime she brought the topic up, Milena found a way to divert her once more. Asking about crystal balls somehow led to a discussion of the Tate while pendulum swings led to a chat about summering in Greece.

So she changed tactics and went even more basic.

“I didn’t see shop hours posted outside, are you open regularly?

“When the Fates deem it so, yes.”

That was the closest they got to anything mystical. She thought Milena would offer a tea-reading but the beverage had already been sieved when placed in front of her.

When Hermione finally set down her empty mug, she couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough. She desperately needed a fan, some ice, and a wee. That and to be in a location whose smell wasn’t clawing its way down her throat.

She had her answer for Arthur or at least as close to one as any non-Seer would ever get. But that would have to be enough for him.

She thanked Milena for the tea who adamantly refused any money. “The company was payment enough. I look forward to seeing you again, little one.”

Hermione nodded, wearied, before stepping out the door into the mid-afternoon sun. She decided that, before she Apparated home, she would stop by her favorite bookstore and pick up the latest detective novel she had on her list. As she walked down the street, Hermione felt a sort of lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

It wasn’t happiness, no. But it reminded her of the times when she’d come across something in the library that made her heart tick faster and her breathing catch.

For the first time in five years, Hermione felt the workings of intrigue stir in her chest. The feeling not unwelcome, but disturbing all the same.

Chapter 2: The Intertwining of Heartbreak and Despair

Chapter Text

“It’s just for a couple of hours, Harry.” Hermione gave her best friend a sharp look. “It’ll make Molly happy to do something for your birthday.”

“You know how depressing it’ll be.” He tugged at his unruly black hair in his telltale sign of discomfort. “Plus Ginny can’t even make it.”

“She never does so don’t try using that as an excuse.” Hermione grabbed his hand and dragged him into his fireplace. “I’ve already told them we’re coming and we aren’t going to be late.” Before Harry could protest anymore, she threw down a bit of Floo powder and shouted ‘The Burrow.'

Their arrival moments later was made apparent from the sounds of whooshing flames and hacking coughs.

“Arthur, they’re here!” Mrs. Weasley wiped her sudsy hands on a kitchen towel tucked into her apron as she bustled into the living room. “Absolutely lovely to see the both of you. Glad you didn’t have any trouble getting in.”

A shock of red hair blinded Hermione as Molly pulled her into a breath-constricting hug, the mother of seven only letting go to call her husband down a second time.

“I’ve made all your favorites,” Mrs. Weasley chirped while patting Harry’s cheeks affectionately. “Is Ginny coming?”

“Actually,” Harry rubbed the nape of his neck, having just lost the silent battle he’d waged with Hermione, “she said her practice would probably run late. Don’t think she’ll be done in time.”

Molly’s smile faltered infinitesimally while she nodded.

“Course … those Harpies really keep our girl busy!” She turned without another word and entered the kitchen. Harry and Hermione shared a brief glance, guilt flooding the space between them.

Hermione couldn’t really blame the remaining Weasley children for avoiding home. It was hard to be at the Burrow these days. Everything still looked the same as before the war. Children’s drawings overlapping each other on the walls, the infamous clock in the corner now with two hands frozen on ‘mortal peril.’ It was a museum to happier times, the admission price one’s peace.

She glanced at the opened photo albums sitting on the couch. It looked like Molly had been going through them again before their arrival. Her heart broke a little at a photo of Harry and Ron, taken just before second-year. She shook her head, determined not to ruin an already-strained day.

She followed Harry into the kitchen, further dismayed that Molly had seen fit to cook a meal that could have fed her entire family had they arrived. Plates of sausages and bacon sat beside stacks of toast and glistening hand-pies.

“I did ask the others to come. But … well you know how things are.” Mrs. Weasley waved her wand, instantly boiling water. “It’s good just to have you two here. Sit - Arthur’ll be down in a minute.”

Harry and Hermione sank down beside each other at the food-laden table and began filling their plates. Or, rather, he did. She only grabbed a few slices of unbuttered toast while Molly poured her tea. She didn’t have much of an appetite, the guilt of just being here turning her stomach sour.

“How’ve things been?” Harry winced when Hermione swatted him under the table.

“Oh, you know, nice and quiet,” Molly’s hand shook violently, spilling half the water from the glass she had poured for herself. “I’ve taken back up my cross-stitch.” She nodded to a pile of crafting supplies tucked away on a sideboard. Hermione could see a bright panel of red hair. Best guess, Mrs. Weasley was recreating her family before the war tore them apart.

“That’s really lovely.” Hermione tried to come across as genuine, not pitying, but wasn’t sure she struck the right balance given the tightness to the other woman’s eyes.

Just then, Arthur padded downstairs and joined their grim affair. The next few minutes were filled with him ushering his wife into her seat and filling her plate with a little bit of everything in the hopes that she would have something. When he finally settled down, he smiled at the two best friends - relief apparent in his eyes.

“Ginny told me Penelope had the baby,” Harry offered between bites of sausage.

“Oh yes, little Poppy!” Hermione looked over at him, pleased someone had found a happier topic of conversation. “Have you been by St. Mungo’s to meet her yet?”

“No, not me.” Molly shook her head, wringing her hands in front of her plate. “Arthur’s been but you know I don’t like leaving the house much … in case the kids need me.” She glanced out the kitchen window where Hermione could see two tombstones, laden with flowers and old children’s toys. “I think they’ll come by sometime next week though.”

Lunch afterwards was rather awkward. Harry tried to keep a lively conversation going between himself and Arthur. Hermione gave her best effort to join them before the ghosts of happier times strangled her. Molly meanwhile had begun crying silently at the table.

“Everything alright, Mrs. Weasley?” Even though Harry’s voice was laced with genuine concern, irritation still flared in Hermione’s chest.

It was obvious to all of them that Molly was having yet another bad day.

“Everything’s fine, just fine.” She wiped a paisley handkerchief across her eyes while her husband looked at her heart-broken. “Let’s just do dessert, shall we?”

She brought over a handmade cake, coated in orange frosting with the words “Happy 22^nd Harry!” written in gold scroll. Tiny chocolate Snitches lined the edges. No one said a word as she sliced the cake after Harry blew out the candles.

It was obvious why she’d chosen that color. Chudley Cannons. Not Harry’s team, but Ron’s.

“We can’t stay for that much longer I’m afraid,” Hermione grimaced after stomaching exactly two bites.

Outside the evening had grown long, the sky beginning to deepen as a chorus of crickets rang out loudly in the wild backyard. The smell of freshly overturned soil came in through the open window while hand-stitched curtains fluttered in the breeze.

“Thought we could do some de-gnoming before we left though,” Harry offered.

After Molly laden them with multiple hugs and cheek kisses, the pair hastened outside.

“She’s not getting any better,” Harry muttered once they were out of earshot.

“Can you blame her?!”

He gave Hermione a long look before sighing. “No, I guess not.”

Arthur had seemed content with the report he received from Hermione, which dismissed the allegations concerning the central London Seer. But now, she wasn’t so sure.

It had been a little over a week since her visit to the cloying shop and the heat had finally broken. The rain was welcomed by all, something that didn’t often happen in a country plagued by bad weather. She had walked to work, relishing the cool breeze on her legs and the droplets rhythmically falling on her umbrella.

But her good mood was quickly replaced with apprehension when she walked into her office to find a note from Arthur, asking her to stop in first thing. She was currently working on the Muggle technology assignment that she’d been hoping to avoid. Apparently her boss didn’t trust anyone else with it. A claim, she suspected, was mostly false but intended to make her feel valued.

Maybe he had a question about it.

Doubtful though.

As she picked up a clean notebook and quill, she wondered if maybe she’d made a mistake dismissing the complaints. Possibly a more seasoned investigator found evidence of magic after she filed her initial report.

Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if she missed something with how biased and distracted she’d been. No matter how much she wished it, she was no more a detective than she was anything else.

She knocked three times on Arthur’s door before being called in. Usually, he operated an open-door policy so the fact that she even needed to knock in the first place probably wasn’t a good sign.

“Morning,” she mumbled while surveying the obstacle course in front of her.

Similar to the Burrow, Arthur’s office was cluttered. But instead of mementos from holidays abroad and family pictures, he filled his space with Muggle knickknacks. She had to step past a wooden rocking horse, three vacuum cleaners (all partially broken-down) and a golf bag, stuffed full of bent clubs, before reaching her seat.

“Hermione!” He smiled up at her, blowing on a steaming cup of tea. “Good weekend?”

“Yes actually.” She wrinkled her nose, thinking of how she’d spent Saturday and Sunday curled in bed doing nothing. “I finished a book I picked up a few weeks ago.”

He nodded, clearly not sure what to say about her weekend. It’s not like it ever changed.

“Listen, I can’t thank you and Harry enough for swinging by last Wednesday. It made Molly’s week having someone to cook for.” He patted his belly good-naturedly, “besides me, of course.”

“If you’d like, I’ll talk to Harry and see if we can make a standing date to swing by. It’s a shame Ginny had Quidditch practice last time.”

And the time before that.

“We’d absolutely love that. You know you’re both family at this point.”

She nodded tightly, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.

Besides Harry, the Weasleys were the only family she had left. Her parents moved to Australia after their Obliviation. She couldn’t find it in her heart to undo the damage, knowing that they were probably better off without her.

“So a bit of an interesting request came in.” Arthur shuffled some papers around his littered desk as he changed the subject, knocking his cup of tea over in the process and staining the form in front of him. “The Aurors want a Muggle consultant.”

“You’re kidding.” She frowned as she flipped open her notebook and started writing. “Has that ever happened?”

“No, but it’s an unusual case.” He shook his head once before looking at her with a weighted expression. “I’ve recommended you for the job.”

Hermione automatically opened her mouth to protest but Arthur forestalled her.

“Your work on the Seer was sound.” It was mediocre at best and they both knew it. “So, you’ll need to report to MLE for the next few weeks until the case is cracked.”

The embers of interest she’d felt following the Seer investigation stirred to life in her chest once more. Stoked by a swell of excitement.

“Who’ll I be working with?” She hoped it would be Harry. It’d be nice to be partners again, especially if the fate of the wizarding world wasn’t dependent on their success this time.

Arthur stayed silent for a beat too long before saying, “Draco Malfoy.”

Her excitement promptly took a nose dive, crashing and burning somewhere in her abdomen. It was replaced by cold fury.

“I think it’s best you find someone else.”

“While I appreciate you two have history, the transfer was already processed.” He gestured at the now tea-stained form in front of him.

“I should’ve had a say,” she clamored.

“We knew what you’d say and, quite frankly, disagreed.”

“‘We’ meaning you and Bill?”

Bill being none other than Arthur’s oldest child. After the war, greatly embittered by the loss of his brothers and wife, he changed career paths and joined the Aurors. He was now the youngest head in history, known for making tough calls and being an absolute headache to work for.

Arthur nodded while Hermione scoffed.

“Look, if you both crack the case, you’re up for a promotion.”

It would be the first she’d had since her arrival at the Ministry. Of course, she got the requisite pay raises they all did year-on-year - but her job remained the same. The Golden Girl not flourishing as everyone expected, but remaining stagnant.

“Well let’s not hold our breath.” She closed her notebook with a snap and stormed out of the office.

Because there was absolutely no way that she would work with Malfoy. Anyone but him.

Hermione trundled to Bill Weasley’s office, her knuckles white against the small cardboard box pressed to her chest. Her repeated attempts at getting out of the transfer failed because, as Bill so aptly pointed out in his last missive, she was just whinging and had “no legitimate excuse to say no.” Besides, of course, the mounting dread she’d felt since hearing Malfoy’s name.

Her feet came to an involuntary stop once she reached her destination. She opened her mouth but no sound came out, her vocal cords choosing this moment to give up completely. So, she just quietly watched from the open door as the scene in front of her unfolded.

“You’ve gotta be f*cking kidding me.”

Draco Malfoy crossed his ankles as he leaned against Bill’s wall. His wand holster was on casual display on his forearm, the sleeves of his crisp white button-down perfectly rolled. Ink heavily decorated what skin Hermione could see. She briefly wondered if he’d gotten rid of his Dark Mark or had chosen to leave it hidden in plain sight.

“You asked for an expert,” Bill muttered around the cigarette he’d just lit with a flick from his fingers.

“Preferably one that doesn’t hate me and has actually worked a murder investigation before.”

She inhaled quickly, having been unaware of the nature of the case she was being pulled onto.

“You think MoMA has a lot of those floating around?”

“There has to be someone else,” Malfoy replied, his jaw ticking.

After having his name cleared by the Wizengamot five years ago, her rival had immediately joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He’d cut his teeth on arresting Death Eaters in hiding, most notoriously Fenrir Greyback and Antonin Dolohov. He had since risen through the ranks and now served as the branch’s top lead detective.

Rumor had it he felt the need, even more than Bill, to find and arrest Dark wizards. To differentiate himself from his former colleagues and make amends for his own role in the war.

But, no matter the reason, he was really good at what he did.

Not only that, but even Hermione had to admit how frustratingly attractive he’d become - however much she hated him.

She huffed, annoyed at herself for letting her eyes linger on the way Malfoy’s platinum hair fell into his face. He kept it longer on top than he used to, but the underside was now cut closer to his head.

At this point she realized that two pairs of eyes were currently trained on her and her hands were embarrassingly clammy as she clutched her possessions like a shield.

“Hermione, nice of you to finally join us.” Bill looked at her as he exhaled smoke from his mouth and inhaled it through his nose. “Sorry to see you have tonsillitis though.”

“I -” She faltered, still not used to the razor-sharp edges of his personality post-war. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Malfoy.” She tried to sound defiant as she met Bill’s coffee-colored eyes, but felt like she missed the mark.

“It’s not worth anything to me because this isn’t a f*cking democracy.” Bill leaned back and blew a few smoke rings from his mouth. “So suck it up and do the job, yeh?”

“You’re setting me up to fail,” Malfoy snarled.

“Maybe,” Bill shrugged, “but just think how surprised everyone will be if you don’t.”

Something about their casual dismissal made her snap out of whatever stupor she’d been in.

“I am standing right here.” Hermione forced herself forward and dumped her box on Bill’s desk besides a half-finished bottle of whiskey.

“Granger, how could I possibly forget your presence when you’ve been staring daggers at me since arriving?” Malfoy narrowed his steel-grey eyes at the small box before looking back at her.

“I’m sorry, what else should I be doing when you so casually question my competence?” Hermione’s breath heaved in and out. “If I couldn’t do the job, Arthur wouldn’t have recommended me.”

Frankly, she wasn’t entirely sold on how helpful she could be to the investigation but she wouldn’t admit that. No, she wouldn’t concede Malfoy was right on this. Not when it would inflate his ego at a time when she could barely stand to be in the room with him for longer than five minutes. A time limit they were dangerously approaching, made obvious by how short her fuse was getting.

Merlin, leave it to Draco bloody Malfoy to burden her with more emotion than she’d felt in years, grief and guilt notwithstanding. She hated it, preferring to be an empty husk than feeling like her nerves were on fire.

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed Granger but Weasley, here, likes to do things just for a laugh.” He looked her up and down before muttering, “which this clearly is.”

This was the first time the pair had really interacted since Malfoy’s trial when she testified on his behalf, affirming that he had saved her life. That the war would have ended very differently without his defection. Given her torture in Malfoy Manor, the traces of which were still etched into her arm, that testimony was the main reason Malfoy didn’t get thrown in Azkaban. Why he was, instead, given a formal pardon and able to join the MLE. After all, if the Golden Girl was willing to go to bat for him after everything that happened, maybe he didn’t have as much say in his wartime actions as everyone assumed.

But that didn’t mean she had to like him. No, Hermione Granger truly loathed Draco Malfoy. More than she ever had in school. Her feelings burrowed into her bones and stretched into her very soul. When she looked at him now, she could feel those emotions surging as raw magic literally sparked from her fingertips.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d step out of my office before going supernova.”

“Why don’t you tell him to stop being an absolute prat instead,” she snapped her head over to Bill, “then you won’t have to worry about my reaction.”

“I can’t see how being upset that I’m going to have to babysit you every step of the way is my being a prat,” Malfoy grit out.

“Jesus f*cking Christ.” Bill closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, smoke curling up around him.

“I’m not incompetent, Malfoy. I seem to recall consistently getting higher grades than you in every subject.”

“Getting top marks in Potions six years ago isn’t going to solve a murder investigation now, Granger.”

“Are you sure? Because it’s not like you’ve managed to solve it on your own yet,” she hissed.

Malfoy pinched the space between his brows, clearly willing himself to take a deep breath.

“See, Weasley, this clearly isn’t going to work.” His shoulders suddenly slumped as though the fight had drained out of him. “Please just give me someone else. Literally anyone else. I would even take that idiot Flint at this point.”

“Get over yourself, it’s not going to be that bad.” Hermione refused to believe she was worse to work with than Marcus Flint. “I’m more than capable of managing myself.”

“I’m well aware,” he replied miserably as his eyes flitted to the ceiling. “But that still doesn’t mean you’re qualified for this.”

“I’m not sure how we’re meant to work together if you keep belittling me.”

“We aren’t working together because this,” he pointed between them, “isn’t happening.”

“Alright, I’m done.” Bill slammed his hands onto his desk, his cigarette hanging out his mouth. “Both of you, out now.”

Malfoy opened his mouth but Bill shook his head.

“My decision hasn’t changed. Get over whatever the f*ck this is or lose your jobs. I truly don’t care either way.” He slammed the door behind them unceremoniously, the noise causing Hermione to flinch and drop her meagre box of possessions.

Draco stooped down to retrieve the items strewn across the bullpen floor. It looked like she hadn’t brought much with her: a few quills, fresh sheets of parchment, a plant on its last legs and a photograph. His hand reached out to pick up the silvered frame but she got to it first, snatching it away.

“That’s private.” She placed the picture back into the box hurriedly and he saw that it was of the Golden Trio, taken long before the war, when all of them were still alive and well.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” he held up his hands in surrender.

“Well, you were.” Granger looked at him, her brown eyes blistering as she grabbed a handful of quills, “so just keep your hands off my things, would you?”

He sighed, long and heavy. This was going to be a bloody nightmare.

It’s not like he hadn’t seen Granger in years. They did work on the same floor of the Ministry. But they had both made a concerted effort to avoid the other as much as possible. Anytime he got a glimpse of bouncy brown curls, he spun on his heel and walked the other way. Once he’d even hid in a broom closet to avoid her fiery gaze. He could still taste the bitterness that coated his tongue as she bustled past on the way to find Potter.

Avoidance was for the best though. It’s not like he appreciated what she had done for him. He was all too aware that his pardon was solely thanks to her. The Minister had told him as much while his friends were carted away in chains. It still made him feel f*cking guilty anytime he went out for a pint with his mates. He couldn’t help but glimpse at the runes and numbers permanently etched on their necks. Marking them forever as criminals, no matter that they’d been children at the time.

But not him. No, Draco Malfoy had redeemed himself. Even though he didn’t do anything honorable. Just watched Granger get tortured on his drawing room floor and, later, stopped her from killing herself. No one should get off scot-free for not even managing the bare f*cking minimum. Yet, somehow, he had.

“I’m not entirely sure why you even bothered bringing a box of your things.” He picked up the plant that had spilled half a pot’s worth of soil on the ground, depositing it alongside everything else. “We may be forced to work together but we’re not sharing the same space as one another.”

“And how exactly do you plan on solving this murder then, by owl?”

“Keep your voice down.” She looked away, her cheeks flushing a deep red. “But yes, preferably that, considering you are just a consultant.” Draco let his voice drawl, just like he used to when taunting her in school.

“That’s the stupidest strategy I’ve ever heard,” she snapped.

“Well, when you solve your own cases, I’ll start taking your advice into account.” He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Till then, what I say goes.” He looked her over once more and then sauntered away, internally struggling to maintain his cool composure.

Gods, she still knew how to get under his skin in a way no one else could. He didn’t hate Hermione Granger per se, not in the way that she clearly detested him. But being around her brought him back to the reality that he couldn’t move past the war. Because of her. She kept him stuck there, held him back from living in the present. It was f*cking torture having that reminder, living and breathing, hovering in his periphery.

He couldn’t solve this case fast enough.

Chapter 3: What's Good Fortune Without Luck?

Chapter Text

Hours after the disastrous meeting in Bill’s office, a paper airplane zinged onto Hermione’s desk. She hadn’t yet bothered to unpack the cardboard box, instead choosing to leave it on the floor by her door. It’s not like her personal effects made her office feel like home. She kept the bare minimum here after all: only the still-frame photograph and a snake plant that refused to die.

She rolled her eyes, remembering Harry giving her one of his leaf cuttings as a Christmas present one year after the war ended. It was either that or a new cat, he explained, when she asked why a plant of all things. After all, she wasn’t exactly known for having a green thumb.

Though, in hindsight, it was probably for the best that he’d selected the sansevieria. Anything that required daily feeding would’ve been too much for her … even if she still missed Crookshanks every now and again.

Her cat was currently in Australia with her parents. Or so she assumed. It’s not like she kept tabs on them anymore, that had been too hard. But, in the middle of the night, when she couldn’t sleep, she liked to think of her little orange tabby looking out for her parents. Protecting them against the things that went bump in the night … much better than she ever could anyway.

She sighed before standing up and retrieving the pot. She should probably water the plant before it did keel over. It was the one thing she’d managed to take care of over the years.

Whatever the memo said could wait.

Hermione soon returned from MoMA’s water cooler with a filled paper cone that she quickly poured onto the bone-dry soil before setting the pot in her window-sill. As she settled back in her old office chair, she returned to the short memo. It was probably another question from Daphne asking about the Winter Olympics. Just yesterday, she popped in to clarify the difference between a luge and a bobsled - as if Hermione bloody knew the difference.

She sniffed haughtily before unfolding the small rectangle, a significant frown forming on her face. Definitely not Daphne’s sloppy scribble. The letters were instead slanted and incredibly crisp. It was clear that whoever wrote the note used a very expensive quill.

Malfoy then.

It looked like he had sent a brief overview of the facts. Brief being the keyword. The memo literally read: “Murder on May 2, every 30 days thereafter. No magic. Bodies in Ministry.”

Hermione scoffed. That was all he was going to give her? What was she supposed to do with this exactly?

The only thing she could glean from the text was that the first murder took place on the anniversary of the Battle. The day the war finally ended.

She huffed out a breath of air before pulling a fresh sheet towards her. Pursing her lips, she dipped her quill into ink and considered what to say.

“I need to know more than that and you know it. Let’s start with the following:
1.) Who was the first victim?
2.) How many have there been?

- Hermione”

There. That was a good start. She folded her own airplane which, frankly, looked much better than Malfoy’s and sent it whizzing off to MLE. Once she knew more details about the actual crime she was trying to help solve, she could get on with doing just that. But, until then, she had more cataloguing of current Muggle technologies. So far, she’d managed to complete a deep-dive on the television including, but not limited to, the purposes of Saturday morning cartoons, infomercials and music videos. Now she needed to figure out how best to explain the iPod.

She furrowed her brow and set to work, forgetting about the note she sent Malfoy. Until, that is, she received another shoddily-crafted airplane an hour later.

Throwing down her quill and vanishing the parchment filled with scratched-out notes detailing the music player’s characteristics, she tore open the memo.

“Granger,

The first victim is irrelevant because you aren’t a detective in the matter. As for your second question … I thought you were supposed to be intelligent.”

Hermione thought her teeth might shatter as she clenched her jaw in a white-hot burst of rage. Her quill literally broke in half as she carved out her next response.

“Supposed to be?! You never mentioned what YEAR the first murder took place in. Forgive me for not assuming, you loathsome ferret.”

She sent off her memo with shaky hands to find Malfoy wherever he was, feeling only momentarily guilty for bringing up what was certainly a horrible memory for him. Whatever. She hoped her plane poked him in the eye. Of course, he’d be like this. The nerve he had was astounding.

Her fury still not spent, she got to her feet and stormed out of her office. She needed to work off her anger and thought to grab a coffee at her floor’s vending machine. It tasted like absolute dirt but she couldn’t chance going out into non-magical London when there was a very real possibility that she’d start sparking again.

Hermione barely made it back to her desk before the latest memo crashed into the back of her head, tangling in her riotous curls. Snarling, she wrenched the paper from her mane and accidentally tore off the wings in her haste to unfold it.

“Granger -

You really should talk to someone about your anger issues. It’s unbecoming.

Do you really think MLE would let the murders go on for years without bringing on a consultant? Even a sub-par one at that?

Oh and just in case you aren’t able to do the maths, today is August 9th which means there have been three other murders since the first.”

She placed her temper on the back-burner while she mulled over the information. Four people dead. Gods, that was so many. She didn’t understand how she hadn’t heard about any of this before now.

Hermione worried at her bottom lip all the while recalling how Malfoy had shushed her during their earlier “discussion” of the case … even though no one had been around. She hummed, her mind working through the possible solutions to this unfathomable riddle.

This time when she penned her next note, her letters looked a little neater - her tone less clipped.

“Malfoy,

There’s a gag order on this case, isn’t there? That’s why I haven’t heard any details about it until today. But, if so, why didn’t you just tell me that at the start?

Maybe we should use code-words in case our memos get intercepted or use a different language. How’s your French? Better yet, how’s your Arabic?”

She doubted that he knew any Arabic but wanted to prevent any further digs about her intelligence. Narrowing her eyes, she determined the remark looked innocent enough to leave in and continued.

“Oh and you still didn’t answer my question about the first victim’s identity. Actually, it’s probably best if you tell me all of them.”

Draco ground his teeth together when another memo flew into his office.

Hermione Granger was going to be the death of him. Probably imminently too. Something not even the Dark Lord himself could manage. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was trying to send him into cardiac arrest, the stress of dealing with her enough to make his heart burst.

The Prophet would have a field-day too, headlines sure to abound about the former Death-Eater, no matter how redeemed, finally struck dead by the Golden Girl herself.

Draco opened the memo and laughed behind his hands. If there were gods or Fates, they definitely hated him. They had to - to stick him with such a bloody know-it-all.

He sighed, picking up his silver-tipped quill and pulled another memo sheet towards him.

“Granger,

I haven’t told you the identity for any of my vics because that information is classified. You weren’t told about the gag order because I knew you would suggest something as unhinged as code-words. We aren’t using them or another bloody language when your penmanship already gives me an eyesore.”

He swore under his breath as he tried to fold the parchment into a working airplane. It took four attempts but the memo finally managed to fly off.

f*cking Arthur Weasley and his ideas to improve their society’s perception of Muggles. Don’t get him wrong, he agreed it was a needed change. It was past time that wizards tossed out their half-baked notions of their non-magical brethren. But why did he have to start with the interoffice memo system? No matter how many instructional guides he received, Draco couldn’t get the wings straight for the life of him. His memos always sadly listing to one side or, even worse, nose-diving straight into their target.

He thought contemptuously of Granger’s perfectly folded ones. He bet she got the hang of it right away. Just like she did with everything.

Draco raked his fingers through his platinum hair, telling himself to get a grip. Bill was right, the case needed a Muggle consultant. He just wished he’d been given someone less distracting, someone with a shared history that didn’t resemble a live minefield. Granger set him on edge … and yet.

No, absolutely not. He wouldn’t let himself think about her anymore. Not when he had so much work to do.

Turning his head away from his desk, which was slowly filling with her words, he looked at his murder wall. It was far more blank than he’d like. He stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets, to examine the crime scene photos once more.

All of them looked like diagrams torn from a Dark Arts book. Something closer to ritual sacrifice than your run-of-the-mill serial homicide. Draco hadn’t told Granger this, knowing she might accuse one of his formerly incarcerated friends in one of her blind rages. Or maybe those were only reserved for him. Still, he knew she’d lose her bloody mind and not focus on what was actually important. Namely, that even though the scenes looked like something the Dark Lord would’ve had a wet dream about, no magic was used. None at all.

It was the biggest mystery of the case. Something the crime-scene techs worried themselves sick over every time they got the call. How were there no traces of magic at the scene? Not even something as small as an Alohom*ora to unlock the department doors.

He bent down to get a closer look at the most recent shots. Eric Dolohov, none other than Antonin’s heir, stared back at him blankly from the ninth floor of the Department of Mysteries. He’d been the latest victim, the memory still making Draco nauseous. Though not visible in the photos, he could easily remember how the crystal balls cast an eerie blue light to the macabre scene.

Unspeakable Everett found the naked body laying spread-eagled on the black tile, a line of blood circling the corpse. Runes carved into the plain surface of the victim’s skin. Well, plain except for the Dark Mark and knives spearing various body parts to the floor.

And there were all of a similarity. Draco having come to expect the blood circle, the runes, and bodily mutilations that seemed to escalate every time.

But even after four bodies, he had nothing. The witnesses provided f*ck-all to go on, same with the vics. Unless the perp made a mistake, they could probably continue in perpetuity until the only Auror not fired was Bill f*cking Weasley himself.

He stirred at the sound of rustling paper landing neatly on his desk. Didn’t Granger have better things to do at the job she actually worked instead of sending him countless memos? He cursed himself as his body seemed to move towards her note of its own accord. Didn’t he have things that he should be doing rather than f*cking respond?

He was going to get fired. Probably within the week. All because she wouldn’t leave him be. He guessed things never f*cking changed, did they?

Draco’s eyes darted over the latest segment of their tête-à-tête before picking up his quill again. He was just about to put nib to parchment when a quick knock at his door interrupted his train of thought. Before he could tell whoever it was to “f*ck off,” Bill Weasley waltzed in.

“How’s things going with Granger?” Bill cooed, kicking the door shut with his muddy combat boots.

“Can you shut the door like a normal f*cking person, thanks.”

He stared at the mud now soiling his door, knowing he’d need to cast a cleansing charm after his terror of a boss finally deigned to leave him be. Draco liked keeping his office immaculate. It organized his thoughts, kept everything just so. Sure, it might look a bit … empty. He only had the one photo of Narcissa, brought from the Manor, and the first Snitch he’d ever caught. But, at least he didn’t have to worry about losing any case files. Not like Potter whose office was chaos incarnate. The Chosen One didn’t go an hour without having to Accio for something in his space.

“f*ck you.” Bill looked over at Draco evenly. “Now answer my question.”

“Let’s see here,” Draco picked up Granger’s latest missive. “She thinks I’m a prick for withholding classified information from her. Has asked for the exact language of the gag order for some reason. Oh and she’s listed about seven other questions that have no relevance … like ‘who found the victims?’”

“Seems pretty relevant to me.” Bill thumped his muddy boots onto Draco’s desk as he sat down. Draco leaned over and knocked them off with a sneer. “And for what it’s worth, you are a prick.”

“I’m not helping her fulfill her innate need to be a know-it-all in every aspect of her life when it’s not required for her role with us.”

“What the f*ck is your problem with each other?”

“We have history.”

That was, obviously, an understatement. But the details of his defection were never fully made public. The only thing known was Grangers’s rather unenlightening testimony that he’d saved her. Only the Minister of Magic, the people there that night, and a select committee of the Wizengamot knew the full truth.

“Really?” Bill feigned surprise. “I couldn’t tell from the way you were at each other’s throats earlier in my office. Or,” he snatched up the memo and read it himself, “from the complete lack of professionalism the both of you exhibit when forced together.”

Draco just stared at Bill in disbelief. The same Bill who regularly smoked in everyone’s offices (despite multiple complaints to HR), f*cked anything that walked in the broom closet without locking the door and had a habit of cussing out plants he walked into after coming into work hungover. He was one of the best Aurors MLE had ever seen, but professionalism wasn’t something he really subscribed to.

“Well, if you take her off the case, our respective lack of professionalism won’t be an issue, will it?”

“And I would do that because …?”

“I can handle it myself.” Draco ignored the voice in his head telling him otherwise and continued on, “not even Potter has a success rate as high as mine and you know it.”

“And yet, you have four bodies and no viable perp list. So, in this case, you clearly need help.” Bill stood up and stretched. “My suggestion? Hate-f*ck it out and get to work. I’m serious about your jobs being on the line.”

Draco stared at Bill for a long moment, deciding between punching him in the face or taking the advice in stride. He chose the latter since he really wasn’t sure who else would hire him.

Hermione was actually pulling out her hair, trying to explain an iPod. Maybe she could get by on rice and beans for a few months and just buy one for Arthur as a present. Let him figure it out for himself. It would be worth it to avoid having to explain storing hundreds of Muggle songs on a device that fit into your jeans pocket. Especially given that he still had a tough time understanding vinyl players and tape cassettes.

So when another interoffice memo nose-dived into her desk, she welcomed it as the distraction it was. Sure, Malfoy probably said something asinine. But it was sure to be more interesting and less headache-inducing than her current assignment.

She unfolded the shoddily-made memo quickly.

“Granger,

The reason we’re under a gag order is because the Minister of Magic wants to keep the murders out of the Daily Prophet. Otherwise, we’re facing an inquiry (of which, you’ll now be part of as the Muggle consultant). Hence why we need to work quickly and silently.”

She sat back in her chair. Not including his obvious attempt to remind her of her limited role, that was the most respectful note she’d received all day. His tone wasn’t hostile, just even. She wondered if calling him a prick actually did the trick or if it was something else. Whatever, she had about ten thousand other questions she needed to ask him and he couldn’t stay mum forever.

She bent down and got to work.

“Thank you for your timely and courteous response. I told you that working together wouldn’t be that awful.

Is there anything about the bodies that I should be made aware of? You said ‘no magic,’ but you understand how unclear that is. Do you mean that the victim’s bodies had no traces of magic on them? Surely, you performed a Prior Incantato on their wands to rule out the possibility of a duel gone wrong.”

She smiled at herself, proud that she was able to maintain a modicum of professionalism as she sent off her memo. But just as it zoomed out the door, she realized she had a few more follow-up questions for her new partner-in-crime.

She laughed at the pun before it died abruptly on her tongue, a momentary panic filling her when she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had giggled like that. Gods, he was making her lose it in more ways than one.

“Malfoy,

Sorry just another few for you.

Where were the bodies found again? You said ‘Ministry.’ So I assume you mean somewhere in the Ministry … not that they’re being stored here. Though I suppose we must have a morgue, right? (Let me know if you’re unsure what a morgue is. It might be a Muggle thing, but I’d be happy to explain if so.) Anyway, please clarify what you meant in your original note regardless.”

Her thoughts continue to whir as she set down her quill. She was pretty sure that a gag order would be impossible to enforce if the bodies were being dumped in one of the marble fountains in the green-tiled atrium, where workers Floo’ed in at all hours.

She sent off the latest memo and turned back to her miserable report. But, after five minutes of huffing and staring at her extremely marked-up parchment, she threw down her quill and sat back.

It was no use. She wouldn’t be able to focus until she’d heard from him again. She was so bloody curious as to why she’d been put on the case. He’d given her next to no information, so it was a mystery in itself why she was being loaned out.

Luckily, she didn’t have to wait for long. This time the memo was folded so terribly that it smashed right into her partially-opened door, the nose crumpling on impact. She frowned and pulled open the parchment, noting a tiny shake in Malfoy’s usually neat scrawl.

“Granger,

Stop sending me bloody memos. I have an actual job to do. One that’s a bit more important than writing reports on plugs and rubber ducks or whatever the f*ck Arthur assigns you.”

Her mouth dropped open. Merlin, she had just asked a few questions. But before she could respond, another memo came flying in. This time she was able to catch it in her hands.

“And don’t forget I’m the lead detective. I give you what information I deem relevant because you are nothing more to me than a consultant.

Oh, and before you send me a f*cking dictionary entry on it, the Ministry has a morgue in the basem*nt.”

Hermione screamed into her hands. “That absolute arsehole. I swear to - ” She paused when she heard a knock on the door. Forcing herself to take a deep breath in, she arranged her features into a tight smile and looked up.

Dean Thomas was poking his head in, his brows furrowed in concern. She swore internally to herself, realizing that he had definitely seen her little temper-tantrum.

“Hey!” She cleared her throat before uttering a quick apology when he tripped over the box that was still lying on her floor.

Dean looked down at it, a frown quickly forming on his face. “Hermione … Arthur hasn’t laid you off, has he? Because if so, I swear …” He clenched his fists, his brown cheeks flushing a deep red.

“No!” She forced out a laugh, which came out on the upper end of hysterical. “Gods, no! What makes you think that?”

“I mean, you looked pretty upset before I came in. Plus,” he pointedly looked back at the box when he took a seat in front of her, “that has all your stuff in it. Well, besides your tree thing.”

She was about to protest before realizing it was futile.

“I was, uh, just doing some redecorating,” she muttered weakly. If she was under a gag order, she would need to start coming up with better excuses. That and she should probably “unpack” before day’s end. But she doubted Dean would thoroughly question her.

“Oh,” he looked around, confused. There had clearly been no redecorating. The walls remained bare, the white paint cracked and peeling away. She had nothing on her desk, except a few broken-quills, a half-empty ink pot and Malfoy’s memos. “Well … it looks.” He cleared his throat. “I hear minimalism is quite popular these days.”

Hermione nearly snorted. Leave it to Dean to find the only tactful response there was.

“So, what’s up?” She started tidying away the unfolded memos so that he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of anything confidential while here. Not that Malfoy’s notes really said anything other than insults.

“Well I have a few questions about Tolkien,” he gave her a fond smile as if he’d just said a shared joke between them. “Obviously.”

The old Hermione Granger would absolutely applaud Dean for undertaking such thorough research when he really only needed to watch the movies for his report. This Hermione, however, was a bit wearied from the mountain of enquiries she received from him. Especially when she could read between the lines. Most of the things he asked, he already knew the answer. He just wanted to talk to her.

Maybe it was just because he didn’t want her to feel lonely, the thought making her despondent.

After all, Hermione’s solitude had been of her own choosing.

“Obviously,” her own smile was forced, her tone flat.

“But I was thinking maybe we could discuss them over dinner sometime.” He sounded so hesitant, his eyes searching hers.

Hermione just stared back, unblinking. Crikey, this wasn’t happening … was it? Like he wasn’t actually asking her out on a date and she was just reading the situation wrong. Please let that be it.

She couldn’t do dates. She didn’t do them. Though she’d been on her fair share of blind ones, set up by Harry and various members of the Weasley clan - but they never worked out. Hell, she’d even agreed to drinks with George once. That disaster resulted in her hiding underneath her covers for a full-day afterward, wallowing in grief and misery. She still couldn’t meet his eyes at Christmas.

Clearly, her internal freak-out lasted too long because he quickly added, “but if that’s not something you’d be interested in.”

“No, I would love to.” Hermione shook her head violently while her mind screamed at her. She hated herself for not yet killing the innate need to please others. “Dinner sometime would be great. But I’ve just been put on something new … so it might be a few weeks before I have a free evening?” She bit her lip, trying to look as contrite and believable as possible.

“That’d be great.” Dean smiled at her. “I’ll check-in in about two weeks?” His eyes were literally dancing, furthering the self-hatred she felt in that moment.

“Yeah, two weeks would be great.” She could hear how hoarse she sounded as if her unwillingness to make any sort of romantic commitment was actually choking her out. “Can’t wait,” she said waveringly as Dean got up and left with a little bounce to his step.

Gods. What a disaster. He was the definition of lovely, always had been. She wished she could like him. He had always been kind and caring to her. Making sure she knew when communal lunch was in the kitchens, asking about her weekend (even when it never changed). But it was too much … too soon. She just couldn’t do that to … no, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t happening. She had two weeks to come up with an excuse and she would find something.

Or she would just quit and leave the wizarding world behind to become a hermit in the woods.

But, under no circ*mstances, would Hermione Granger go on a date with anyone.

It was now past five and Draco hadn’t received a memo from Granger in over an hour. Maybe she’d finally gone home for the day. Back to whoever kept her warm at night. Or her cat that had always hissed at him in the halls of Hogwarts. She clearly had something because he never saw her scurrying through their shared halls late in the evenings.

He sat back, pulling open his bottom desk-drawer and taking out his bottle of Ogden’s. Pouring himself a finger, he sighed happily - ready to tackle all the work he’d failed to do today.

Something he absolutely blamed her for. She was so bloody distracting and didn’t even realize it. Gods, Granger hadn’t changed one bit. She just had to have her nose in everything … helping. It was infuriating.

Just then, a memo fluttered to a halt beside his hand.

“Oh come the f*ck on,” he moaned. “Just give me a break, just one.”

Her note was actually two sheets of parchment spelled together. How she managed to fold that into something flyable was beyond him. He looked at the first sheet, seeing just a few lines. It was clear how exasperated she’d become with him.

“Malfoy,

I really can’t see where I’m fitting into your case if you don’t tell me anything. Please let me how I can help so we can get this over with.”

For the first time that day, they actually agreed upon something. He rolled his eyes before taking a look at the second sheet, which was, incredulously, a point-by-point explanation on how to fold a paper airplane.

“Un-f*cking-believable.” He pinched the space between his brows before pulling out his secret stash of cigarettes. It’s not like Bill gave a flying f*ck what anyone did in their office so long as their case closure rate remained high.

He took a deep inhale of smoke, thinking about how to respond.

With an absolutely devilish smile lighting upon his features, he picked up his silver-tipped quill once more and wrote a single line.

He knew exactly the project she’d be given.

If he couldn’t figure it out, neither would she. And once she finally failed at something, which she undoubtedly would, Bill would be forced to bring out a new consultant. Then he could finally set his sights back on his actual job, instead of the soft curls framing her face and the small tug of her lips after delivering a particularly cutting remark. That and the absolute hatred that dripped from her tone every time they spoke.

“Alright Granger, tell me how they all died.”

He sent off the missive, making a point to ignore every single one of her instructions, and threw back the rest of his whiskey.

Chapter 4: Why Yes, We Do Hate Each Other - Thanks for Asking

Chapter Text

Draco arrived early to work the following morning, just knowing that he’d find another bloody memo on his desk. A space that should be empty of crap but was now filled with her perfect f*cking airplanes. The stupid things had refolded themselves in the night like some sort of nightmare. He was guessing she spelled them so that they’d leave his trashcan too - considering the number currently littering his desk.

He left immediately after finishing his whiskey the night prior, collecting as many case files as he could hold and hurrying out the door. He didn’t think that he’d be able to maintain his composure if he got another note from her. It was the right call too, given the tone of this latest one that he found on top of his inbox.

“Malfoy. How on Earth am I supposed to tell you how the victims were killed when you haven’t:
1.) Given me a copy of any of the postmortems;
2.) Owled over the crime scene photos;
3.) Told me whether any connection exists between the victims;
4.) Sent along any witness statements;
5.) Given me your own theories about the killer and their motives; or
6.) Let me know if anything was found at the crime scene pertaining to the murders.

I mean, honestly, you are asking the impossible without giving me an inch. Unless you haven’t done any of the above, in which case I would seriously question your abilities as an Auror.”

How lovely, Draco thought sarcastically, as he slung his suit jacket on the coat rack standing in the corner. Though he was a touch impressed that Granger knew what any of those things were. After all, she specialized in Muggle affairs - not murder. (Though he supposed non-magical folk were unfortunately exceptional at homicide.)

He took a sip of his black coffee, brought in from home because he absolutely refused to drink the swill from the floor’s vending machine, and looked at the mess of his desk. The memos almost taunted him as they sat perfectly still but for the occasional wing-fluttering. With a muttered curse, he opened up his whiskey drawer and swept the lot of them in.

If he couldn’t throw them out, then he could at least keep them locked away.

There were a million things he needed to do today. Chief among them make his way down to the morgue to finish the post-mortem on his latest victim with Pansy Parkinson. Even though he didn’t expect anything new to come from it, he also didn’t like keeping corpses in stasis for longer than necessary.

He sighed, letting himself finish his coffee in the quiet of his office before getting to work. For the first time in 36 hours, Draco didn’t feel like an unwilling participant in an WWII reenactment. That peace would come to an abrupt end once he sent Granger the case files. He was sure he would come back from the basem*nt with ten thousand airplanes on every viable surface.

Draco thought carefully about what she’d need to solve the manner of killing issue. He wouldn’t give her everything she asked. Partially because he rather liked getting a rise out of her. But also because he worried that she might be inclined to interfere with his investigation. Especially when it came to the witnesses. He wouldn’t be surprised if she just up and questioned them herself, thinking he’d missed something or another.

He made a copy of each postmortem report - redacting the names, but leaving in the magical analysis as a sort of compromise before also setting aside the crime scene photos for her. He blotted out the victim’s faces per MLE guidelines and slid everything into a confidential mail folder.

Happy with its contents, Draco took out his wand and magically sealed the record so that only Granger would be able to open it. He already knew what would happen: inevitably, she would send him every f*cking theory she formed about the case over the course of today.

Her past correspondence had been enough to fill his dreams last night, her paper creations prodding his backside while she chased him, screaming, down the Manor hall. He could only imagine what tonight would have in store. Maybe he should pick up a vial of Dreamless Draught on the way home.

He sent off the purple folder with a flick of his wand and waited for whatever fallout was to come.

Hermione was shoving a spoonful of overnight oats into her mouth when a confidential file appeared in her inbox. She dropped her spoon with a clatter, knowing she’d be picking residue off her desk for weeks to come.

Malfoy must have sent this. Arthur never used the Ministry’s confidential mailing system because nothing about their work required secrecy. Really, it was quite the opposite.

So when she saw the folder suddenly appear, she couldn’t help but pivot away from her terribly-drawn tech diagrams. This was probably a copy of his case files. Though it looked thinner than she expected considering they had four victims on their hands.

Hermione briefly wondered if this was what love-sick teenagers felt - the eager anticipation of waiting for the next slipped note in class - before casting the thought out of her mind. In no way, shape or form would she entertain ideas of Malfoy in that way.

Regardless, a peal of excitement worked its way through her as she grabbed the purple folder. She was finally getting the chance (however small) to be a detective in her own right.

She picked up her wand and broke the seal, which required her to state her full name and Ministry ID number. A crease appeared between her brow, the excitement being doused by disappointment, when she saw that he’d only sent a few pages. Though there was a ripped-off piece of parchment.

“Granger,

Don’t bother me anymore unless you can tell me something that I don’t f*cking know about this case.

Oh and stop charming your blasted memos, thanks.”

She smirked, having wondered earlier when he would realize that she charmed her memos to be a nuisance. Honestly, if he had taken her more seriously at the start, she wouldn’t have considered it. But now it was quite a bit of fun, taking her back to Charms lessons at Hogwarts. Rifling through the three reports and handful of photos, she decided he would just have to deal with it.

Arsehole.

Hermione bent her head over the files, her breakfast all but forgotten beside her, and set to work with a highlighter and chewed-up quill. She made a note to ask Malfoy where the fourth post-mortem report was. It really would be best if she had all of them to compare and contrast. But, whatever. She supposed this would do for now. If need be, she could just find him in his office later and demand a copy.

It didn’t take her long to read through each report and, once Hermione finished, she sat back with a groan. The autopsies really weren’t helpful.

Though it was interesting to find out that Pansy Parkinson was now the Ministry’s coroner. It did make an odd sort of sense when she thought about the smug Slytherin she knew from years earlier. Working with the dead probably meant that she needn’t interact with people who were ‘beneath her’ all that much.

In fact, she bet that Parkinson got along great with Malfoy - the pair were probably still dating for all she knew.

She harrumphed before standing and heading to the coffee machine, nodding to a harried looking Marcus and Daphne on the way. They were likely strategizing on how best to convince Arthur to swap their MoMA specialties. It was no secret Daphne would prefer reviewing Muggle music whereas the former Slytherin captain had been gunning for athletics since his arrival the year prior.

Upon returning to her office and feeling slightly nauseous after downing the machine’s weak imitation of coffee, Hermione pulled out a fresh scroll and began noting everything important in the reports.

Parkinson definitively ruled that none of the victims had been killed through magical means. She was particularly rigorous in her testing, much to Hermione’s satisfaction. There were no traces of curses or Unforgivable spells on the bodies. The use of Dark objects were ruled out as well.

She bit her quill, coughing when a few feathers came away on her tongue. She could now understand why MLE wanted a Muggle consultant. Though it was a bit odd for a wizard to choose a non-magical means to kill someone. After all, it would be far easier to use your wand so long as you had the intent, words, and correct wand movement. You didn’t even need to be standing that close to do it.

So, why would …

Her eyes quickly widened as it dawned on her. If you grew up in the wizarding world, you would automatically go for magic. Unless you couldn’t. Potentially, their suspect was a Squib. She made a quick note to herself to bring this up to Malfoy the next time she spoke to him.

With a working theory under her belt, Hermione scoured the non-magical section of the report again. Parkinson reported that the bodies had little to no bruising or abrasions. Nothing out of the ordinary at least. However, every single one had been mutilated post-mortem. Ancient runes, the same throughout, were cut deep into otherwise plain chests.

She picked up the photos, pairing them with each report - the fourth set standing on their own.

The first victim just had the runes. Just, Hermione thought with an acrid taste in her mouth. In the photo, it was clear just how deep the markings were carved. She could see the tendons standing out in stark relief against the victim’s dark skin. It made Hermione’s stomach turn over, which certainly wasn’t helped by the coffee.

Parkinson noted that their second victim had her throat slashed so deeply that she could see the spine during the exam. Bile rose up in Hermione’s throat as she bent closer to the photo. She couldn’t see it. But whoever took the shot had done so at an odd angle. Like they were trying to stay as far away as possible and still do their job.

Which was fair.

But despite the throat being slashed, there was no blood spill whatsoever. It was clear that the killer had cleaned the victim before leaving the scene. So there was nothing to detract from the angry red gash parting the throat.

The third victim …

Hermione took one look at the photo and vomited into her trashcan - her stomach emptying of her meagre breakfast and caffeine fix. When she was sure nothing else would come up, she Vanished the contents and whispered a mouth-cleaning incantation.

The killer really upped their violence with the third victim whose forearms had deep cuts, the pale skin held back by pins.

She really didn’t want to look at the last set, knowing she couldn’t use Parkinson’s reports as a crutch if her stomach found a way to betray her again. But, taking a deep breath, she willed herself to get it over with.

It looked like the latest victim had his hands and feet held down by knives. Which, all things considered, was much better than what she had already seen. But it was the knives protruding from the eyes and genitals that made her get up and take a walk around MoMA.

After a couple of laps and a brief green-spell from seeing the community lunch in the canteen, Hermione felt ready to return to her desk. Though she did down an anti-nausea potion after moving the pictures so they were well out of her sightline.

Setting aside the mutilations, nothing had been done to the bodies. There were no ligature marks, no stab wounds or gun shots. Nothing. Even the toxicology reports came back clean, though Parkinson failed to list what she tested for. Hermione made yet another note to either ask her or Malfoy about it in the immediate future.

The cause of death was simply listed as “cardiac arrest, foul play suspected.”

So it was Hermione’s job to figure out what caused it. She suspected that task was going to be an absolute bear.

Annoyingly, all victim names were redacted from the file. Probably something Malfoy did to intentionally annoy her. Not only that but there was a magical redaction over each photographed face. Obviously, the victim’s identities might go a long way towards explaining why they were killed. Even how the murder was done.

She wasn’t even sure why Malfoy was keeping it from her. It’s not like she had anyone to spill her guts to - even if she wasn’t under a gag order. But what did she know, she was only a mere consultant after all.

She turned back to her task, worried she might be missing something right in front of her. But, surely, if it was obvious, Malfoy would have caught it by now.

Heart attacks could be caused by an infinite number of things. Gods. How was she going to figure out how these people died if the trained professionals didn’t have a bloody clue?

Leave it to Hermione Granger to once-again be tasked with figuring out the impossible. At least she had experience, she thought. But instead of feeling disheartened, which would probably be the normal response given the circ*mstances, she felt invigorated. Like she’d just gone for a crisp jaunt through the Scottish hillside.

Pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment, Hermione began doing one of the things she was best at: making a list of all the avenues of research she would need to cover. The first item being non-magical poisons that could induce cardiac arrests. Just so she had something to cross-reference with Parkinson later. Then she needed to ascertain what health conditions predisposed otherwise healthy individuals to heart attacks.

By the time she finally lifted her head from the desk, her face splattered with ink, she realized it was well-past time to leave. According to the small clock ticking on her desk, it was just after six. She packed up her things, throwing the case file and accompanying notes into her expandable bag, without a second thought.

Hermione stepped out into the darkened MoMA hallway, right on to something squishy. Looking down, she realized she stepped on a sandwich left outside her door. She bent over to pick up the paper plate and saw a note from Dean.

“You seemed busy so I brought you a sandwich for later.”

How thoughtful of him, almost unbearably so. She frowned to herself as she made her way to the atrium, tossing the ruined lunch on her way out. That situation was going to get out of hand if she didn’t do something about it soon. But, now was simply not the time. Her mind was far too busy with other distractions. Namely, how someone was getting away with murder.

She popped on the kettle the minute she stepped out of her fireplace, aware that she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for several hours. Then she settled in for a less-than-satisfying meal of stale bread and butter while she pulled out Malfoy’s case file - thinking it wouldn’t hurt to take another glance at everything.

Five hours passed by in a blink of an eye before Hermione decided to call it a night. She now had a raging headache and an even worse eyestrain than normal but absolutely nothing new to show for it. Scrubbing off the splattered ink in her bathroom sink, she promised herself that tomorrow would be better.

She would prove herself capable to Malfoy and Weasley.

But she still couldn’t help feeling frustrated as she settled underneath her light floral duvet.

Sure, she had plenty to get started, but she also knew with absolute certainty that she needed help if she wanted to narrow down her research to something more manageable. She had a list five pages long, which could take weeks to fully exhaust. Time she didn’t have.

Hermione laughed loudly before tugging her sleep mask over her eyes, the sound shocking in an otherwise empty apartment. She guessed there was a first time for everything.

The following morning, Hermione burst into her office with tangled hair and mismatched ballet shoes flapping on her feet. Flame-covered rooms and mutilated bodies plagued her dreams the night prior. She was beyond exhausted and, yet, that didn’t stop her from immediately pulling out fresh parchment the moment she reached her desk.

“Malfoy.

As much as I hate to admit it, I need your help. We only have a few weeks before another murder is likely to occur and, with my current research list, I cannot possibly get you the answer by then.

So you either need to get over yourself or Bill needs to secure a Time-Turner for my use (which we both know is, frankly, unlikely since I’m just a ‘mere consultant’).

What would be most helpful, again, are your current theories on the case. (Speaking of which, have you considered the possibility that the murderer may be a Squib? Because, really, why else would they kill someone non-magically?)”

Hermione bit her lip, knowing that Malfoy would take the request and shove it in her face forevermore.
But, she really only had three options here. Either she:
1.) Got over her feelings for Malfoy so that they could actually work together;
2.) Went back to Milena for a crystal ball reading concerning the case; or
3.) Became a specialist in cardiology in three-ish weeks.

Yes, that list about summed it up (in order of descending likelihood too). And if she didn’t find the answer in time, someone would be dead because of her. Something that had already happened one too many times in her life.

She nodded to herself before sending off the missive with a flick of her wand, her feet tapping a quick staccato on the floor.

This was the right call … even if it was the hard one.

Draco walked into his office at a leisurely pace, a rare smile on his lips. He had a surprisingly peaceful day yesterday, having performed Dolohov’s post-mortem examination with Pansy in the morning before meeting an MLE prosecutor concerning an upcoming trial in the afternoon. All of that done without a single bloody memo to distract him.

Something he had high hopes about for today as well.

He suspected Pansy would send over her autopsy report by noon, which he’d then review and forward on to Granger.

Though there probably was no real rush to send it over. She likely wouldn’t see it. Knowing her, she got the confidential case file and immediately moved her and her bloody cat into the library to start researching. He smirked at the mental image in his head: the bookish Gryffindor sleeping on a bed of strewn-about pages and medical tomes, a few quills sticking out of her hair.

But his contentment was short-lived.

A perfectly formed airplane was sitting on his office chair. His nostrils flared as he stared it down. Surely she hadn’t figured out how they were dying in a day?!? Bill would go mental, deeming Draco professionally incompetent after he found out an untrained bureaucrat figured it out so quickly. Though, if she had, he would genuinely have to applaud her. Because neither him nor Pansy had any bloody clue - Muggle medicine being completely foreign to both of them.

He ripped open the parchment and quickly read over her words. Rolling his eyes, he penned a solitary “no” and sent his hastily-formed plane into the air.

Because, truth be told, Draco really didn’t have any current theories on the case that he wanted to share. He did have a vague idea about the victim profile, especially after the latest one. But that was it really. He couldn’t begin to figure out how the murderer detained their victims without harming them or using magic. Let alone successfully murdering them.

And that was the f*cking crux of it too. Because all of his victims were completely uninjured at the time of death. Sure, there weren’t any curses on the bodies. But there also hadn’t been traces of healing spells either. It was absolutely f*cking flummoxing.

He hated Bill Weasley for giving him the case as a result. Because for the first time in Draco’s life (at least post-war), he was at a complete loss over what to do. And now Granger was dragged into the mess with him.

He shoved her latest note into his whiskey drawer while the other planes tried to flutter free through the inch of space. At least he learned from the mistakes of yesterday. After his afternoon meeting, he’d decided to treat himself to a whiskey before heading home. But when he pulled the bottom drawer fully open, chaos ensued as all of Granger’s planes took flight and landed on his desk. He had been hit in the face several times in the process. Not painful, but f*cking annoying.

She was an absolute terror.

Not even five minutes passed before he heard the telltale sound of her arrival. Not that she actually stormed into his office, though he suspected he was a few short remarks away from that. But the mental disruption of yet another memo was enough that she might as well be here with him now.

“Malfoy.

If you can’t give me current theories (which is complete sh*te and you know it), then you should tell me how the victims are linked. Unless they are being chosen at random. In which case, I’ll need your theories of the case so that I can actually do something productive with my day besides scrape off dried oatmeal from my desk. Thanks.”

Christ. Dried oatmeal? He’d never known her to be … sloppy. That was a trait he’d associated with Weasley.

And something productive with her day? She literally had another job. Though maybe they did f*ck-all in MoMA - something to consider if Bill sacked him for f*cking this all up.

Still, what happened to the Hermione Granger he knew from years prior? Because none of this sounded much like her. But it wasn’t his place to comment on … whatever was going on with her.

With a sigh, he dipped his quill into a fresh ink bottle and started writing.

“Granger,

Did you cheat your way through Hogwarts? I can’t imagine how you got by so easily with your reading comprehension as bad as it is. I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to hear from you unless you could give me something new.

As regards your latest memo, if I knew of any connection between the victims, that would be beyond the scope of your responsibilities.

Kindly f*ck off now,
Draco.”

Hermione crumpled up Malfoy’s latest correspondence and tossed it in the trash.

Why was he so insistent on being such an arse? Surely, he wanted to solve this case as quickly as she did - if not just to be rid of her.

She snatched up a fresh quill, having just broken the one in her hands and scratched out her response, ripping the parchment in the process. That was the second time in two bloody days.

She cast her weary eyes at the destruction on her desk, knowing that she’d soon need a better excuse than “Draco Malfoy’s general unpleasantness” as the reason she was decimating MoMA’s office supplies.

“Malfoy,

If you give me nothing, that’s what you’ll get in return. Aren’t you supposed to be a seasoned detective? It seems amazing that I need to keep pointing out the obvious to you. Frankly astounding that your success rate is so high given how useless you seem to be on this one.”

Hermione was on the cusp of adding another sentence, her hand still hovering over the parchment as a splotch of ink threatened to swallow up her already-written words. But with a shake of her head, she dropped her quill and hastily folded up the torn memo. Not her best work, she thought as it flew out the door, but she had more reasons to be disappointed with herself than that.

She had almost accused Malfoy of being willing to do whatever he needed to get his case rate higher than every other Auror he worked alongside. But, that wouldn’t have been fair. Because if anyone worked in accordance with the law, without exception, it was him. He was the only former Death Eater hired by MLE. So, she knew that every decision he made was closely monitored. Her accusation would have been a punch below the belt, something not even she could justify in her white-hot rage.

These thoughts were disrupted when Arthur’s head suddenly appeared in her cracked office door.

“Goooood morning, Hermione.” His smile crumpled when he took in her disheveled appearance. “You alright?”

“Yes, absolutely!” She winced when her tone came out a touch too bright. “Honestly, I just had a late night with … work.”

Obviously, having processed and approved her temporary assignment to MLE, Arthur knew she was working on a case. But she wasn’t entirely sure how much he knew and what, if any, information she provided might violate the gag order.

“Of course.” His brows furrowed in concern. “Well if the technology report is too much on top of what you’re working on with …”

“No, no. It’s fine. That’s getting on quite nicely actually.” She cast her eyes down and around, looking for scraps of notes she’d made half-heartedly about Muggle technology. But the only thing she could see were piss-poor diagrams of music players in her trashcan.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably as Arthur studied her.

“You know what, let’s have you sit out the weekly check-in meeting. I don’t want too much on your plate.”

The old Hermione Granger would absolutely insist that Arthur was being silly. Of course, she didn’t have too much on her plate. She could sleep when she finished everything. Or operate with a constant sleep-deprivation that in any other person would lead to a total mental break. Whichever really.

But not this Hermione. She hadn’t felt that motivation to work herself to the bone in years. At least not while at MoMA.

Missing the weekly check-in meeting would be a relief. Office collegiality was, frankly, low on her list of priorities. She just suffered through them - wishing away the minutes and seconds until it was her turn. Not that her own work was particularly interesting. At least, it hadn’t been … until now.

“Only if you sure …”

Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes momentarily sad.

“It’s not a problem,” he knocked a fist lightly against the door. “I’ll let you get on then.” He started to turn around before a thought clearly brought him back. “Oh and do you need a new instructional guidance on memo formations?”

“No,” she shook her head slowly, her nose scrunched in confusion. “Why?”

“It’s just that the latest one you sent out nearly poked Ernie in the eye on the way to the elevator.”

He shut the door closed behind him and Hermione turned away to look out her window. Her office afforded an excellent view of the atrium. Workers were flitting to and from the fireplaces while a podium was being moved in front of the marble fountain. The Minister was set to give his biannual speech today.

She sat back down, wringing her hands and waiting for Malfoy to respond. When minutes passed into a half-hour, she weighed going over there herself to get a response. But she thought better of it, knowing that strategy was almost guaranteed to fail.

Still nothing ever came. Not even when she cracked her door in case his missives weren’t svelte enough to slip into the crack between the wood and the carpet flooring.

Finally, she had enough waiting. Hermione was not going to fail because Draco Malfoy refused to play ball. He couldn’t say no to her questions forever, right?

She read over her latest note and sent it forth with a determined nod.

“Malfoy,

This might seem crazy but … Did the victims possibly frequent the same restaurants by chance? And, along those lines, would Ms. Parkinson mind detailing exactly what toxins she screens for?”

Draco laughed out loud, the sound harsh in his empty office. Granger was losing the plot.

What exactly did she think the victims were killed by? A bad piece of salmon? And then … what? Their bodies got mysteriously carved up as Poseidon’s art project?

It was obvious that she was clinging to every possibility. And it had only been a day.

His laughter spent, he took out a fresh sheet of parchment from his private stores. The MLE invested in the absolute worst quality … as did MoMA, judging by the frequency with which Granger tore her notes.

He cracked his knuckles and quickly wrote:

“If you had actually read the autopsy reports, then you would note no trace evidence of poison was found.”

He knew, without a doubt, that she likely marked up the reports seven ways to Sunday. But it gave him a sweet sort of satisfaction to know he could still get under her skin, as she did his. Just like old times (but without the bigotry on his end).

He stretched lazily before walking out of his office. What he needed was a distraction from the distraction. He had already combed over his murder wall during his morning coffee and scheduled a follow-up meeting that afternoon with Unspeakable Everett. There were a few areas of concern he had about the manner in which Dolohov’s body was found.

But, until then, he had f*ck-all to do but twiddle his thumbs and dodge Granger’s angry words.

Potter’s door was ajar so he took that as an open invitation, only to find the Chosen One bent over his trash can and examining the contents.

“What the f*ck are you doing?”

Potter looked up at him, exasperated. “My wand report. I must’ve thrown it out and HR expects it by end of business. I’ve already been given two bloody extensions.”

Draco grimaced. Wand reports were a requirement for every Auror. But, unlike Potter, he had to fill one out every month - detailing every spell he used in the line of duty, the date, and reason for it. The process was long and painful. So Potter was lucky that he got away with just a quarterly one. He bet Bill stopped submitting them once he had enough power to tell HR to f*ck off.

“It’s not here.” His friend sat back on his haunches and cursed at the ceiling. “Look, I’ve gotta get on this otherwise HR will have my head. Did you need anything?”

“Nope. Just looking for a bit of a break.”

“Whatever case you’re on seems like complete sh*te. Remind me to decline any investigation with a gag order, yeah?”

He snorted, knowing that every case Potter got assigned became headline news in the Prophet. There was no way Bill would ever be that stupid.

“You’re still up for the pickup game tomorrow, right?”

“Obviously, you twat,” Draco scoffed. “I’d never pass up an opportunity to kick your ass in Quidditch.” They shared a smile between them before Draco left to brew a cup of tea in the canteen and get back to work.

Granger’s latest note was already waiting for him when he settled back into his leather office chair.

“Surely, she didn’t test for every known poison.”

He rolled his eyes. This sounded specifically like a Parkinson problem, not a him problem. Though he didn’t particularly revel in the idea of her having a one-on-one chat with his ex. He could only imagine the ways in which that conversation would segue.

“Granger,

You’re a Muggle consultant. That’s it. Unless it pertains to Muggles and their artifacts, I don’t care what your opinion is. Pansy will have tested for whatever toxins she deemed relevant. In this case, since the vics were killed without magic, that will include your f*cking Muggle poisons as well.”

Chapter 5: The Pernicious Twist of Kismet

Chapter Text

Hermione had nothing. Well … unless you counted an ever-expanding research list, under-eye bags and a weariness she hadn’t known since the war.

Malfoy was clearly determined to see her fail. And of the two options remaining to her, she absolutely refused to go crawling back to Milena. So, instead, she made the trip into muggle London over the weekend - stopping by several bookstores for medical texts.

As a sort of last resort, she was doing a deep-dive into cardiology. Namely, what cardiac arrests were and what caused them.

Hermione could now tell anyone interested about the signs and symptoms of heart arrest. Pinpoint the demographic most likely at risk. (In fact, she planned on having a long talk with Arthur over Christmas regarding his work hours.)

But it was impossible for her to identify what caused that vital organ to stop pumping. Because many, many things did. Shoveling snow over the age of 40, high blood pressure and cholesterol, not exercising enough - all risk factors.

Without Malfoy giving her more information about their victims, she really couldn’t help him. Because when it all came down to it, they may have just been predisposed.

At one point during her sleep-deprived mania, she nearly convinced herself that they weren’t dealing with serial homicide. Yes, the bodies were mutilated. But only after the fact. She had even penned a note to him suggesting that, maybe, they were looking at the case the wrong way. Their perpetrator wasn’t necessarily a murderer … they could just be someone with a morbid fascination in defacing dead bodies.

But then that would open up a whole new set of questions. Like how did the person know where to look? So, in the end, she tossed her note into the trash knowing that her reasoning was little more than straw-grasping.

Not to mention, the sticking-point of the runes.

The carvings bothered Hermione. They were something she kept coming back to time and again because they never changed from victim to victim. Sorrow. Justice. Revenge. That was what really convinced her that it was definitely homicide.

Because what person would carve those sigils into multiple bodies without also being responsible for their deaths?

But that was all she had. After three days of researching nonstop, Hermione could tell Malfoy that the victims were absolutely murdered but not by what. He was going to be absolutely thrilled.

She slammed her research books shut and locked them in her desk, not wanting to invite questions as to why she had so many medical tomes when that was Ernie’s beat. In reality, she was probably being a touch over-cautious. She hadn’t allowed anyone in her office that week, ignoring the faint knocking that arrived everyday like clockwork at noon and then, hours later, at five. She was pretty sure Dean and Daphne were alternating schedules to check on her. The recent change in behavior undoubtedly worrying to those on the outside.

Because her recent work-life balance (or, really, lack thereof) now looked far more like an Auror than anything else. Even MoMA field agents conducting dawn raids weren’t expected to pull the hours she had recently.

The past three days had seen her blearily stumbling home at 2 in the morning for a shower and quick nap. Just enough of a respite so she wouldn’t be the walking dead when she Floo’ed back in at dawn to continue her research.

Having already read each pertinent section in her books, she had begun marking down any passage that could be of future use. Unfortunately, every single cardiology page was now tabbed in various colors. Because anything could be helpful with the sparse information Malfoy had provided her.

Hermione rubbed at her reddened eyes before stepping out of her office. She needed a break or, at least, a change in her environment if she hoped to be productive that evening. Probably best to go home early. (Well, it would really be on time. But her definition of “normal” had changed since being assigned something so complex and exciting.)

First, though, she would check on Harry. Guilt weighed heavy in her chest, considering she’d stopped what little effort she’d usually put into her relationships. She couldn’t even remember the last time her and Ginny hung out. Not to mention the fact that she hadn’t been by to see Molly since Harry’s birthday celebration.

Regrettably, she was so caught up in these thoughts that she managed to run headlong into Dean.

“Ooof.” The collision caused a rush of air to expel from her chest.

“Woah there.” Dean stepped back but kept his hands lingering on her shoulders. “You okay, H?”

“Yeah, sorry. I should have been watching where I was going. I guess I’m too lost in my thoughts.” She cleared her throat awkwardly and he finally dropped his hands from her frame.

“We’ve all been there,” he shrugged, “no need to apologize.”

“I was actually just on my way to MLE to catch-up with Harry,” she said, hoping that Dean would leave her to it.

“Great, I’ll walk you over.” A swell of disappointment crested over her as she nodded. His chestnut eyes studied her carefully when they fell into step together.

She knew she looked very similar to her pre-exam season self from years before. Ever since deciding to become an amateur cardiologist, she’s given up on getting a full night’s rest. The lack of sleep now evident in her pale complexion and belated responses. But it was a steep learning curve and she simply didn’t have enough hours in the day. It was one of the few occasions she wished she still had her Time-Turner.

“Are you sure you’re good,” Dean asked, warily. “I can literally see how hard you’re thinking.”

“It’s just this -” A yawn escaped her lips before she could continue. “Report I’m working on. It’s all quite interesting actually, but I really need to be further along than the research stage.” She scrunched up her nose as she met his eyes.

“Hmm. I’m surprised Arthur put you on something so urgent.” A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t really think that was his thing. What does he have you on again?”

“Ah.” She should have foreseen this. No one was allowed to know she was working on with MLE. She’d only confided to Harry after he caught her and Malfoy leaving Bill’s office that first time, not wanting him to assume the worst. (Namely, that she was one of Bill’s most recent flings.) She bit her lip, trying to think of something that would elicit such a reaction in her when her typical demeanor over these last few years had been utterly apathetic.

“Sherlock Holmes!”

“I’m sorry?”

It was the first thing that had come to mind. She still loved reading, of course. Though she didn’t really dip into magical texts as often as she should now that she was firmly ensconced into MoMA. But she absolutely devoured Muggle mysteries and thrillers any chance she could. They were her weak spot - the only thing sure to make her heart race from anticipation.

And the best among them? Obviously Sherlock Holmes himself. She had multiple editions of the famous tales, the books embarrassingly dog-eared and annotated. It was what she turned to after night terrors and guilt-ridden trips to the Weasley graveyard.

“The detective, Sherlock Holmes.” They turned a corner and found themselves in the busy MLE bullpen. Baby Aurors watched them approach, all of them bleary-eyed from too many hours filing paperwork.

“That’s the one with the hat, right?”

“You mean a deerstalker?” He nodded and Hermione snorted. “Yes, but only in popular re-imaginings. Doyle never wrote him wearing one even though that’s what everyone associates with the character now. Well, that and his methodology.” Her cheeks pinked, realizing that she was rambling. “Anyways, I’m compiling a list of … popular classics to suggest for the Hogwarts summer reading list.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “Thought it easiest to start with my favorites.”

Hermione had been absolutely free-balling, but the idea was actually quite good. Maybe she should bring it up to Arthur sometime.

“Y’know, I love seeing you so passionate again.” Dimples appeared in both of his cheeks as he smiled at her. “Once you’re done, send me the list. I would happily read any of your favorites.”

They had just stopped outside of Harry’s office. She knew that she should probably mention the date that she agreed to but, still, very much didn’t want to go on. Or, at the minimum, ask him how he was finding Lord of the Rings. Though he was probably on to something else by now. But she didn’t particularly want to keep standing there, unannounced, outside of her best friend’s door.

“I will,” she smiled tightly at Dean as he turned to go. “Thanks for walking me, it was nice of you.”

“Anytime,” he called over his shoulder. “And I’m looking forward to that date whenever you’re free.” His eyes twinkled as he skirted past Malfoy, who was staring absolute daggers at her.

“Granger, what exactly are you doing in my f*cking department?”

She crossed her arms while fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that Bill up and quit - making you Head Auror in the process.”

She wasn’t sure why they could never quite manage a civil conversation with one another. It was probably nothing more than the fact that they reminded each other of their shared trauma. Which, in turn, brought out the worst in them.

He rolled his eyes, ignoring her. “Potter’s just left, he’s gone to get ready for the pick-up game.”

“I thought that was last week.”

“How can you call yourself his best friend and not know anything about his life?” She flinched, his eyes furrowing for a second at the movement. “And it got canceled due to inclement weather.”

“But it’s England, the weather’s always terrible.”

“I didn’t make the bloody call, Granger.” He scoffed before looking her up and down carefully. For the first time in days, she actually felt self-conscious about her disheveled appearance. “Why don’t you just go back into your little cave and keep researching for me like a good girl?” His eyes flicked over her once more before he entered his own office, slamming the door behind him.

Hermione could only stand there in response, looking dumb-struck at the spot he’d just been in. It was clear that he had won that round.

Minutes later, she still hadn’t come to terms with Malfoy’s brutality or dismissal. It was probably what caused her to lose control of her senses and stride into Dean’s office, telling him that her evening had magically opened up. That she thought dinner would be an exceptional idea for their date. Obviously, he eagerly agreed and the pair decided to meet outside the Leaky Cauldron at six p.m.

Afterwards, she immediately Floo’ed home, leaving her research books in her desk, because she now had less than two hours to get ready. While she pulled a brush through her tangled curls and smelled her jeans to find the cleanest pair, she allowed herself a moment to seethe.

Malfoy was going to ruin her life. Actually, he was already in the process of doing it. Of the many things he was succeeding at, being a good partner didn’t even make the list. But, what did? Driving her to insanity. Putting her job in such a precarious position that she’d momentarily thought about becoming a barista to pay her rent.

And after this evening? She was sure that she could put ruining a decades-long friendship on the list as well.

This was absolutely the worst idea she had ever had.

Hermione sat beside Dean in a cozy booth towards the back of the pub. A cluster of red roses was nestled against her side, a gift courtesy of her well-dressed date. He was in a suit, not the one he had on at work, but something freshly-pressed. His cologne an intoxicating blend of oud and sandalwood.

By comparison, she was wearing clean-ish jeans and a worn top with a coffee stain on it. (The stain was not new but probably four years old.) She was just glad she remembered deodorant as she sat nervously sweating beside him.

Frankly, it was amazing how irrational Malfoy made her. A snide comment and a quick glare was all it took for her brain to stop functioning. So much so that she hadn’t once considered where Ministry employees would go for their after-match pint.

Of course it would be the bloody Leaky Cauldron.

Initially, Hermione thought it would be fine.

They were seated in a quieter section after all, the wall behind them filled with deer taxidermy and hand-drawn illustrations of ships. Their table slightly sticky from years of pint-drinking. And despite this date occurring at a public house, it was all rather romantic. Probably because their server clearly clocked their date for what it was and immediately drifted over a few lit candles to amp up the ambience.

But as more people filed into the pub, the nearly-empty backroom had become exactly the opposite.

She had wanted to keep this mishap from everyone’s radar to avoid the rumor mill. And yet it was now unavoidable given the amount of people they knew clustered in the surrounding booths drinking gobs of ale.

She was making some sort of progress with her steak-and-ale pie, Dean with his fish and chips. Their banter had, surprisingly, not been terrible once she finished her second pint. Mainly they talked back and forth about Tolkien. Hermione was embarrassed to admit that, despite answering his many questions about the series, she still hadn’t seen the films yet.

Of course, Dean was aghast and promptly promised to arrange a screening for them. Which would probably be in his bloody apartment the way things were going for her.

Hermione sighed into her cup as he easily pivoted the conversation to ask what she was currently reading. Gods, he was just so … nice. It made her miserable to dwell on it. Miserable that she remained firmly grounded in the past, whether by compulsion or adamance she wasn’t sure.

Why couldn’t she have gone out with Dean at Hogwarts? It would have been so much better than letting her eyes stray to her best friend.

She could even imagine a future where the two of them worked out. Dean would be patient and make her coffee every morning. Probably pancakes too. They would take walks in Hyde Park, have a simple wedding, maybe a child or two. She knew it would be lovely.

But it wouldn’t drown out the guilt that would come anytime she smiled or laughed at one of his jokes. She would never quite feel like she deserved it. And that wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

After chatting briefly about her latest mystery novel, Hermione brought their conversation to work. It was clear something had guttered her mood. Whatever hesitancy that reared its ugly head whenever she was asked out had made its return. But Dean took the change in topic gracefully.

“Actually I’ve been thinking about putting in my notice.” She literally choked on a piece of steak - the news was so shocking. Dean thumped her back soundly a few times, waiting to make sure she was okay, before continuing. “You gave me the idea just the other week.”

“Because of my ratty cardboard box containing a single photograph?” Hermione dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin, not noticing the swell of noise that had just filtered in through the open door.

“Yes and no.” His smile was small, meant only for her before he looked away and nodded at someone in the distance. Hermione followed his gaze and saw Harry observing the pair with a bemused expression. He was never going to let her live this down.

“Do you remember, like several months ago now, when you caught me sketching during Arthur’s weekly?”

She scrunched her nose up, trying to recall. To be honest, most of the meetings melted together in her mind.

“When Arthur told everyone Penny was having a girl?”

“Oh my Gods.” Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth, remembering how Penelope ran out in tears after Arthur let slip by wearing pink (a color he had never worn once) for a solid week and gushing about it to Ernie when asked. He had been so excited that he forgot his daughter-in-law’s wishes to wait until the birth announcement.

But when she really thought about it, she could also remember Dean doodling beside her before the fallout. He had been drawing Daphne at the time, bent over her notebook and carefully scribbling suggestions for her latest report.

“I remember now. Oh, it was so good. I think I suggested you give it to her?” Both because she thought Daphne would like it but also with the intention to spark something between the two of them, hopefully preventing a disastrous collision between herself and Dean. So much for that.

“Ah, I was a bit too nervous in the end. No one had really seen anything I’d done since Hogwarts.” Hermione nodded. He used to draw incredible banners for the House Quidditch matches, his lions being absolutely infamous by the end of sixth year. “But … I decided to apply for a Paris residency with it.”

“Wait,” Hermione laughed. “You were too nervous to give the drawing to Daphne but not for professional artists to see it?”

“Well it’s a bit different because they don’t know me.” He scratched sheepishly at the back of his head.

“I suppose I can see that. Anyways, what did they say?”

“The offer came a month ago.” Hermione clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations. “But I’m not sure I want to take it.”

“Why not?! That sounds like an incredible opportunity, Dean!”

“It’s only for six months and doesn’t realllllly tee me up for anything after. And I rather like my job.” He hesitated for a mere second before nudging her shoulder with his own. “And my coworkers.”

She let that last comment slide past her.

“You should do it. Honestly. I bet Arthur would be happy to give you a leave of absence so you can pursue your passion. And everything will be here for you when you come back.”

“I hope so,” he looked down at her lips for a moment too long.

Merlin, that was definitely the wrong thing to say. When he finally looked away, a blush creeping across his cheeks, she stared at Harry until he caught her eyes. His green ones, bright in the wake of victory, hers a dull brown, reflecting her misery. Thankfully, he knew that gaze well enough to know it was a cry for help.

He bustled over immediately, nudging on to the same bench as Dean and Hermione, bringing his teammates and pints in tow. What followed was a very detailed play-by-play of how he’d bested the other side’s Seeker. She was a bit surprised that Malfoy wasn’t his opponent. But when she brought that up, Harry told her he had been, but got called out which forced Flint to sub in.

The conversation carried on without her as her mind drifted elsewhere. Back to all the things she could be doing instead of listening to sports talk.

It was the push she needed to end the awkward night immediately, giving a rather poor excuse of being tired at 8:30 p.m. And now she was safely ensconced back in her apartment, a cluster of books around her and an empty sobriety potion on the floor.

Since her medical textbooks were still at work, she pulled a selection of detective novels out from her overflowing bookshelf - only choosing ones that concerned medical mysteries. Stacking them high beside her, Hermione tucked in and started to make notes - cross-referencing anything interesting she found with the case file on her lap.

She thought briefly about sending an owl to the Manor, just to make sure nothing new happened on the case. But she hesitated. Because he could have been called away for other reasons, right? Maybe something happened with Parkinson. So, really, it was best to wait until tomorrow to speak to him.

Plus if he thought she was at all concerned about him, his taunting would be endless.

Though that might be preferable to seeing Dean again.

Because, truth be told, she bent over her books - not just for inspiration - but to wile away the hours thinking of anything other than how she ducked out of the kiss he tried to plant on her in the end.

Tomorrow would be rather awkward for them both, she imagined.

The following morning, Hermione sent her first confidential interoffice note. It was cause for celebration in her book, warranting a trip into Muggle London to her favorite coffee shop for a blueberry muffin.

On her way out, she saw Harry and told him to come along.

Tucking her arm into his, they made their way out of the Ministry and down a street crowded with office workers, somewhere in Westminster. Skyscrapers pierced the clouds in the distance, the grey metal blending into the overcast sky.

“Discounting last night, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“That’s because all your time is being taken up with Draco Malfoy and, apparently, Dean Thomas.”

“We’re absolutely not talking about either of them.”

“Oh c’mon, you have to, at least, tell me why I needed to save you last night in the first place.”

“It was Malfoy’s fault.” Hermione stomped her foot in frustration as they waited for the pedestrian cross-signal to turn green. A breeze whipped through the streets, carrying trash and the strong scent of fried fish. “If he hadn’t been such an arsehole to me earlier in the day, I wouldn’t have felt the need to … ”

“Get back at him by going on a date with your co-worker?” Laughter fell out of his mouth as they started walking again.

“Well no … that wasn’t what I was doing.”

“It kinda seems like you were.” His eyes twinkled as he appraised her carefully. “I mean, I did always think there was something between you two.”

“Me and Dean?”

“No,” Harry snorted. “You and Malfoy.”

If he hadn’t clutched her arm tightly to his side, she would have pulled back and hit him.

“And you both have been single for ages.”

“I thought he was with Pansy Parkinson,” she sniffed, feigning indifference. It was clear he looked right past her facade though, seeing the curiosity bubbling within.

“No, she’s not really his type anymore.” They looked at each other, Harry waiting and Hermione deliberately not taking the bait. “He prefers his girls a bit more bookish.”

“Harry!! I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

“C’mon. You can’t tell me there isn’t an enemies-to-lovers attraction there.”

“How do you even know what that is?” She was blushing positively crimson as they entered the cute shop, filled with students and leafy plants.

“Ginny. 100% her fault.” He stared up at the menu hanging above the counter before adding in a whisper, “you know, she told me last night that she wished I had been a bit meaner to her before we got together.”

“Stop,” she laughed. “I don’t need to hear how the rest of that conversation went, thank you.”

They paused their conversation to order their respective coffees, Hermione an oat cappuccino and Harry a Red-Eye.

She watched the barista for a few minutes before speaking again. “And, for the record, it’s really not that. Not anymore at least. It’s just that Malfoy gets under my skin in a way that no one ever has.”

“In a good or bad way?”

She bit her lip, considering. “I don’t know. I mean,” she shook her head, quickly chastising herself, “obviously, it’s not good.”

“Well this is the most lively I’ve seen you in years. So I kinda think it’s a good thing.”

“You act like I’ve been a walking corpse or something.”

“You have been.” His expression was no longer playful, but infinitely sad.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s temporary. Once the case is over, I’m never speaking to him again.”

“Wanna bet?” His smile only grew wider after she successfully managed to smack him in the chest.

Draco nearly collided with Dean on his way back from a dreaded parole hearing yesterday when he saw Granger standing outside Potter’s office.

At the time, his mind was still playing through the more traumatic moments he’d experienced during the war, like some f*cked-up stereoscope. He tried to push away the images of Fenrir Greyback mauling Muggle children in punishment for their mere existence. Only for those to be replaced by Order members forced into a game of cat-and-mouse, their deaths gruesome when they weren’t quite fast enough. (And they never were.)

Greyback knew he wouldn’t be released, not for the things he’d done. But the f*cker kept trying. Today marked the tenth parole hearing since he’d been convicted five years prior. And as the arresting officer, Draco was obliged to attend every single one.

He didn’t know why the werewolf even bothered at this point. Maybe he just wanted to relive his glory days through a parade of victims recounting their injuries in front of him. All while the tired Wizengamot panel tried not to turn green and heave their breakfasts into a waste bin.

Whatever it was, seeing Greyback was a surefire way to put the Auror in a sh*tty mood. Because no matter what Draco snorted or imbibed, he would still be spending the long hours of the night trapped in flashbacks, a cold sweat gleaming on his pale skin.

It made him want to lash out in anger. That or drown in misery with the help of copious amounts of barrel-aged whiskey. Maybe, one day, he’d drink enough to forget that he’d been born into an aristocratic hellscape that happily made children soldiers at 16 - helpless to do anything but fall in line.

Anyway, having not been prepared for Granger’s sudden appearance that afternoon, he ended up going too far. Reverting to his old school antagonisms. Back before they had established a wary sort of truce, which itself promptly collapsed in the first real year of war.

His guard was still up, his hackles raised from the disturbing memories on replay when he met her doe-like eyes in the hallway. Having planned to hide from everyone until he could take his raw emotion out on the pitch, her presence made him feel like an animal cornered. He wasn’t keen on anyone seeing how much of a broken shell he was. But especially not her.

Because she knew him. Or, at least, she had at one time.

And if Granger saw the truth, it would lead to one of two things: her anger or, even worse, her sympathy.

So he did what any frightened thing would do, he lashed out before promptly punching his wall as his office door slammed shut behind him. His bones were still throbbing when he walked onto the grassy pitch that evening, his jaw clenched in irritation.

It was completely unsurprisingly then when he was taken out of the game within minutes due to a Bludger in the hip. He should have been paying more attention but couldn’t stop thinking about what an arsehole he’d been to Granger hours earlier. His mind showing her physically recoiling from his bite again and again until he felt sick.

The medics did what they could before he waved them away and limped off the field. With the healing nowhere near finished, his skin would be mottled purple and red in the morning but he didn’t particularly want to be around people anymore. When he finally dragged himself through his front door, he didn’t even bother changing out of his Quidditch whites before snatching up his whiskey decanter to settle in for an evening of self-loathing and pain.

And now, he was having a cataclysmically bad morning in what was shaping up to be a catastrophic week. He was Floo’ing into work exceptionally late, having turned off his alarm hours ago while in the throes of a hangover from hell.

Quite frankly, he still felt like sh*t physically and mentally. If he didn’t have four murders to solve, he would have ditched work entirely.

So leave it to Bill f*cking Weasley to make matters even worse. The Head Auror was waiting for him as he limped into his office. Or, really, Bill was in the process of rifling through all of Granger’s memos when Draco happened to stumble in. The eldest Weasley didn’t even bother apologizing for the privacy invasion when Draco shoved the airplanes back where they belonged.

“How cute that you’re keeping your love notes. Pity about her and Dean though.” Bill co*cked his head and studied how the news affected his best Auror.

“I’m sorry, what the f*ck are you talking about?” Draco kept his features schooled, having not heard the churning of the gossip mill yet. “And, more importantly, why do you think I would care?”

“Just that McLaggen apparently interrupted them on a date at the Cauldron last night with Potter.” The scars across Bill’s face looked even more prominent than usual. It must be close to a full moon, which would explain his boss’s worse-than-normal mood. “He also let slip that they won the match after you got medic’ed out. Surely she doesn’t have you so distracted that you can’t even fly properly.”

“You know, out of the two of us, I think you’re the only one who’s tried to go on a date with her,” Draco crossed his arms as he settled into his leather office chair.

At least he knew who Granger went home to every night now. Not that it f*cking mattered to him anyway.

Thomas wasn’t terrible, better than the f*ckwad in front of him at least. Though it was surprising. He’d seen the two of them together yesterday and, quite frankly, she looked the opposite of interested. So much so that Draco hadn’t actually taken Thomas’ comment about a future date seriously. But maybe she settled. Again, not like he cared or anything.

“Given the chance, we both know you wouldn’t hesitate.”

“If that were true, then it would be a pretty bad call to put us on a case together. In fact, seems like the exact conflict-of-interest the Ministry looks down upon.”

“Probably.” Bill tapped Draco’s desk before heading out. “Just don’t let your feelings f*ck up your life anymore than it already is.” He looked back with an arched brow. “Because it clearly is.”

“f*ck you,” Draco called just as a confidential mail parcel appeared on his desk. He looked at it bitterly. Yet another collection of notes to add to the pile. He wondered what insults they would throw back and forth today instead of doing what they were paid to do.

He opened up the folder with his wand, only to find a detailed runic analysis of the victim’s bodies.

“What the f*ck is this, Granger,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“Malfoy,

I think based on my report that the perpetrator is looking to avenge someone they loved. I mean, why else would the ‘justice’ rune be placed beside ‘revenge.’ So I think it’s safe to assume that the killer cared about one of the Fallen. That narrows down the list of suspects rather nicely.”

Draco snorted. Sure, maybe it narrowed it down from the tens of thousands to the thousands. Well done Granger.

“So, again, I do have to bring up the connection between the victims. It’s inevitably more important than how they died. Don’t you think? Maybe we should have a meeting to discuss. I’m free after noon.”

He looked at the clock, it was 11:59 a.m. He sat quietly for a few moments - pissed-off, in pain, and not in the f*cking mood to deal with this. Having settled on his answer, he opened up the first drawer and selected a violently red envelope.

Hermione barely had time to cast a quick Muffliato at her office door before the Howler exploded in her hands. Malfoy clearly timed it to do so within seconds of arriving at her desk. His voice boomed off the walls, making her ears ring.

“Granger,

Did you get some sort of traumatic brain injury during the war that I’m unaware of? I have now told you, on several occasions, not to contact me unless you have something new to offer. I want answers, not more bloody lines of enquiry.”

Red confetti rained down onto her lap when the envelope finally ripped itself up. She grimaced, rubbing at her forehead where the beginning thumps of a headache were starting.

Sending a Howler during the middle of their work-day, really? Gods, he was becoming the bane of her existence.

She co*cked her head, thinking of how best to respond, as her feet tapped a fast rhythm on the floor. Something she was doing more and more now that irritation constantly washed over her in waves.

Finally, she burst out of her office, tiny flecks of red still attached to her pencil skirt, and strode into the supplies closet so she could select a Howler of her own. It was time for Malfoy to get a taste of his own medicine.

“Malfoy,

I have never in ALL my life worked with someone as infuriating and pig-headed as you. In fact, I loathe our every interaction. If you continue to obstruct my progress, then I will be forced to go around you.”

She nodded her head resolutely, a faint color staining her cheeks as she sent off her envelope, timed to open before it even reached his office. Because it’s not like she was saying anything that would interfere with the course of their investigation. Really, it was more of a complaint about him than anything else.

Hermione waited and waited for a response. But instead of receiving another round of caustic remarks from her unwilling partner, she received an official-looking memo from Bill Weasley himself, directing her immediately to his office.

sh*t.

Malfoy was already seated when she arrived to Bill’s office five minutes later, his expression positively mutinous as she closed the door and took a seat beside him.

This very much felt like being called to the Headmaster’s office for breaking school rules. In fact, she was sure that if Bill could give them detention, he would probably want to borrow Filch’s irons.

The silence stretched between them, pressing on her uncomfortably. Bill’s face gave nothing away as he poured himself a whiskey. It was only 1 p.m.

“Well,” he took a measured sip, “it hasn’t even been two f*cking weeks since you two became partners -”

“She’s not my partner, she’s my consultant.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes, which were now as dark as a thundercloud.

“Interrupt me one more f*cking time, Draco.” Bill hissed as the whiskey hit his throat. His tumbler now empty, the liquid courage apparently necessary to deal with them. “You two have managed, in no time at all, to waste a tenth of the entire Ministry budget for interoffice communications. All of which seem to be variations of you bickering back and forth.”

She winced, wondering if maybe she shouldn’t have charmed her notes after all. Then at least Malfoy could’ve thrown out the evidence.

“So I sincerely hope that there’s some progress to report on. Because if it’s absolutely f*ck-all, you both are done for.”

A beat passed before Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. She could see that his wand holster was back on his forearm, the muscle twitching as he drummed his fingers against his bicep. His nonchalance was causing her to feel a confusing mix of emotions. Namely, anxiety and what felt like the faintest hint of relief at possibly being done with this ill-fated partnership.

“Tick tock,” Bill lit a cigarette and pointedly blew smoke in their direction.

But Malfoy continued to remain mum, clearly having decided that their jobs were a lost cause at this point. She coughed, waving away the plume of haze, before searching for what, if anything, she could say.

“I’m still in my preliminary stages of research about the causes of cardiac arrest.”

“That falls under the category of ‘f*ck-all,’ Granger.”

“Well I sent Malfoy a runic analysis just this morning.” She dived into a summary of the multiple pages she sent him, making a point to note his inadequate response. But before she could really get into her theory of the motive, she was cut off.

“Jesus f*cking Christ. For the amount of memos sitting in your offices, you clearly say nothing substantive to each other.”

“If you just let me finish, I think you’ll find my analysis is sound.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette on his desk. “But Draco, here, already made that conclusion with the first body.”

Hermione snapped her head over to Malfoy who just managed to return a withering look before Bill rounded on him.

“So, that begs the question of why in the f*ck she was not made aware of that fact.”

“Probably because the information wasn’t relevant to her work with us,” he said insolently while brushing his thumb slowly across his bottom lip.

“That’s great, just f*cking great. Well if that’s all, you two can get out and start clearing your desks.”

Hermione was on the cusp of pointing out that Bill had no right to fire her when Malfoy sighed.

“Our killer’s targeting the Hogwarts Board of Governors.”

“Perfect.” Bill’s smile was a bit too thin to be believable. “Now I can sleep peacefully at night knowing I won’t be murdered by a maniac that my Auror can’t seem to catch.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes while Hermione’s emotions ran the gamut, shock flooding into disbelief before souring into anger. If he already knew the victim profile, what else was he keeping from her?

And because she was still processing this latest bombshell, she nearly missed what the eldest Weasley said next.

“ - can’t be trusted to work on the case separately, so you’ll now be doing everything together.”

“You can’t be serious.” Malfoy sounded slightly hysterical at the notion. Which was fair because they would certainly be at each other’s throats by week’s end. “We’re already working on the case together.”

“Really? Because that f*cking Howler she sent made it seem otherwise.”

“Well,” Hermione cleared her throat, “we really just need to sit down and set out the parameters of my work -”

“I already told you, Granger, I have no interest in speaking to you unless necessary.”

“Well, Malfoy, I think it’s pretty clear that it is necessary now.”

“Shut the f*ck up.” The pair flinched slightly when Bill slapped his hands on his desk, knocking over a tall pile of paperwork in the process. “You two,” he pointed between them, “are now co-investigators going forward. Your parameters are the same: solve this case before the f*cking Prophet makes our lives a living hell. Hermione, I’m letting Arthur know that you will be stopping all ongoing work in MoMA for the time being.”

Anything else he wanted to say was promptly drowned out by their loud objections.

“This is entirely unethical. I work for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. You can’t just name me on a case in MLE when I haven’t even been properly trained.”

“I’ve never needed a co-investigator before and don’t need one now.”

“The Wizengamot will require an explanation when this goes to trial.”

“She has no idea what she’s doing.”

“I would have a better idea if you actually helped me,” she seethed before continuing her plea. “I don’t even want to be an Auror. I applied for the job I have for a reason.”

“Hermione, you and I both know that you didn’t apply for that job. It was handed to you by my dear father so you had a reason to get out of bed every day.” She tried to ignore the way Malfoy’s eyes flitted over to her, an unreadable expression passing through them. “And if you so desperately want to return to that job that you probably don’t care about, then you better solve the case with your partner here instead of wasting office resources to send Howlers.”

Hermione shut her mouth, trying to will away the tears that had formed in her eyes. There was nothing to be gained by pointing out that Malfoy sent a Howler first. She knew the move was unprofessional but did it anyway. But still, she didn’t understand why Bill was being so harsh with her. It’s not like she had a say in this transfer at all.

And now an already terrible situation had been made worse.

“As you for,” Bill sneered at Malfoy, “you can’t even tell me how your victims died and we now have multiple bodies. If anyone else had this case, they would be fired by now. Including Potter.”

“I think you’ll find that Granger can’t even answer that question and it’s her purview.”

“I’m a Muggle expert, not a forensic scientist.” The tears spilled over her flushed cheeks. “Nor a cardiologist either.” She was now too upset to be ashamed that she was crying in front of two people who definitely couldn’t care less.

“Well, maybe you two can rub your single brain cells together and figure it out.”

“Stop speaking about her like that, Weasley, when you know she’s smarter than the both of us,” Malfoy hissed.

She looked over absolutely confounded at him. Never once in all of their years of knowing each other had Malfoy come to her defense like that. And she couldn’t understand why now. Because he had said similar things to her repeatedly over the last few days.

Maybe he was just hoping to avoid dealing with the emotional fallout from this workplace lashing.

“Are you planning on interviewing as her knight-in-shining-armor after your tenure here comes to an end?” Bill co*cked his head and Hermione had to grab Malfoy’s forearm before he flung himself over the desk.

“Sit down,” she whispered, tugging on him with an iron-grip until he finally listened.

“Right, you’ll be moving your things into Draco’s office this afternoon where you two will recommence the investigation from your now-shared domain. Draco, make room for her.”

Bill lit another cigarette with the flick of his fingers as he spun around in his office chair, clearly done with the two of them.

Tears still streaming down her face, Hermione looked silently at Malfoy before getting up and heading to the door. He followed closely behind her, telling Bill that he hoped someone cursed him before slamming the door shut.

Chapter 6: The Fool: Upright

Chapter Text

Yesterday was an unmitigated disaster no matter which way Hermione viewed it. So long as it could be helped, today would be better.

She took a deep breath and stepped off the crowded Ministry elevator before pivoting left towards MoMA.

Hermione had rushed home after the disastrous meeting with Bill Weasley and Malfoy yesterday. The prospect of another round of bickering too much for her to face. Which meant that she needed to finish moving before she could start work this morning.

Thankfully, she didn’t have much packing to do. The cardboard box was still sitting on her threadbare office carpet, only missing her recent book haul, Malfoy’s memos and the sansevieria.

Stacking the unfolded airplanes precariously on top of her medical research, Hermione staggered over and dumped everything unceremoniously into the box. It was a relief she hadn’t dropped anything. Though that feeling was quickly dampened upon seeing one side of the carton now sagging dangerously from how the books landed.

She grimaced, wondering if she should shore the cardboard up with magic before lifting it. The thought distracting her from the noise of someone stopping outside her open door.

“Knock knock.” Panic immediately set her nerves on fire when she recognized Dean’s dulcet voice.

She had avoided him since their date in the Leaky Cauldron two days ago, not having the emotional bandwidth since to be honest with him about her feelings. Unfortunately, she wasn’t really in the headspace to have this conversation now either. Not when she was gearing up for a day of confrontation with her new partner.

But it also didn’t look like she would have another option.

“Dean!” She looked up at her coworker from her position on the floor, wincing at her voice’s shrillness. He was wearing a light yellow linen suit, perfect for the recent heat, the top buttons of his shirt left undone.

“I’ve been wondering if I’d ever see you again.” He leaned against her doorframe, propping one of his loafers against the wall.

“Oh well …” Hermione faltered, feeling the steady creep of guilt which worked its way up her spine whenever she disappointed someone. “I’ve just had a lot on at the minute.” She stood up quickly, crossing over to her window-ledge to grab her snake plant, hoping to conceal the blush now spreading across her cheeks.

“I’ve just come to say …” He sighed heavily before quickly shaking his head. “I really enjoyed going on a date with you. But I also understand that I overstepped when you were leaving. So I just wanted to apologize.”

An incoherent sound escaped Hermione’s lips.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable and I can respect if you just want to be friends.”

Hermione’s disastrous dating life post-war was not a secret. Most knew that to take the Golden Girl out was to court rejection. The Daily Prophet covered it heavily, theorizing that the war heroine’s overlarge ego prevented her from finding “true love.”

But that wasn’t it at all.

It didn’t really matter though. With the exception of George Weasley, all of her other dates that she agreed to in the past led to a complete implosion of whatever existing relationship she had had with that person prior. For instance, Seamus Finnegan still made snarky comments about her ‘piss-poor’ personality anytime she was in hearing distance even though they ‘went out’ over two years ago now.

So, for Dean to be so understanding, it felt like a gift she didn’t really know how to accept.

“It’s just that it’s hard for me to … be with anyone like that. I just don’t think … I don’t think I can go there with you.” Hermione sniffled loudly, a few tears escaping down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have lead you on. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Before Hermione could ramble anymore, Dean crossed the few steps into her office and enveloped her in a hug.

“How many times do I need to remind you that you never have to apologize to me.” He stroked the back of her hair. “I understand, I really do.”

“I just don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she said between sobs that were soaking through his button-down.

“You haven’t ruined anything. Nor could you if you tried. I’m here for you, H. Always.” He stepped back after Hermione got her crying under control. “Though I do have to ask what that box is still doing on your floor.”

“I’m not quitting if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Thank Merlin,” he laughed. “I was worried that my charisma was so bad that you decided to up and leave just to avoid me.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s -” She stopped, biting down hard on her lip. “Actually, I’m on a temporary loan with MLE.”

She wasn’t sure what made her say it exactly. This move couldn’t be concealed. Her coworkers would eventually notice her absence in Arthur’s weekly meetings. But she promised that she wouldn’t go about advertising it either as that was sure to invite questions which she couldn’t answer.

At least not without violating the iron-clad gag order.

She briefly recalled Malfoy’s words: “Any and all discussion related to the serial homicide case to any party not authorized is prohibited.”

But maybe, just this once, it would be okay. After all, she was about to walk straight into enemy territory. She’d really need all the support she could get.

“Has that ever happened before?” She shook her head while crossing her office to shut her door. If she was going to be honest with Dean, she needed to tell him the full story. And for that, they needed privacy.

“You should probably take a seat. I’ve a lot to fill you in on.”

Five minutes later, Dean stared at her wide-eyed. She had spent that time filling him in on everything that had happened since Arthur brought her on to the London Seer investigation.

“I genuinely cannot believe they are making you work with Draco Malfoy of all people.”

“You and me both.” Hermione sighed, casting her gaze towards the ceiling where her eyes caught on a water stain growing near the door. “And we can’t go two minutes without arguing. I’ve no idea how this is going to work.”

“Just ask Arthur to pull you off the case. There’s no way Bill would argue with him.”

“You haven’t been around Bill since the war ended, have you?” Dean pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head. “Well he’d probably jump at the chance to have a row with his Dad. He’s not on good terms with anyone anymore.”

“But Arthur’s been head of MoMA since we’ve been in Hogwarts. Surely his tenure has to count for something.”

“Yeah, but no one really cares much about that, do they?” She scrunched up her nose. “Though that reminds me, I owe you another apology. I wasn’t being honest when I told you what I was working on. The only thing I’ve been assigned is some horrid report on recent changes in Muggle technology.”

Dean winced in sympathy. Anytime Arthur assigned someone a report on non-magical tech, they knew it would be an uphill battle even getting the basics across.

“To be honest, I kinda figured.” When she looked at him alarmed, he continued. “If something had you that amped up, there’s no way you would miss a chance to talk about it. Actually, you’d probably volunteer to go first at the weekly with no one else getting a word in edgewise.”

“Heyyy,” she swatted his shoulder, earning her a deep chuckle.

“For what it’s worth, it was a good idea.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” She swung her feet side-to-side, feeling a touch disappointed once again that she hadn’t been assigned the literature beat. “Maybe when all this is over, I can convince Arthur and Professor McGonagall to let me do something like that. That is if I still have a job.”

“If anyone can crack the case, it’ll be you. If not, just to annoy the piss out of that white-haired bastard.”

“Hmm,” she smiled at the thought of Malfoy’s outraged face if she did manage to solve it all on her own. “I do like the thought of that.”

They descended into an easy silence, their thoughts drifting in different directions before Dean knocked his knees against hers.

“Thanks for telling me, H.”

“I should be the one thanking you.”

“For what?”

“For not hating me. Or calling me horrible things because I can’t handle anything more.”

“People who hold that against you don’t deserve a minute of your time.”

This was yet another moment when she suddenly wished things could be different. Where she wanted to wake up in a different universe.

“I should probably get going. I’d like to move my things over before Malfoy or Bill gets in.”

“Of course.” He watched as she placed her snake plant on top of the sagging box, a groan escaping her lips as she struggled to heft it to her chest. “Actually, how about I carry that for you? I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I let you do this all on your own.”

“Hermione, have you ever considered that there’s such a thing as too much research?”

They had just arrived at Malfoy’s office, the Auror’s name written in gold cursive across the glass pane. There was a slight gleam on Dean’s brow and his breathing had become raspy.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she frowned over at him. “Though we probably should have thrown a Weightless Charm on that before bringing it over.” When she moved to open Malfoy’s door, she found it locked. It wouldn’t even open with a standard Alohom*ora charm. “Seriously?!”

Dean placed (or really, dropped), the cardboard box at his feet before backing up and looking around.

“Think Bill has a spare key?”

“It’s fine.” Hermione felt around her hair for two of the bobby pins she’d tucked into it that morning. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than asking for Bill’s help with breaking into Malfoy’s office. He would probably just smash the glass pane out of spite and unlock the door from the inside.

Dean watched, awestruck, as Hermione knelt down and straightened out the hair pins before shoving them into the keyhole. She had spent enough time with the Weasley twins and read so many detective novels that the movements came second-nature to her. After a few seconds of twisting, the lock clicked and the door slowly swung open.

“Why do you even know how to do that?”

“It’s not like it’s very hard,” she said with a touch of indignation. If there was one thing she disliked, it was being underestimated.

“Merlin, woman. Remind me to bring you along in case I ever attempt a bank heist.”

Hermione bit down a laugh, her mood immediately lighter. She actually did have experience with that as well.

Turning back to the current task at hand, she popped her pins back through her curls and clambered to her feet. She hadn’t known what to expect from Malfoy’s office. A part of her suspected her new partner might throw a temper tantrum upon finding out that he’d be sharing his space with Hermione until the case closed. But her feet still stalled in surprise when she walked through the door.

Her desk had been shoved unceremoniously into a small closet that, upon closer examination, was stacked to the ceiling with boxes. Based on the numbers written on them, they were probably his old case files. The space was so small that the shorter edge of her desk jutted out into the main room, the longer edges clipping the doorframe.

“Oh honestly,” she rolled her eyes at the childishness of it all. She could see a bare wooden chair resting between the closet wall and desk with no space in-between. “What a complete and total prat.”

“I can help you move it.” Dean placed the cardboard box on Malfoy’s immaculately clean desk with a thud.

“Not necessary.” Her head was co*cked as she considered how best to move the desk and rile Malfoy up in the process.

“Why do I have the feeling that he’s about to have an exceptionally bad morning?”

“Maybe you have the Sight,” Hermione said shortly before walking up to the desk and giving an experimental tug. “You should probably leave before he comes in. I’m guessing he’ll be in a right foul mood once I’m done.”

Dean took one look at her wolfish grin before nodding and making a quick getaway.

Hermione could, of course, use magic to move the desk to a more suitable location. But that was probably what Malfoy was expecting. Unless, of course, he had lost his mind and assumed she would just accept this.

Whatever the case, she decided doing things the Muggle way was far more preferable.

Pushing up the sleeves of her light purple cardigan, she gripped the edge of the heavy oak furniture and pulled with all her might. The table inched forward with a shriek, a bit of the frame coming away from the friction. She continued to huff and puff the desk out of the small closet until it abutted her new partner’s.

By the time she finished, Hermione was covered in sweat, dust, and satisfaction. Her hair was now sticking out in every direction while bobby-pins littered the floor alongside tiny bits of wood.

She dusted off her hands over his desk, a wide smile on her face, before finally unpacking her things.

“Granger, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tamper with my lock.” Draco walked into his office, a furrow between his brows as he skimmed over the HR notice Bill threw at him first thing that morning.

It was time for his monthly wand report. Irritation sparked in his chest knowing that his weekend would now be spent completing what was the bureaucratic bane of his existence.

“That’s fine,” Granger replied evenly. “So long as you agree to use magical methods to lock your door in the future.”

“No can do,” he looked up before coming to a sudden halt, his eyes darting over the destruction of his office. “What the f*ck have you done?”

The question was, in large part, rhetorical. She had clearly moved her desk so that it directly abutted his own. Had done so in such a way that there were now deep gash marks stretching from his case closet to the middle of the room.

“I thought it made more sense if we were closer together.” She still hadn’t looked up at him, remaining bent over the case files he’d sent her days ago. Though he could see the flicker of a grin on her lips. Despite the tell, she kept her voice light and professional. “And if you choose to lock your door like a Muggle, I’ll need a spare key by day’s end, thanks.”

His nostrils flared as he fought to retain the ounce of patience he had remaining. His eyes wrenching away from her infuriating figure in order to see what else she’d ruined.

The cardboard box she brought to their first meeting had now been unpacked, collapsed and placed in his small trashcan. The potted plant, now a bit greener but still in need of soil, was basking in the morning rays on his windowsill.

Placing the notice on his desk, he picked up the sansevieria and dropped it with a clatter on top of her notes. She flinched away, narrowly avoiding the soil hitting her face.

“I’ll get you a key so long as you refrain from putting your things in my space.” A familiar sneer formed on his features when she glared up at him.

“Malfoy, that plant needs sunlight which it won’t get unless it sits by the window.” She stood up and returned it to its original place.

Draco pivoted so that he was now right behind her, his front nearly brushing her back. From this close, he could clearly smell her perfume. Bergamot with a faint undertone of lavender. It was frustratingly intoxicating.

“Then use an artificial sunlight spell,” he said through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to lean in closer to better breath her in.

Her chest hitched when she turned around and noticed their close proximity. He took the opportunity of her surprise to reach around and collect the plant, her hair tickling his cheek when he was a mere inch away.

“I’ve done so for years since my office only has a view out to the atrium. But that’s a poor imitation for actual sunlight.” Her fingers brushed his own when she wrestled the plant from his grip. “Which you would know had you ever paid attention in Herbology.”

“Christ,” Draco took off the tortoise-shell glasses he’d put on this morning and rubbed at his eyes. “Not this again.” Between her attitude and her perfume, she was genuinely going to send him to a psych ward.

“Not what, Malfoy?” Her golden-brown eyes cut through him as her chin jutted up in challenge.

“Tell me, do you use every conversation to remind people just how much of a know-it-all you are? Or is that just for me?”

“No,” she crossed her arms, “just you.”

“What an honor,” he sneered.

She moved to step away from him but he blocked it. Her hair was wild today, the curls fanning out everywhere, probably from the exertion of ruining his perfectly-oiled wooden floors. She was wearing her favorite cardigan or so he assumed based on the number of times he’d glimpsed her in it. It was pretty, with tiny daisies stitched into the fabric. He realized he was staring when she cleared her throat.

“You can keep your stupid plant there so long as you undo all the damage you’ve caused everywhere else.”

Her eyes moved from his to look slowly around the room, an air of defiance crossing her face.

“Personally I think it’s a vast improvement to what I walked into this morning.” Granger pushed past him to examine his desk blotter, where he had several case folders stacked in a neat pile. “At least I now have somewhere to sit.” She selected the topmost one and began to rifle through its contents while she made her way back to her side.

“Stop doing that,” Draco growled, following close on her heels until he could snatch the files back.

“I’m sorry?” Granger’s smile was syrupy-sweet but filled with poison.

“I told you to stop touching my things. Do you need hearing aids?”

“We’re partners, which means I have just as much right as you do to those files.”

“For one case, yes. However, the serial homicide isn’t the only thing I have active.” He dropped the case folder back on top of the stack. “I’d rather not have my matters get mixed up all because you can’t stop yourself from snooping.”

“I wouldn’t feel the need to do that if you had been honest with me in the first place,” she snapped.

Draco screwed up his features in confusion.

“What are you on about?”

“The Board of Governors. Or do you not recall your glaring failure over not disclosing the victim profile?” Her anger flushed her cheeks a pretty red. “I mean, honestly, the information could be incredibly helpful to my research.”

He smirked. There were few things that could improve his mood better than getting a rise out of Granger.

“I didn’t tell you because the information had nothing to do with your consultancy,” he drawled.

“How could you possibly know that?” She pushed her fingers through her hair in frustration, the digits immediately getting snared by her riotous curls. “Gods, is everyone in my life an amateur Seer now?”

Draco watched as she painfully disentangled herself from her mane, all the while trying to figure out what in Gods name she was talking about. Surely she hadn’t lost the plot this much since the war ended.

“Ignore that,” she shook her head quickly. “The point still stands that since I’m your partner, I should have access to whatever information you’ve collected on the case up to this point.” She pointedly looked at the stack before meeting his steel-grey eyes. “The sooner we start working together, the sooner we catch the killer.”

She left the remainder unsaid. And the sooner we can get back to our lives, ones in which we pretend the other doesn’t exist.

Draco held her gaze, wondering at what point he made the wrong turn that brought her back to him.

“Fine.” He started sorting through the pile, noting from his periphery the hunger in her gaze. It was something he hadn’t seen since Hogwarts. Normally she walked around their shared hallways with such listlessness, it made even him feel depressed. “The ones are the left aren’t to be touched. Those have to do with my other cases. Everything on the right is fair game.”

Draco took a moment to study her, at how alive she seemed for once, before making his way to the door. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Where are you going,” she asked while rounding on him.

He sighed, long and heavy.

“Sorry, I should have clarified that better. Let me know if you have any questions pertaining to the case.”

“Malfoy.” She slammed the door shut with her palm, effectively blocking his path.

“I have a meeting which doesn’t concern you.”

She flinched when he leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched, giving him space to reopen the door and slip through. He didn’t bother looking back as he left the war zone of his office.

Today was shaping up to be much better, Hermione thought with satisfaction.

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy had been mildly unpleasant when he first arrived. Though that was understandable given the intentional mess Hermione had made. Something she had yet to clean up.

But she was far too busy at the moment with sating her curiosity to tackle the needed tidy.

Malfoy’s hurried exit had occurred a little over an hour ago and he hadn’t yet returned. In an ideal world, free of distractions, she would use this time to review the information he’d given her in the peace of their now-shared office.

But it wasn’t everyday that she had the opportunity to explore, unfettered, the workspace of her once-rival. Figure out who he had really become post-war.

As such, her thoughts understandably strayed to matters unrelated to work. Namely, her new partner and his things.

That morning, the tapping of his light-brown brogues on the ravaged wooden floor announced his presence. A quick glance in his direction showed him wearing a dark-green suit. The fabric looked thick, a surprising choice given the heat that was, once again, holding the city hostage. Though with his considerable wealth, he could probably afford materials with cooling spells spun throughout.

As he passed her desk en route to the snake plant, his bloody cologne nearly suffocated her. She had spent ages after he left tying to decipher the notes that wafted across her nose the closer he got.

She finally came to a very distressing conclusion.

Parchment, undoubtedly. Green Leaves. Juniper Berry.

It was absolutely enchanting, near to the scents of the Amortentia potion she’d first encountered in 6^th year. She would bathe in the scent if given the chance, which was a considerable problem as she detested the person who wore it.

With her decidedly poor luck, he probably had charmed the cologne with an attraction spell just to get under her skin.

Yes, that had to be it. It even sounded like something Malfoy would have done in school. Make himself smell so irresistible that people around him couldn’t help but fall on their knees in adoration.

Her mind suddenly held her hostage to the image of dark-haired Pansy Parkinson doing just that. Malfoy sitting in his leather office chair, his head tilting back and his eyes rolling upwards as she …

“Absolutely not.” She slammed her eyes shut, which did nothing to stall her imagination. “Get a grip on yourself, Hermione. They’re not even together anymore.” She said this in the hopes of dispelling what, confusingly, felt like pangs of jealousy burbling in her stomach. “Gods, what is wrong with me this week?”

But she already knew the answer to that question. Because it hadn’t changed since being paired with him.

Truth be told, Malfoy made her feel alive. His words a running track of electricity through her body, making her want to prove him wrong at every occasion.

To make matters worse, his attractiveness was becoming a problem. Especially now they were sharing close quarters. He had always caught her eye, but the physical demands of being an Auror only added to his previous appeal.

So, now, whenever he was around, she seemed to lose her ability to control herself. Her eyes lingering inappropriately on his hair and eyes. And don’t get her started on the way he rolled his button-downs to reveal muscled forearms covered in tattoos…

Not that it particularly mattered either way because she would never forgive him.

She shoved to her feet, walking in tight circles, as her mind cast back to that morning.

His hair had been mussed as though his fingers just finished raking through the platinum locks. The glasses, something she’d never seen on him before, had been perched low on his nose.

He hadn’t even bothered looking at her when he came in, preoccupied with the piece of paper in his hands thereby missing the glance she snuck his way. It was only after noticing the wood dust and gash marks on his floor that she felt his gaze beading into her skull.

Hermione crept over to his desk shortly after he stormed out to examine the note he’d come in with. It was a wand report reminder from Ministry HR. She pursed her lips when she noted that it was a monthly requirement. She knew that Harry only submitted the ghastly form quarterly and, even then, he usually got an exemption for half of them.

She wondered if her best friend got preferable treatment because he was still the ‘Chosen One’ in the eyes of wizarding society. Though it was just as likely that the frequency of Malfoy’s reports had something to do with his history as a Death Eater.

And if that were the case, it was complete and utter hogwash. Despite her complicated feelings about the man, the Order wouldn’t have won the war without Malfoy’s contributions. It was ridiculous to keep punishing him for his childhood transgressions. Ones that he had very little say in committing.

She sighed. Nothing about their post-war world seemed particularly fair.

Not the favoritism that ran riot in the Ministry nor the losses that still felt like fresh wounds.

She shook her head, telling herself that these thoughts would only send her on a downward spiral.

Maybe it was time to put his office to rights. He wouldn’t be gone forever and she didn’t particularly feel like having another battle with him just yet. That and maybe she felt a touch bad upon seeing just how distressed he’d been from the damage.

Even if it did serve him right for trying to shove her workspace into a bloody closet.

She pulled out her wand and muttered Reparo at the closet doorframe and gouged floor. Wooden shards rose into the air before slotting themselves back into place while the floorboards slowly regained their oily shine. After ten minutes of effort, everything looked just as it had before she exacted her revenge.

Though she did have to wonder just how Malfoy managed to get such beautiful floors when everyone else was stuck with questionably-stained and scratchy carpet. Maybe he would tell her his secret once they got over the bickering stage of their current partnership.

Tucking her wand back into her cardigan, she looked around her new office. It was much bigger than her previous quarters in MoMA. But MLE, as a whole, had many more employees than her measly department. So they tended to be given more airtime in the Minister’s biannual address and a far larger budget to boot. So it made sense that they had bigger offices too.

Other than that, Malfoy apparently agreed with her approach on decorating. Namely, the fewer personal effects the better.

Hermione’s eyes lingered on a Snitch fluttering delicately on a stand, near to where she placed her snake plant. She crossed the room to examine the tiny gold plaque.

“November 1992? That was in second year,” she muttered as her fingers brushed lightly over the ball’s wings. “This must be the first one he ever caught.” If she remembered correctly, the match had been against Ravenclaw. Harry and Ron had pouted over the win until she finally threatened to permanently silence their vocal cords.

Her throat bobbed as a rush of emotion flowed over her, both at the memory and Malfoy’s sentimentality. For some reason, she didn’t expect her school bully turned savior to be the type of person to hold on to things.

Maybe because it made him seem more human in her eyes. Which was decidedly not a good thing.

She turned away to approach his desk, hoping to find something that indicated his wartime decency had been a one-off. That he was still the person she could justifiably hate.

His desk, similar to his walls and bookshelf, were notably bare of personality. His desk blotter held the folders she promised not to look through, an expensive-looking quill, a fresh bottle of navy ink, and a … moving picture.

Hermione was suddenly face-to-face with Narcissa Malfoy for the first time in years. The woman sat primly, hands in her lap, outlined by large windows. It was clear that the picture had been taken at Malfoy Manor because Hermione recognized the blooming gardens just over Narcissa’s shoulder.

Gooseflesh rose on Hermione’s arms as she peered down at the black-and-white photograph. Narcissa hadn’t survived the war - not even close. After Voldemort realized that Harry, Ron, and Hermione escaped the Manor (relatively) unscathed, he took it out on the family in the worst manner possible.

It was reported that Narcissa was tortured for hours. Voldemort cut bits out of her body, interspersing the physical torture with the mental agony of Crucio. Medical healers were called in so she didn’t choke on her own blood. The woman’s injuries didn’t end there but the Ministry sealed the more ghastly details from the public.

Though Hermione knew that Lucius and his son had been forced to watch until her heart finally stopped responding to resuscitation spells. It had driven the Malfoy patriarch mad, such that he was now a patient in St. Mungo’s permanent residency ward.

Hermione always felt somewhat responsible for how that situation played out. Maybe if she had stayed behind, let herself be sacrificed…

Well many things would have been different.

But that vein of guilt had led Hermione to send a bouquet of Narcissa’s namesake flowers to the estate every year on the anniversary of the woman’s death. Anonymously, of course. Narcissa was apparently buried in the Manor’s crypt or, at least, that’s what the Prophet reported at the time. It was the least Hermione could do since the woman was basically dead because of her.

This Narcissa though was still alive and well. White streaks of hair still framed her face, standing out in sharp contrast against her otherwise dark locks. Her full lips curled upward in a soft smile at whoever took the shot before she turned to look over her shoulder at the roses blooming just out of focus.

The camera was clearly angled upwards and the woman looked, at least, ten years younger from when Hermione saw her last. So it was likely a picture Malfoy took himself before he was even at Hogwarts.

The fact that this was the picture he chose for his office made fissures appear in her already-broken heart. A memory from a time when he was still just a little boy and allowed to be something other than the mere heir to the family name.

Between that and the Snitch, it looked like her partner didn’t have much of a life now. That he lived in the past alongside her.

So much for finding evidence of his blackened heart.

Hermione was just starting to get the impression that no matter what happened in the next few weeks, this situation was going to do a number on her. She wasn’t getting out of it unscathed, though these new scars were far more likely to be mental than anything else.

She wiped at the tears dotting her eyes before crouching down in front of Malfoy’s desk drawers. Surprisingly, all of them were unlocked but the bottommost well.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding then. Hopefully it’s something horrible.” Because, quite frankly, her heart needed a break from hurting so much.

After unlocking the drawer with her wand, she wrenched it open only to be absolutely assaulted by her own words. Suddenly freed from their cage, the airplanes burst forth - not showing care to her face, body, or curls. She screeched, batting them away - a memory of Cornish pixies oddly coming to the fore of her mind.

Once they’d all happily landed on Malfoy’s desk and chair, some even spilling into her workspace, she saw a near-full whiskey bottle laying at the bottom. Gods, did everyone in MLE have a drinking problem? Or was that just reserved for the war-torn Aurors?

Though, considering the things they must see on the job, Hermione hardly could hold it against them either way.

Turning towards her paper monsters, she began to unwind all the spellwork that kept them animated. When they finally stopped their rustling, she took a few more minutes to unfold and stack them neatly in chronological order before replacing them back in the drawer.

Leave it to Draco Malfoy to make her stop acting like such a brat.

A brisk walk and cup of tea later, Hermione finally felt ready to tackle some casework. She settled down at her desk, having thrown a cushioning charm at the plain wooden seat, and turned to the folders in front of her.

To be fair, she didn’t have that much additional information to review. The first folder contained witness statements. The ones she literally begged Malfoy for last week.

But at least she had them now.

Though, upon review, she couldn’t help but (begrudgingly) agree with her partner. They weren’t particularly useful for the manner of killing issue.

Though that didn’t mean they weren’t interesting on their own.

Of the four people interviewed, they all recounted roughly the same story. Which was odd, since there was exactly one witness for each crime. Just by sheer dint of the human condition, their recollections should vary considerably. Yet that wasn’t the case at all.

Of the four, three witnesses were responsible for unlocking their department every morning. As such, they came into the Ministry in the pre-dawn hours to beat any Floo traffic.

On the morning of each murder, they followed that same routine. But, strangely, none seemed to recall actually doing any unlocking. Though they swore up and down they must have done, considering they were the only ones in their respective departments with authorization to do so.

The next thing they remembered was standing in front of a dead body.

In the case of the last murder, Unspeakable Everett felt an overwhelming urge to check the prophecy floor … even though he worked on the Brain Team. That was how the last victim had been found. Otherwise he would have been down there for weeks, undiscovered, given the tendency of Ministry employees to avoid that floor altogether.

Hermione’s mind returned back to the most confusing feature of these homicides, the reason she had been brought on in the first place: no magic had been used.

But Ministry protocol required the use of magical means to secure departments. Hermione knew that with certainty because she researched it for Arthur months ago. He had suggested to the Minister that they should use non-magical methods as an added security feature as well - but was turned down.

So how was it possible that the doors were open for the killer when no traces of magic were ever found? Unless they didn’t check the doors? But they must have because Malfoy noted that there had been no break-ins.

She just didn’t understand how it was possible.

Not to mention, the witnesses clearly had their memories tampered with. Who’s to say their statements of that morning were even accurate to begin with?

Hermione shivered despite the warmth of the office before opening up the last folder Malfoy provided.

Her eyes narrowed upon seeing that she had already reviewed these documents before. It was just another copy of the crime scene photographs and autopsy reports. However, these were clearly the original, unredacted versions.

The first victim stared out unseeing, shadows moving across his body as crime-scene techs flitted in and out of the shot. She scanned down the image, already knowing the name that would be stamped in block-quotes at the bottom: Thomas Zabini.

“Gods,” she whispered. That was Blaise’s older brother. Hermione actually knew him quite well because he worked in the Improper Use of Magic Office. Since the two departments were working together to implement Arthur’s vision of safely twining magical and non-magical society, she spoke to the elder Zabini often.

She couldn’t believe she didn’t know about this. In fact, last she heard, he had just had a little boy with his wife, a Ravenclaw from his year.

The other victims were less familiar to Hermione. Though she’d seen two of them coming from the Slytherin dungeons often enough that she, at least, recognized their faces.

Tracy Davis. Cassius Warrington. Eric Dolohov.

She wondered why Malfoy hadn’t mentioned the fact that all the victims, thus far, had been Slytherins.

After all, it made more sense for the killer to target alums of a specific House. Especially considering the secrecy surrounding the Board of Governors. After the war, the Minister of Magic decreed that the Board would henceforth be entirely anonymous. No one knew who they were besides the Minister himself (who’d hand-selected them) so that no one had the opportunity to exert influence or power over their decisions.

So why did Malfoy immediately go there for the victim profile? Unless he was on the Board.

She frowned, shuffling through the documents again looking for anything new. A scrap of parchment fluttered free, upon which was written a list of 13 people - the writing distinctly different from Malfoy’s. It had a more flourishing hand, the tails of the hanging letters elaborately curled.

Four of the names were already crossed off.

Katie Bell (Gryffindor, 23)
Penelope Clearwater (Ravenclaw, 26)
Tracey Davis (Slytherin, 22)
Eric Dolohov (Slytherin, 35)
Seamus Finnegan (Gryffindor, 22)
Anthony Goldstein (Ravenclaw, 21)
Gregory Goyle (Slytherin, 22)
Ernie Macmillan (Hufflepuff, 23)
Zacharias Smith (Hufflepuff, 21)
Cassius Warrington (Slytherin, 27)
Charlie Weasley (Gryffindor, 30)
Oliver Wood (Gryffindor, 27)
Thomas Zabini (Slytherin, 39)

Hermione wanted to know where Malfoy got this list, which should be confidential. Not only that, but she had to ask him why he was so insistent on keeping the victim profile this broad.

After all, there were a smattering of people from each House on the Board. But the only victims thus far had been from Slytherin. Though she was sure none of them would feel particularly secure in that information. Especially not Gregory Goyle.

But, given the language of the gag order, they probably didn’t even know they were being picked off. She wondered if anything was being done to protect the ones remaining.

So many questions were swirling around Hermione’s head that she felt on the cusp of a raging headache.

No wonder Malfoy hadn’t wanted any new lines of enquiry from her.

Chapter 7: The Dissipation of Hermione's Sanity

Chapter Text

Hermione was sitting hunched over her notes when Malfoy finally came back around lunchtime. She only deduced the hour from the sandwich and chips he dropped on his desk. By the smell alone, she could tell he’d chosen tuna salad.

Disgusting.

She hadn’t thought much about their desk placement up until that very moment. Unfortunately, with the way everything was positioned, the two would face each other anytime they were seated. Which was incredibly awkward all things considered.

Glancing up from her position mere inches from her parchment, she watched while Malfoy noisily unwrapped his sandwich and took a large bite - a glop of mayonnaise splattering onto the waxed paper.

Hermione had to use all her self-restraint just to keep a neutral face while hearing every single chew. Her throat bucking in a bib to dry-heave.

She hated the sound of other people eating. It made the hair rise on her arms and her lip curl in disgust. Actually, it was the thing that always set her and Ron to bickering at the Gryffindor dining table and, later, during the Horcrux hunt. (Once he rejoined them, that is.)

Between the smell and the sounds, she was positively shivering in annoyance. It was obvious what Malfoy was doing. Choosing the smelliest sandwich on the planet? Only to follow it up with his sounding like a cow chewing cud.

Hermione forced herself back to work, turning up her internal monologue to a near-shout in the hopes of tuning him out.

She was currently comparing his notes with her own. Noting similarities in their theories and any divergences.

Neither of them could figure out why the killer dressed up every scene to look like a Dark Arts ritual. If the homicidal manic had a flare for being elaborate, why did he kill his victims in such a way that no one knew how they died?

As for her theory that their perp might be a Squib, well, apparently Malfoy hadn’t considered it before she brought it up.

She felt a surge of satisfaction knowing that her thought processes were similar to an actual detective’s. That her theories had merit.

Unfortunately, her pride lasted all of five seconds before rage flew in unmitigated.

Malfoy had just opened his crisp bag as loud as possible and was now eating them, one-by-one, with his mouth open.

“Out of curiosity, is there some reason you insist on eating like a toddler?” She was sure that her eyes looked positively feral as she met his own steel-grey ones, filled with amusem*nt.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Flecks of crisp flew out of his mouth towards Hermione, causing her to jerk back in alarm.

“You’re eating with your mouth open.”

“No, I’m not.” Of course, he said this while taking a bite of his sandwich.

She clenched her teeth so hard, she thought they might shatter. Bits of chewed-up lettuce and tomato were clearly visible between his white teeth before he loudly swallowed.

“If I can see your food from here, I think it’s evident you are. I must say, I’m a bit surprised because I would think that Narcissa taught you better than that,” she snapped.

Malfoy flinched, actually flinched. His eyes, for the merest moment, looking devastated.

Probably for the first time in her life, Hermione actually felt guilty for hurting his feelings. She was, well and truly, f*cked as Bill would say.

But her guilt quickly dissipated when he opened his mouth again.

“If you don’t like the sounds of my eating, then I suggest you go back to your desk in MoMA.”

“But Bill said -”

“I’m well aware of what that arse told us. However, just because you’re to work here doesn’t mean you need to spend every hour perched in front of me, getting ink all over your face.”

She self-consciously wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, grimacing when she saw a thick smudge of black.

“Well I got here first this morning.”

“In the grand scheme of things, Granger, you’re still in my office where I happen to take lunch on a routine basis.”

“And you can continue to do so after we conclude this investigation. Until then, I would appreciate if you took your exceptionally loud chewing into the canteen to bother others with.”

Her voice definitely sounded a touch more hysterical than when she first confronted him. Which was sure to serve as encouragement for him to continue with his bad manners.

As predicted, Malfoy snorted before popping a few crisps into his mouth and crunching down slowly. The quill in Hermione’s hand snapped in half as fury boiled under her skin.

“Granger, why don’t you go have a lie-down on my couch and tell me about your feelings?” He looked her up and down slowly, his eyebrows raised in amusem*nt. “You really seem to have an issue with them.”

“Only because you are so completely intolerable,” she whisper-shouted.

“You seem to be the only one with that opinion.”

Hermione literally growled at him in response, which only elicited a burst of delighted laughter.

“Gods, Granger.” He pushed the hair that had fallen into his face away, her eyes tracking the movement. “You’re so much easier than you used to be.”

“f*ck you,” she seethed. “Go to the break room so I can keep doing my work in peace.”

“No.” He took another large bite and spoke between chews. “As I said, it’s my office and I’ll eat in it if I wish.”

“You know what? Fine.” She started shoving her folders and notes into her small beaded purse. “That’s just fine.” Hot tears were starting to well in her eyes so she kept her vision downcast so that Malfoy couldn’t get the satisfaction. “I’ll just go home and continue my work from there.”

Because if she didn’t leave now, she would absolutely lose control of her sanity and punch him for the second time in her life.

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her so hard that the frosted pane of glass shook in its frame.

Hermione gave herself time to have a bit of a cry after she stepped out of her fireplace into the quiet of her apartment. Nibbling a few stale biscuits while drinking a cup of tea, she watched the occasional car bumble pass on the street below.

She lived in Marylebone - a quiet but expensive neighborhood in central London. Her landlord being a witch herself was the only reason that Hermione could afford the place. As such, this was her fifth year in the one-bedroom and she had no plans on putting in her notice anytime soon.

Given how small Diagon Alley was, urban-dwelling witches and wizards usually rented in Muggle territory. Though that’s not to say magical folk actually mingled with their mundane neighbors. In fact, it was common for Muggles to assume the rented flats unoccupied due to the infrequency of front door usage - the tenants preferring Floo travel instead.

Hermione was exceptional in this regard. She still very much shunned being out in the world. But she walked to the Ministry entrance in Westminster when she didn’t need to come in the pre-dawn hours to complete impossible research requests. She also justified the occasional weekend trip to her local coffee shop, which excelled at pain au chocolates, due to her inability to brew a decent cup of coffee. She knew the Sherlock Museum was near to her home as well. Though she couldn’t bring herself to make that trip, worried that it was too much in the vein of ‘living’ than her conscience would allow.

Still, she found peace within the four walls of her home. Because after losing so much (of others and herself), this was the one thing that didn’t show signs of crumbling.

She didn’t even have much in the way of possessions. Needing to erase all traces of herself, she’d donated her childhood plushies and trashed her participation trophies before her parents’ Obliviation. Then the war happened and ended, coinciding with the collapse of her mental health. Suddenly, it was five years later and she still hadn’t managed to put any pictures up on the wall. But the barrenness was still survival.

She had her books though - a plethora of them actually. They filled every inch of space on the two bookshelves she’d rescued from dumpsters over the last five years. What didn’t fit on the shelves got stacked in neat piles on the floor and her kitchen table (donated by Charlie when he moved back to Romania three years ago).

Being here helped Hermione put things into perspective.

Namely, that she was giving Malfoy exactly what he wanted. She was liable to crack just from his presence. It made her crave the familiarity of numbness. Of grief and guilt being her only bedfellows.

Being around him meant experiencing a kaleidoscope of emotions Hermione no longer had the capacity to deal with. It was exposure therapy from Hell.

She had lasted less than ten minutes of his goading today before needing to Floo home so that she might have her mental breakdown in peace.

If she wanted to survive a professional partnership with the Devil himself, she had to get a grip and regain control of her life.

Luckily, she knew just the right place to go.

After all, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Draco needed to go a smidge easier on Granger unless he wanted to end up on the other side of her right hook again.

That and he didn’t feel f*cking stellar about clearly making her cry.

He knew that she would be bent over work whenever he returned from his meeting. It’s not like she ever took lunch in their canteen. At least, he hadn’t seen her but a handful of times there, filling up a plate before furtively slipping back through the doors.

The knowledge of which led to today’s disastrous plan to win some peace for himself. Because, quite frankly, he also didn’t like eating there. Whenever he showed his face, people stared daggers at him until he lost his appetite. So, like Granger, he tended to take his food and run.

Since he’d remembered how much she hated the sounds of people chewing, Draco hoped being a bit of a dick about it would afford him some solitude in his f*cking office. He didn’t think he’d make her lose the f*cking plot though.

Admittedly, he had been putting it on a bit too much.

The minute after she stormed out, nearly shattering his glass pane in the process, he dropped the act. Because, of course, she was right. He had been raised better. If he ever dared to chew like that at the Manor, his father would have raised his infamous cane against him.

Draco winced recalling the numerous times his father beat him bloody for being a child and acting less refined than what was expected of his status.

He looked down at his exposed forearm, where his Dark Mark was hidden amongst his dragon tattoo, recalling one of the worst moments of his life. The night he was branded. His mother cried on the drawing room floor, her mascara running black down her cheeks as she begged the Dark Lord to give her the Mark instead. Anything to spare her only child.

Of course that didn’t f*cking work.

Instead, she just got hit over the head with her favorite English pastoral vase - immediately silencing her pleas. Draco had watched horrified as blood pooled underneath her head. At the time, the only thing he could think was that he’d just seen his Mum get murdered.

It probably would have been better if that actually had happened. At least it would have been relatively painless. Not like her actual death that still gave him night terrors.

Anyway, his thoughts that night were quickly redirected to his own impending demise. Four Death Eaters had to hold him down as the Dark Lord flooded corrupted magic into his body, searing his very soul with the Dark bond. It felt like fire in his veins, his eyesight completely failing while his heart pounded impossibly hard in his chest.

Maybe that’s why the Dark Lord liked marking them young. They were most likely to avoid a heart attack and survive the f*cking ritual.

He swore that he heard someone yelling for help before he lost consciousness. He assumed it was his father, one of the four holding his limbs tight. It took him a long time to realize it was just himself.

After he came to again, the Dark Mark branded fresh into his skin, Draco had a full-on breakdown. He sobbed pools into his satin bedsheets. Clearly, someone moved him afterwards so that he could “rest.” Like that would f*cking do anything to his mental state.

But when Lucius came in to check on him and saw his beloved heir like that? It was game over. He took out the cane and beat his son bloody. Draco still had marks on his right forearm where the bones had broken through his skin.

May his father rest in Hell whenever he deigned to finally f*cking die.

Unfortunately, being in Granger’s presence only served as yet another reminder of the lengths his cursed f*cking family would go to in order to stay alive. He would never forgive Bellatrix for branding Granger’s skin with the word ‘Mudblood.’ The thought that she woke up and saw it every day was enough to turn his stomach sour.

He dropped the remains of his tuna sandwich, which he hated the taste of, into his waste-bin and forced himself to start work on his wand report. It would take longer than normal given his mind’s current compulsion to drift to golden-brown eyes filled with tears, a knot of guilt sitting heavy in his stomach.

Despite the heat being back in full force, the Apparition point smelled less nauseating than it had previously. It was less the overpowering scent of baking rubbish and more the smell of a dog-run that needed a deep clean. Not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but not positively gag-inducing either.

Hermione followed the same directions Arthur had written down three weeks ago, nearly getting flattened by a double-decker bus while she carelessly crossed the streets of Piccadilly Circus.

After getting waylaid by a tourist in a plaid dress wanting a photograph in a red telephone booth, Hermione finally turned onto the side-street that would take her back to Milena.

The Seer would give her an explanation. Because, at this point, Hermione was convinced that she was cursed. There was no other explanation as to why her life had become a waking nightmare since meeting the raven-haired psychic.

No one could be this unlucky. It wasn’t possible without the involvement of magic.

So, logically, this had to be Milena’s fault. She probably put something in the tea when Hermione was admiring her tarot deck. Though she had no idea what it could possibly be. Believe it or not, no Potion Master was particularly keen on making a ‘reverse Felix Felicis.’ Especially because sales would be abysmal for the likely illegal concoction.

She passed by the independent book-binder, his door propped open to release the smells of glue and leather. Next door to which was a skincare store, entirely devoted to selling the benefits of mushroom-infused creams. After which would be the Seer.

Or, at least, that’s what should’ve been there.

Hermione’s feet came to a halt. There was no vibrant purple building with a neon sign in the window. No scents of myrrh drifting out in cloying waves.

Instead, Hermione was face-to-face with a brick wall. Graffitied and plastered with partially-torn down music posters.

She promptly sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and burst into a fresh wave of tears.

Gods, if only Professor McGonagell could see her now. She would probably bat Hermione round the ears and tell her off for crying over the disappearance of a Seer.