Bad Omens

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/50529346.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Pansy
Parkinson, Neville Longbottom, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ginny Weasley,
Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, OCs, Lucius
Malfoy's portrait
Additional Tags: Crack Treated Seriously, Reluctant Coworkers to Morons to Lovers,
POV opinionated narrator, Idiots in Love, Fake Dating,
Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, The Apocalypse, Forced
Cohabitation, Sexual Tension, Meddling Friend Groups, Canon-Typical
Bureaucracy, Stoke-on-Trent Slander, Snarky Draco Malfoy,
Inexplicably terrifying Hermione Granger, Horoscopes, Prophecies, Seer
Pansy Parkinson, Face-Sitting, Inspired by Good Omens, Prank Wars,
Foreplay as a Prank, pranking as a love language, Unhinged plotting and
narrative fuckery, Demons, Supportive Narcissa Black Malfoy, Spurgeon
Language: English

🍰
Collections: Alex Em’s Favorites, golden trio era favorites, Dramione that has my
heart❤, Dramonie_that_destroyed_me, HJG 𝑐𝑟è𝑚𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑟è𝑚𝑒
Stats: Published: 2023-10-03 Completed: 2024-01-02 Words: 116,391
Chapters: 14/14
 Bad Omens
by onebedtorulethemall

Summary

On the 31st of October, an eleven-year-old girl will bring about the end of the world.
According to prophecy, anyway, and everyone knows those are infallible.

Fortunately, the world has unlikely heroes in the form of Hermione Granger and Draco
Malfoy, who've selflessly agreed to put aside their mutual hatred and long-standing prank war
in order to find the girl and stop the apocalypse. If only they could be certain they have the
right child…

For fans of Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and dramatic irony, a comedy of errors about two
people so stubbornly in denial, Fate itself decides to step in.

Notes

Translation into Russian by withfireinside

All my gratitude to alexandra_emerson for her incredible beta support and for understanding
what I was trying to accomplish here in the first place, rolling with every wild punch, and
making me feel as though I wasn't crazy for attempting this (or, rather: yes, you’re crazy, but
in a good way).

I feel I should tell you this is not a very normal fic! This is a story about a prophecy and the
chain of events it sets into motion. Draco and Hermione are at the heart of it, but it’s also a
Panville, and it’s also about Narcissa, and it’s about Kingsley, and it’s about Harry and
Ginny….well, really everyone gets their moment here. Even Ronald. But yes, the Dramione
of it all will take center stage, especially as storylines coalesce.

Credit to the creators of Good Omens, Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett, for inspiring both
the plot and the style of this fic. This is a loose interpretation, so if you haven't read or
watched the original this will still make perfect sense. But if you're a fan (particularly of the
book), you'll recognize some nods here and there, and you won't be surprised when it all goes
extremely off the rails.

Mind the miscommunication tag, but be advised: these are not your average oblivious idiots,
and the miscommunication here is...probably not quite what you're expecting. (That said, if
you're looking for two adults talking through their issues maturely, I'd suggest a fic that
doesn't have the word "prank" tagged three separate ways.)
Thanks for reading!
-OB
 The St Galgani Annual Gala Benefiting Unwanted Children and
Fallen Women
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

July 2007
The day she got the news wasn’t dark and gloomy, but that was only because the universe has
a penchant for irony.

It had been a good day, capping off an excellent week. She’d applied, and then successfully
interviewed, for a new and little-understood position on the Minister for Magic’s personal
staff. Hermione Granger, being quicker on the uptake than most, understood perfectly what
the position entailed.

The title was “Muggle Liaison Chairperson.” The title was irrelevant. The position was
“fixer.”

If you were the sort of person who attended local town hall meetings in your spare time to
bear witness to the application of your tax dollars, you probably would have petitioned for a
formal inquiry into the legality of Hermione’s new position. If you had, you would have
received a short response on Ministry letterhead stating that the Muggle Liaison Chairperson
operates outside the somewhat short reach of Magical Law, and therefore no one had
jurisdiction to conduct the investigation.

It probably would have been signed by the Muggle Liaison Chairperson herself, for an extra
smattering of insult.

But you would have been right to raise concerns.

Limited by practically nothing except her own imagination and underdeveloped moral code,
Hermione’s chief edict was to go forth and prevent conflict with the Muggle government by
any means necessary. And, as it turned out, the necessary means were just a series of trades,
and Hermione and the Muggle Prime Minister just two women playing Go Fish for the
stability of their overlapping but discrete nations.

If they scratched each other’s backs, Kingsley optimistically insisted, things wouldn’t
escalate to head-bashing later. After all, the Muggles had real weapons that could do a lot
more damage than clubs (or wands, for that matter, though hardly anyone wanted to admit it).
And so Hermione was to be the architect and engineer of diplomatic back-scratching.

In short, a fixer.

What she hadn’t counted on, because she hadn’t asked, because maybe she wasn’t all that
smart after all, was that the Muggle Prime Minister had hired herself a fixer as well.

One very tall, very blond, very loathsome individual, who smirked in greeting instead of
extending his hand like a normal person.

“Y-you,” she spluttered, nothing akin to a normal person either.

“I’ve missed you too, Granger.” Draco Malfoy inclined his head graciously, like a lord. It
succeeded in pissing her off further.

“I’m to be working with you?”

“I’m looking forward to our partnership as well.”

“But…what? I’m supposed to be working directly with the Muggle Minister, I thought?” She
looked helplessly at Kingsley Shacklebolt, who’d only just given her the job yesterday and
was probably now in the process of reconsidering.

“This way ensures continuity of our efforts if and when she leaves office.” The Minister
frowned slightly. “Also, it's been suggested that she might feel more comfortable working
with someone on her own team, so to speak, instead of directly with us. I haven’t even met
her.”

This explanation nearly sent Hermione into hysterics.

“What part of that is her own team?” A hand flapped close to Draco’s face. He swatted it
away like an irritating insect.

“Someone not from the Ministry of Magic,” Kingsley clarified. “Someone who works for
her.”

She rounded on Draco. “How did you get a job working for the Muggle Prime Minister?”

If looks could kill, his had just invented the fourth Unforgivable. Something to do with
vivisection, probably.

“Ask nicely and maybe I’ll tell you.”

His restrained tone only made her look more overwrought by comparison. Hermione thought
her hair might have fluffed up with anger, judging from the contemptuous look he sank into
it. She dug her fingernails into her palms to stop herself from smoothing it back down.

“Mr Malfoy—” No, sorry, she couldn’t do it. She tried again. “Malfoy, do tell. How did you
come by your new position?”

His punchable face fairly glowed with triumph when he looked down at her. “Story for
another time, Granger. Can we get started? I have a whole list of items to review with you
and I haven’t got all day. We’ll need to set up a regular cadence, by the way; I’m thinking bi-
monthly to start.”

He led her, dazed and confused, to the sofa in her new office and sat as if he owned it, talking
all the while. She entertained a brief fantasy of manslaughter.

Kingsley excused himself, shutting the door behind him, while Draco Malfoy outlined his
ten-point plan to ensure the safety of Muggles in the upcoming heat wave.

She felt as though she was having a stroke.

In the absence of knowledge, Hermione’s brain invented an uncharitable scenario in which

the Muggle Minister had only hired him because he was devilishly handsome, emphasis on
devil, and she a female minister.

Later, Hermione would lie awake in bed and castigate herself for these decidedly unfeminist
interpretations. And yet she couldn’t stop wondering how on earth Draco Malfoy had become
Magical Liaison Chairperson to the Muggle Minister.

Even in her own head, the emphasised parts rang loud with incredulity.

“Can your Ministry commit to cooling charms in public shelters?” her sworn enemy was
saying.

The pronoun made her choke. “I hate you,” she ground out.

“Likewise, Granger. Answer the question, please.”

“This’ll never work. We’ll kill each other.” She resolved to ask Harry to teach her
sectumsempra just in case.

“I quite like my job, and I’m perfectly capable of performing it while maintaining a pointless
grudge. I’m sorry you’re not as skilled at multitasking.”

Being of the easily goaded sort, she determined to be better at hating him than he was at
hating her. “Fine. I’ll do both as well. We’ll just go on hating each other forever while also
being excellent at our jobs.”

“Smashing plan. Now can we get on with it? Some of us actually care about Muggle
welfare.”

---

They tried to stick to the plan. They really, really tried.

---

One interesting fact that neither of them was aware of prior to the start of their partnership is
that it requires quite a lot of energy to hate somebody for five consecutive years of bi-
monthly-to-start meetings.

This was doubly true when one of them was actually a decent person now and the other was
too brilliant and attractive to be earnestly disliked.

So, without either of them putting in the necessary effort, their bottomless well of hatred
dried to a thin murky layer that covered something very different.

It wasn’t their fault that they didn’t notice the change. They were still keeping up
appearances, after all, to themselves and to their much-put-upon friends and respective
ministers. Practically everyone they knew (and a great many they didn’t) had a story about an
exchange of jinxes in a conference room or a shouting match outside the Ministry Visitors'
Entrance.

And even if they had realised that they’d left genuine hatred back in September or October of
2007, that wouldn’t have automatically made them friends, or even acquaintances that
tolerated each other.
Besides, annoying Hermione Granger had become Draco’s chief source of joy.

The annoyances were mundane at first, borne from a decade of habit. Being intentionally late,
man-spreading whenever they shared the sofa in her office. A few well-placed sneers.
Nothing that might irreparably damage their working relationship, thereby endangering his
job.

But then, to his surprise and amusement, she became annoying as well. (Although, as he’d
clarified to the Muggle Minister on more than one occasion, he’d always found her
provoking. It was only now that she was doing it on purpose that it became remotely
tolerable.)

She, being the more organised of the two, typically took it upon herself to call the meetings
and set the agendas. It wasn’t a great deal of responsibility, but it did afford her a great deal
of opportunity to make his life difficult, which she evidently delighted in.

Thus, a war began.

Trouble was, she was talented, imaginative, and spiteful. Talented, imaginative, spiteful
witches got your attention by spelling out a meeting date and location across your forehead in
a sudden onset of adult acne.

Or, they disabled your wards and broke into your flat to leave a note card with that month’s
agenda on your pillow, just to remind you that they could, and to ruin your sense of safety for
all eternity.

Or, they paid a Muggle singing telegram to deliver the message to you on the street, in
limerick format, so that you had to suffer the dual embarrassment of being involved in a
public spectacle and of then having to ask the Muggle for an encore performance so that you
could decipher the important details cleverly concealed within eleven rhyming stanzas.

Acne notwithstanding, he found her feeble attempts to irritate him rather charming. She
hadn’t his capacity for devilishness, which in and of itself was a source of irritation for her.

He spent a full six months developing an undetectable charm to manipulate the moisture
content of a confined space, then secretly set a pocket of air around her head to ninety-five
percent humidity. It followed her for seven weeks before she finally figured out why her hair
was so unmitigatedly bushy all of a sudden.

Another time, he charmed her ancient cat to recite poetry, but only the bad kind. And – this
was the devilish bit – so that only she could hear it.

“I’ve caught myself thinking in iambic pentameter. Please make it stop,” she begged him
when they met later that month. He’d insisted on it taking place at her flat so he could
witness the poet in action. “I took him to the vet before I realised no one else could hear it.
She wrote me a referral to St Mungo’s. The humiliation was profound.”

Crookshanks yowled in irritation at his feet.

Draco had tears in his eyes when he came up for air. “What’s he saying now? She walks in
beauty? Or – not Blake, surely? Tiger, tiger, burning bright might be a bit too aspirational for
the poor creature.”

“Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’” She hung her head miserably.

He’d come prepared to be hexed for tampering with her beloved pet, but a month of Edgar
Allen Poe would suck the fight right out of anyone.

Some of his most effective methods were the simplest, however. After approximately a year
of escalating annoyances, Draco discovered that one surefire way to discombobulate
Hermione Granger was simply to flirt with her. Either she’d grow red and flustered, which he
enjoyed greatly, or she’d attempt to get him back, which was, of course, also a win.

He perfected the art of sexual innuendo. He touched her hair as often as he dared. He winked
at her an awful lot. She transfigured his pants within his trousers without him knowing, so
that he got home one evening to discover an animated image of Hermione squinting
unimpressedly through the opening of his briefs.

After that, he arrived at their pre-arranged meeting with a handful of Peruvian Instant
Darkness Powder. In the pitch black that followed, he’d snatched her wand out of her hand
and kissed her full on the mouth. She’d slapped him, of course, but the pain was even more
delicious for being so thoroughly earned.

What happened next was even better. She’d punished him for it by wearing, for the next five
months, nothing but sheer white tops that did not even attempt to conceal a variety of
fascinating lingerie. Every time he looked, which was near constantly, she snapped in a
nunnish voice that positively shrivelled the balls, “Eyes up here, Malfoy.”

He had nightmares about those words.

There was only one solitary example of either of them taking it too far in their five-year
working history, and it was on her part, surprisingly enough. One day, a year and a half into
their respective positions, he heard a hissing sound coming from his left arm. He pulled up
his sleeve to look at the regrettable evidence of a misspent youth and found, to his horror, that
the tattooed snake was attempting to speak to him through its lipless mouth.

“Sssssseven o’clock, Ssssaint Jamessss Park.”

He’d been angry and unsettled enough to not show up at all. Instead, he rounded up his mates
and forced them to accompany him on an impromptu night out that was fun for absolutely no
one because he got piss drunk and complained about her incessantly to anyone who’d listen.

And that night, he’d had real nightmares.

She apologised the next day in the swottiest way imaginable, by sending a formal note and
then, when he failed to respond in a timely manner, by showing up outside his house. He
couldn’t even enjoy the sight of her wringing her hands anxiously, as hungover as he was.
Although he’d queasily accepted her apology, she’d refused to participate in their routine for
an interminable two months until he finally managed to goad her into ending the one-sided
détente.

The years turned over, and they still hated each other.

It was only that hate, in this scenario, was really more like intense dislike, which was really
irritation, which was really a reluctant fondness, which was really something best described
(never by them, of course) as friendship.

---

July 2012

This particular evening found him wandering around the Jewel House at the Tower of
London, waiting for her to show up.

Her latest battle tactic had been to schedule their meetings at increasingly difficult-to-access
locations and then to arrive a few minutes after him, once he’d finished disabling alarms,
confunding guards, and generally going to a lot of trouble.

On this occasion, he’d outsmarted her by merely asking the Muggle Minister, or M.M., as he
called her, for an appointment. It helped to have friends in high places. [This, incidentally, is
an extremely loose translation of the Malfoy family motto.]

A soft pop of Apparition announced her presence. He turned to find her admiring a comically
large diamond set atop a velvet crown the colour of a ripe plum.

“This really ought to be returned to India,” she said, delivering a side helping of stern glare
alongside the lecture. “Can M.M. do anything about that? I’d be willing to trade it for, say,
England winning the World Cup in two years.”

Not admiring it, then.

“Hello, my sexy sorceress.”

She gave this the consideration she might give to an unknown stain on her hem. Finally, she
settled on a half-hearted shrug accompanied by a blasé, “Fuck off, Malfoy.

This, too, was part of their routine. He’d greet her with an endearment designed to annoy, and
she’d let him know precisely how successful he’d been by the amount of irritation in her
response.

Actually, the routine began earlier in the day, when he’d spend a distracted hour considering
what new greeting might earn him the most vehement reaction. Today’s was objectively a
failure.

He’d have to do better next time if he wanted to dethrone the undisputed winner, “Well, if it
isn’t the face that launched a thousand stiffies,” which had startled her into a coughing fit so
intense she’d had to spell out her reply in the air with her wand rather than deliver it verbally.
The words had been in all caps and italicised. A decisive victory.

Oh, well. There was always next time. He consoled himself with a long, slow look across her
curves, taking all his favourite detours. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at
him.

She was wearing white, like she always did. At some point during the Translucent White
Blouse Episode of 2008, the colour had become somewhat of a uniform for her. It had all
begun when he, in an effort to let her know that he knew what she was doing with her
inappropriate clothing choices, started wearing three-piece black suits to every meeting to
serve as a foil for her lasciviousness.

Even after her clothing returned – tragically – to its former opaqueness, it remained white. He
liked to think of her shopping with her friends, picking out short white skirts of fine wool and
silk, thinking of him. And so, in implicit encouragement, he kept it up with the black suits.
He was pretty sure she liked them, too.

As a bonus, they looked good as a unit, her with her coppery skin and crisp white attire, and
him all tall, pale, and handsome in his well-tailored suits, topped off with mysterious dark
sunglasses. They got a lot of admiring looks when they were seen together, which fed his
considerable ego.

“What’s on the agenda tonight, Granger?” He went over to join her by the glass case. “I could
just steal it for you, you know.”

“I don’t want it!”

“Want to try it on, then? Just for a minute?” His wand hovered enticingly over the locked
case.

She hesitated, and then swore because it meant that he’d won. “Just because I was tempted
for half a moment—”

“Means you're an objectively bad person. It would look excellent on you though.”

“Aubergine’s hardly my colour.”

His eyes followed the line of satin-covered buttons down the front of the ivory dress she’d
chosen for their meeting. At the bottom, they lingered on the bare curve of her calf and ten
white-polished toes that were precariously secured to heeled sandals by a handful of delicate
cream straps.

July was an excellent month. February Hermione favoured a knee-length coat that put him in
mind of a marshmallow.

“For once, I find myself wholeheartedly in agreement.”

“I don’t know how you can see anything through those stupid sunglasses. We’re indoors, for
heaven’s sake. It’s also nighttime.”
He pushed the offending accessory to the top of his head, taking an elegant swoop of
platinum hair off his forehead as it went. “I can see that you’ve been speaking about me to
your pedicurist.”

The digits curled bashfully. “Not everything is about you, Malfoy. I’ll have you know my
knickers are fuchsia.”

He squinted at the area in question. “No, I don’t think they are. They’d be visible. I’d say a
sort of pale blush pink at best. Still in the white family.”

“Stop gawking at my crotch, you pervert!” Hermione’s ever-present notebook found new
utility as a privacy screen.

Draco returned his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose in order to gawk in a more incognito
fashion. “I assumed it was an open invitation. You have one to look at mine.”

She gave his belt area a brief, dismissive scan. “I’m certain there’s nothing I’d find
interesting there.”

“Perhaps not right now, but keep going on about your knickers—”

“Can we get started?” She slammed her notebook down on the glass case.

Whatever branch of Muggle security was responsible for setting alarms in the Tower of
London had apparently accounted for aggravated women attempting to use the crown jewels
as a writing desk. The sterile white lights of the room switched to red. Her dress and his hair
blinked scarlet at each other.

“Well done, you’ve found the alarm!” he shouted over the pulsating wail that was attempting
to make a lasting impression on their ear drums. One wand flick later, the glass case was
unlatched and the crown came to a rest at a jaunty angle atop his head.

She pointed her own wand at the ceiling and the screech of the alarm was replaced by a faint
ringing of the ears that denoted minor hearing damage. “What are you doing?”

“Might as well, now. How do I look?”

“Aristocratic, but you knew that. You wouldn’t be a good sort of ruler, I’m afraid.”

“An iron fist, you think?”

“Quite the opposite. Bacchanalia. Utter lawlessness. One of the Ancient Greeks, basically.”

“I’d hire you on to manage the day-to-day. Scheduling the orgies, you know. Cleanup of
various fluids. Disposing of broken wine bottles. We have four minutes or so before men with
guns arrive, if you’d like to get on with it.”

“Oh, right.” She referred to the first bulleted item in her notebook. “Dragons.”
Draco’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, that’s fun. I thought you were going to ask to borrow one of our
accountants again. I assume yours still can’t get the Ministry books to balance.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed defensively. “It was a good idea! I couldn’t have known they’d be
so offended by the prospect.”

“You couldn’t have accounted for it, you mean?”

“Don’t do puns, you’ll only embarrass yourself. I told them it’s not their fault Hogwarts
offers a shocking lack of mathematics education. Your accountants are simply…better.”

“Is that how you phrased it? I can’t imagine why it went over poorly.”

“About the dragons,” she forged onward. “We need a base for a dragon breeding programme.
Somewhere no one will miss it if it disappears off the map for a month or so. Middlesbrough,
maybe.”

“Come again?”

“Dragon breeding,” she repeated impatiently. “They need a lot of space. And it’s apparently
quite loud.”

Draco was forced to give due consideration to the act of dragon copulation. “Yes, I imagine it
is. Well, I can’t promise an entire city. What’s going to happen to the residents? Obliviate
everyone? Put the randy dragons in a nature preserve somewhere.”

“Nature preserves are for preservation. They’re killing all the protected wildlife.”

“And feeding on the Muggles of Middlesbrough is an acceptable alternative?”

“Hardly anyone lives there. Besides, we’ll keep them safe.”

“Bit of a shit plan, if you ask me.”

“No one did,” she reminded him severely. “The Department for the Regulation and Control
of Magical Creatures will work out the details once we have the location. Can you please just
check on that city as an option? From what I’ve heard, the Muggles might thank us to vanish
it forever.”

“Very well.” He reluctantly abdicated by returning the crown to its glass case. “My thing’s
boring. M.M. wants to know if you can do anything about traffic.”

“Traffic? She does know we have actual magic that can solve real, acute issues, correct?”

“Muggles are all very concerned about it. Their automobeans—”

“Automobiles. I know you know that word.”

“—are practically sitting in a car park, or something.” He shrugged, disinterested.

“How did you get your job?” Her unanswered question from five years ago reappeared
occasionally, usually accompanied by astonishment at his lack of interest in and knowledge
about the Muggle world. The insulting subtext, therefore, was how did you get the job for
which you’re so clearly unqualified?

He never answered the question because it would have made him sound like a prig to say,
“Muggles are extremely easy to manipulate into handing over important government
positions and my family connections probably didn’t hurt,” even if it was the truth. And
besides, he’d proven competent, if generally rather lazy.

“I was thinking maybe a focus charm on the roadways. And then a case of extreme motion
sickness for anyone looking down at their telephones. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed,
but they all seem to have something urgent to say to one another while driving. Terribly
dangerous.”

Hermione declined to take down any of his excellent suggestions. “And you think forcing
them to pull over urgently to vomit will be safer? Or otherwise conducive to the unrestricted
flow of traffic?”

“I should think it would only take once or twice for everyone to take the hint. Think about all
the Muggle lives we’ll save through the well-applied power of nausea.”

Saving Muggle lives was the one argument she couldn’t resist, so he employed it liberally.

One long, aggrieved sigh later, she scribbled a note in her little book. “Very well, I’ll see
what we can do. I don’t know whether we have the resources to maintain charms on all the
roads. Maybe just during rush hour.”

“What’s rush hour?”

She gave him the long look of someone mentally counting to ten so as not to yell at their
disobedient child.

“Anything else?” she asked, once she’d finished.

“Global warming.”

“No, Malfoy, I’ve told you we can’t do anything about that. You know I spent a whole month
researching cow methane when you asked me the first time? It’s a global issue, even if we
magically reduced carbon emissions, the other nations—”

He was laughing at her.

“It’s not a laughing matter.”

“Indeed, I agree. Bovine flatulence keeps me up at night.”

Hermione crossed her arms sceptically. When she did so, a significant portion of cleavage
greeted Draco from the v of her neckline, glowing like twin setting suns under the red
flashing lights of the silenced alarm. He pushed his sunglasses more firmly in place and
allowed himself a discreet ogle.

A person could contain multitudes, after all. Draco’s multitudes included unbridled loathing
of Hermione’s inner being and significant appreciation for its packaging.

“Are you quite loud as well?” he asked, distracted.

Often, while Draco’s mind was otherwise occupied, his mouth took the opportunity to say
something inappropriate to her. It usually left him scrambling to retroactively turn it into an
insult.

"Am I what?"

The cleavage vanished behind cream silk as her arms dropped in surprise. He leaned forward
a little to bid adieu as it departed.

“Like the randy dragons,” he clarified. “Except I imagine you’re very clinical about the
whole thing. Not just there. One-point-five centimetres to the left, if you please.”

“How often are you more than a centimetre off?” She held her finger and thumb apart at the
specified distance and looked at him quizzically. “Can you send me a list of names and
addresses? I should like to offer my condolences to your partners.”

Draco scowled. “Where are the men with guns when you need them?”

In another part of the Tower, a booted foot against a door announced their arrival.

“They surely have keys. Obsessed with violence, these Muggles. See you next week, or
whenever.”

He’d just lifted a foot to execute a neat spin for the purposes of Apparition when she said, “I
am quite loud, actually.”

The foot reconnected with the ground. “You’re what?”

“I’ve been told I produce all manner of exciting sounds,” she explained. “I could
demonstrate…”

Despite having both feet planted on a flat surface, he nearly tripped.

“…but apparently you’re not capable of getting me to make them.”

Having won the encounter, she vanished with a tidy pop. Draco was left with much to
consider, which he did on repeat in his head for the rest of the week.

---

At her great age of thirty-two, the witch reflected, she might have earned a bit of peace.
Hadn’t she endured a quarter of her life (or, if you counted by Muggle standards, a generous
third) alone? Hadn’t she lived a perfectly happy husbandless existence up to this point?
Happy was not doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence, true, but the fact remained that
she was single and surviving, much to her mother’s chagrin.

But instead of peace, she received only the immense weight of expectation. And sometimes,
the pressure became too much to bear.

Some mornings, she could do nothing but lie on her back while the cold stone weight of her
failures stacked high above her like that witch from Salem three hundred years prior,
sentenced to be crushed to death for the crime of existing. The Salem witch had been brave,
demanding more weight until the end.

Pansy Parkinson asked for less, but no one seemed to listen.

One stone was added for every friend who achieved the only accomplishments anyone
seemed to care about: marriage and children (in that order, naturally).

Another for every time she was reminded that she was pureblood (although nothing removed
the shine of that badge like losing an entire war over it) and worse, a pureblood woman, and
was therefore expected to produce a similar genetic structure in the form of an infant. Male
this time, if you please.

A further ten for each well-meaning comment about how she just hadn’t met the right man
yet.

If you’d asked her why she hadn’t settled down with the right man (this generally meant
pureblooded and not too closely related) and produced an acceptable quantity of male
offspring, her answer would’ve varied depending on how much air she’d been able to take
into her lungs beneath the pressure of a hundred slabs of granite.

“I don’t know,” she might’ve said, if she had the breath for it. “It just hasn’t happened for me
and I’m starting to believe it never will.”

Otherwise: “That’s none of your fucking business.”

Otherwise: “Petrificus totalus.”

She only wanted peace, but peace was in short supply at the St Galgani Annual Gala
Benefiting Unwanted Children and Fallen Women.

For starters, the event name was badly in want of updating.

Stepping out of the Floo, she made a discreet beeline for the toilet, where she performed a
quick appraisal of her appearance in the mirror. At least the goods, as her mother crudely put
it, were all accounted for.

Sleek, black hair ending in a bob that accomplished chicness rather than severity, check.
Fine, delicate features that mercifully failed to display the generations of casual inbreeding
that everyone was keen not to think too hard about, check.

Husband-getting dress that tangled about her legs as she moved, check.

Casual-sex-getting shoes that she mustn’t let her mother see, check.

Satisfied enough to leave the toilet rather than execute her backup plan of hiding in a stall for
the remainder of the evening, she turned to leave.

She really should have headed for the stall instead.

Narcissa Malfoy entered in a near-collision, startling both women into a well-rehearsed

routine of polite fussing.

“Why Pansy! It’s wonderful to see you, dear.”

Pansy snuck a glance at the stall door and felt momentarily guilty. Narcissa was hardly the
worst of the mothers – her own was far more terrifying – but she’d long since learned to
avoid all women still in possession of unwed sons.

“Oh, hello Mrs Malfoy. It’s nice to see you. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Draco couldn’t make it, I’m afraid,” Narcissa responded, as if she’d asked. “He’s been so
busy with work.”

They both knew this wasn’t true. Well, it might’ve been, but Draco wouldn’t have been
caught dead at this gala even if every other activity on the planet was permanently cancelled.

“That’s too bad.” Pansy strived to politely convey her extreme disinterest in the whereabouts
of Narcissa’s son. An awful lot of subtext was happening, which put a strain on her facial
muscles.

“You’ll stop by the manor sometime for lunch, won’t you? I know he’d love to see you. How
long has it been?” Narcissa was resolutely ignoring all of Pansy’s carefully crafted eyebrow
movements.

How long since they’d stopped sleeping together? Or since they’d held an actual
conversation? Five and seven years, in that order.

She could have said, “I broke things off with your son because he wouldn’t stop going on
about Hermione Granger.” She could’ve said, “Your son is never going to marry anyone who
isn’t named Hermione Granger.”

Instead, she opted for, “Quite some time.”

Pansy didn’t actually need to have the remainder of this conversation to know how it would
play out. She wanted to ask Narcissa to skip to the end so she didn’t have to go through the
trouble of speaking the rest of it out loud.
Invariably, it would go like this:

Narcissa: That’s too bad. Anyway, how is your mother?

Pansy: Very well, thank you. She’ll be here later this evening.

Narcissa: Oh, how lovely. I’ll come find her later to say hello.

Pansy: She’ll be delighted to see you. I should make my way inside now, it was lovely to catch
up.

Narcissa: Of course, Pansy dear, and do send me an owl about lunch. I’ll make sure Draco’s
available…

Et cetera.

It was like reading lines in a school play, which was not a simile Pansy could’ve related to,
Hogwarts not possessing a drama department. All the same, she knew her part.

But before she could get on with the scene, something unusual happened.

Actually, what happened next depends on who you ask. And you would’ve needed to ask
three separate people to get the full picture.

For Pansy, it was only a little out of the ordinary. Hardly worth mentioning, really. One
moment, Narcissa Malfoy had just arrived at the part of the script that went, “Oh, how lovely.
I’ll come find her later to say hello.”

And then she blinked, and Narcissa was staring at her oddly. Oops, Pansy thought. It was her
turn to speak. “She’ll be delighted to see you,” she continued. Narcissa only looked more
discomfited and didn’t respond.

Silence fell over the room.

Pansy, despite her lack of early-childhood drama classes, finally got the full experience of
standing on a stage in front of a crowd, having utterly forgotten what you were supposed to
say next. She excused herself awkwardly and left in an embarrassed rush, careful not to let
the husband-getting dress snag on the casual-sex-getting shoes.

She did not enjoy the rest of her evening, but she hadn’t expected to anyway, so it was no
great loss.

---

The second perspective to consider was that of the only other person in the room at the time.

Narcissa was looking at the lovely, polite, unmarried woman in front of her, wishing her son
would stop spending all his time doing Merlin knew what with Merlin knew who (bickering
and Hermione, respectively) and get serious about his future. Pansy was saying something
kind and affable with a look in her eye a little like a trapped fox.
That was perfectly fine by Narcissa. If she and Pansy’s mother could manage to trap their
unwilling progeny together in matrimony, well, that would give them something in common,
at least. Excellent marriages had been built on less.

But then the younger woman’s expression shifted, in that it slid off her face altogether.
Nothing but the blank look of a sleepwalker remained. Rather than the normal, expected
words about whatever meaningless topic they were on, Pansy opened her mouth and said
something very strange, indeed.

“ON ALL HALLOW’S EVE, ELEVEN YEARS AGO, A PARENTLESS CHILD WHO IS NOT
A MUGGLE WAS BORN WITH THE POWER TO END THE WORLD.

ON THE EVENING OF HER TWELFTH BIRTHDAY, SHE WILL BRING FORTH DEMONS
TO WALK THE EARTH AND THE LIVING WILL GO TO THEIR DEATHS. UNTRAINED
AND UNAIDED, SHE WILL TURN TO THE DARK.

SHE MUST BE GUIDED TO THE LIGHT.”

Narcissa was still trying to comprehend how such a deep, flat voice was coming out of the
mouth of the petite woman in front of her when it ended, and Pansy blinked back into Pansy-
ness.

And perhaps the next bit was the strangest of all, because she immediately followed her
baffling pronouncement with, “She’ll be delighted to see you.”

Narcissa stared. What? A child with the power to end the world would be delighted to see
her? It almost sounded like a threat, if she’d thought Pansy capable of such things.

But before she could gather her wits to translate “what the fuck was that” into a well-bred
euphemism, Pansy’s trapped prey expression slipped back in place and she hurried out,
leaving Narcissa’s world considerably less right side up than it had been a few minutes ago.

---

The trouble with perspectives numbers one and two was that they each lacked context.

Pansy had no context for the strange look Narcissa gave her in the lavatory that evening. If
she had, she might’ve gone straight to St Mungo’s, or, if she’d been thinking more clearly,
owled her old divination professor. But she was lacking a critical piece of information that
Narcissa had been too shocked and polite to give her.

Narcissa, meanwhile, lacked context regarding the Parkinson lineage.

The Parkinsons, though Pansy herself lacked this context because no one ever spoke about it,
were only almost pureblood. It might’ve been written like pureblood* (with the asterisk) or,
said aloud, with a heavy implication of air quotes.

This was owing to one great-great-great-great-grandmother Veronica, who, during her time,
would have made an excellent beneficiary of the St Galgani Annual Gala Benefiting
Unwanted Children and Fallen Women.
Long story short, this Parkinson ancestor found herself in a compromising position with a
half-blood commoner. Neither half was acceptable to poor Veronica’s parents. Not the
Muggle half, for obvious reasons, and not the wizarding half either. This was due to the fact
that he came from a long line of Seers on his mother’s side, and there really wasn’t anything
more objectionable than a fortune teller, back in the day. This, oddly enough, included
Muggles.

Anyway, although Veronica found herself a Fallen Woman, the resulting Child wasn’t
actually all that Unwanted. It was a Parkinson, after all. One hasty marriage to a probably-
not-distant-enough cousin later, and the whole thing was covered up so thoroughly that no
one ever found out, at least no one who was still alive to gossip about it.

And besides, there had been no fortune tellers among the descendants of that particular union.
No Seers had sprung up like an unwanted growth on the carefully pruned family tree.

That is, until the gala, of course.

If you’re looking for an explanation as to why Pansy Parkinson made her first prophecy – the
first ever in her pureblood* family – in a lavatory in front of Narcissa Malfoy, you’d have to
take it up with the universe and its irritating penchant for irony.

That’s probably also why perspective number three came from a person who had, if possible,
even less context than Pansy or Narcissa.

---

Twenty-three-year-old Junior Unspeakable Benjamin Davies Preston did have one thing the
others hadn't: a deep and abiding crush on Hermione Granger.

Tragically, it wasn’t reciprocated.

Still, he at least had the pleasure of thinking about her a lot. He thought about her when he
visited Ministry floors that weren’t his own, hoping to bump into her on a lift. He thought
about her when her name came up in break rooms, usually because no one could quite
understand what her job was, although it seemed awfully important and must have something
to do with Draco Malfoy because they were always seen arguing with one another. He
thought about her and Draco Malfoy and worked himself into an agitated state of confusion.

And it was while thinking about her that he performed his shift duties that evening.

[Duties to include: checking to make sure none of the labels had fallen off the older
prophecies (the sticking charms tended to fail after a decade or so), managing prophecy
record requests, Seer community outreach, cataloguing and labelling new prophecies that
magically appeared in the queue, light dusting as needed.]

He always saved the new prophecies for the end.

It was the best part of the job: being the first to know, frequently before the Seer themselves
(since they inconveniently didn’t know they’d even made the prophecy unless someone told
 them), what the future would hold. Most visions of the future were fairly boring, true, but
they were still visions of the future. It was indisputably cool.

Benjamin had just finished labelling and shelving one about an iceberg in Antarctica (there
had been a lot about warming oceans lately, which was disconcerting) when the familiar
spark of lights indicated that somewhere in the country, a Seer had just received a new vision.

He went to look at the copy, transcribed by magic in the logbook.

He read it again.

Ominous prophecies about the end of the world weren’t as common as you might imagine.
That was because prophecies tended to come true (he actually wasn’t aware of one that
hadn’t), and the world could be reasonably expected to end only once. Prior to the appearance
of this particular prophecy, he’d have guessed it would have something to do with rising sea
levels.

Yet there was something horribly familiar about a parentless child with a natural tendency
toward Darkness and the power to end everything.

Maybe if he hadn’t been thinking about Hermione Granger all the time, he wouldn’t have
made the connection. He was young when everything went down, after all; not yet in
Hogwarts, even. His memories of that time were dark and confusing and scary. [If he’d asked
Hermione, which he hadn’t because he was too in awe of her to speak much at all in her
presence, she’d have said the same about her own recollections.]

Either way, he was immediately certain that at that very moment, a miniature female
Voldemort was terrorising the English countryside.

He should probably send a memo to Harry Potter, him being the Ministry’s resident
Voldemort-defeater, and, equally relevant, its Head Auror. Really, one of the Senior
Unspeakables on duty should be informed first. Chain of command and all.

But never had the universe presented him with a more perfect opportunity to talk to
Hermione Granger.

Chapter End Notes

This exists because I was violently seized by this idea, and quite frankly bullied into
writing it by my own brain.

Safe to say it's a passion project, and written with exactly one person in mind (me, and
she loves it). Even the narrator is me in many ways. Although, and I can’t explain this,
he is also a man with the voice of Stephen Fry.
Anyway, it's a bit scary but also fun to now be sharing the inside of my brain with
everyone.

Thanks for being here!

I am on Tumblr. Cover art by fran_santanna.

NEXT WEEK: Hermione sends a Howler. Draco can spot a fake chair when he sees
one. A fungus spontaneously evolves.
 A Perfectly Coherent Prophecy
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

A lanky young man bobbed awkwardly in Hermione’s doorway early the following morning.
Had he just bowed to her?

She looked at him confusedly, trying to recall whether she’d had an appointment she’d
forgotten (this had never happened to her), or if perhaps that request she’d put into Magical
Maintenance was finally being attended to.

“Hello, are you here to fix that rubbish chair?”

She pointed to the busted desk chair in the corner. It had recently begun mysteriously falling
apart, and no number of reparos could encourage it to swivel correctly anymore. This was
probably because Draco Malfoy had placed a curse on it the last time he was in her office.

“Don’t bother,” she went on. “I’ve actually just stolen someone else’s.”

(Draco’s. She had stolen Draco’s out of his office at the Muggle Ministry.)

“Oh. Erm, I could take a look, if you wanted…” Benjamin turned to the broken chair just as
one of the arms clattered to the floor. He jumped back in alarm, and then realised he was
probably falling short of his goal of “suave confidence” and landing somewhere closer to
“massive idiot.”

He smoothed his hair back and tried again. “My name’s Benjamin Davies Preston. I’m a
Junior Unspeakable in the Hall of Prophecy.”

“Oh!” She jumped up to offer a gracious hand. “My apologies. Haven’t we met before? On a
lift, perhaps. Hermione Granger.”

He shook the proffered hand and blushed, delighted to have been remembered.

She’d spotted the sheet of parchment in his other hand and gave a genuine smile. In
Hermione’s experience, only the most interesting things happened when someone came to
her with a scrap of parchment and a problem. She was a fixer, after all.

He nearly tripped on air at the sight of Hermione Granger beaming at him. He sat, rather than
fall.

“How can I help you, Benjamin?”

He waited a moment to answer, wanting to savour her undivided attention before he had to
tell her that the world was going to end. One thing that was nice about her was that no matter
how many times he pictured her warm, clever eyes or her dark curling hair or her
interestingly curvy figure, the real thing always managed to exceed his imagination in both
beauty and intensity.

Hermione glanced at the clock. She had a meeting with Kingsley in half an hour.

“Well, the thing is,” began Benjamin, catching her look, “we received a prophecy last night. I
received it.” He sat up a little straighter. “I thought you might want to take a look. It seemed
like something you’d find interesting…and concerning.”

He definitely had her undivided attention now. She wasn’t naturally inclined toward the
mystic arts (putting it lightly), but her best friend’s birth had once been accurately prophesied
by someone she considered to be otherwise a lunatic, which shifted her perspective
somewhat.

Also, “interesting and concerning” was right up Hermione’s alley.

She accepted the parchment and read it.

“Whose prophecy is this? That is, who did the prophesying?” She still hadn’t looked up,
although Benjamin could see a frown tugging down at the corner of her mouth.

“No idea. If it isn’t from a registered Seer, we don’t get that level of detail. It just shows up.”

Ah, yes. That pesky missing context.

“Hmm…” She folded the parchment and looked at him again, good mood predictably
vanished. “Can I keep this?”

He nodded to indicate that she could and moved to stand. Somehow, when he’d imagined this
meeting in his head over and over the previous night, he’d failed to account for the fact that
she’d now mentally associate him for the remainder of their doomed existence with the
actual apocalypse. It was a major misstep.

“One moment, please.”

He sat back down.

Drawing a red envelope from her desk, she picked up a quill and began to write on a blank
sheet of parchment. Whatever the message was, it was short. She folded the note, sealed the
envelope efficiently with her wand, and carried it to the owl post where one of the Ministry
owls swooped down to accept it.

Re-seating herself behind her desk, she templed her fingers and smiled blandly at him. “Can
you spare a few? It won’t take long, but he might have some questions for you.”

“Yes, erm…why did you just send a Howler?”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that. It’s just the quickest way to get in touch.”

Benjamin looked doubtfully at the functioning Floo behind her.

“Then…who?”

“Well, as this prophecy specifically mentions the Muggle world, I thought I’d better get my
Muggle counterpart involved. That’s Draco Malfoy, if you didn’t know.”

He didn’t know, because no one actually knew what either of their jobs entailed. He was,
however, aware of who Draco Malfoy was, in the same way a person is aware that they’re
going to die at the end of their life. In fact, finding out he was about to meet the man in
question was actually not too dissimilar to being informed on a random Tuesday that Death
was popping by for tea.

“Muggle counterpart? Isn’t he a wizard?” Benjamin didn’t have Pansy’s talent for subtext,
but he made a valiant go of it anyway, cramming “Didn’t that man literally become a Death
Eater and try to kill you and your friends and then go to prison for it?” between the two
sentences.

She ignored his obvious distress. “Yes, and if you don’t mind asking him how he got his job,
I’d be much obliged. Actually, that reminds me.”

A clever flick of her wand brought the broken chair alongside his own, then transfigured it
back into functioning furniture.

“Oh, you fixed it,” he said.

“No. It only looks fixed.”

Once, as a young boy on a visit to his nan’s house, Benjamin had watched a swarm of pixies
nearly succeed in carrying away a full-grown standard poodle. The look on their faces as the
poor animal’s back feet left solid ground was uncomfortably similar to the one on Hermione’s
just then.

He decided to bring them back to more rational territory. Rational, being a relative term, here
referred to a prophecy concerning armageddon.

“So is the world ending? Is this child the new Voldemort?”

She ducked instead of answering because her Floo had just exploded into green flames that
spat out the Magical Liaison Chairperson himself.

He looked to be having a rough go of it.

“GRANGER! What is it? What’s wrong? I—”

Draco broke off in confusion to survey the quiet office. His eyes met Benjamin’s and
narrowed threateningly.

Everything about him was threatening, actually. His wand – currently pointed threateningly at
Benjamin’s chest – was clutched in a firm grip. Undone shirtsleeves revealed the remains of a
Dark Mark that somehow managed to look threateningly sexy instead of threateningly evil.
Even the bit of chest peeking out of Draco’s partially unbuttoned shirt threatened Benjamin
with the knowledge that even if he started exercising this afternoon, he’d never look like that.

Devilishly handsome and terrifying, thought Benjamin sourly. Just his luck.

And then Benjamin looked at Hermione, and his heart sank further. He thought she’d been
beaming at him earlier when he first turned up. As it turns out, she hadn’t been. That was a
lukewarm smile. A consolation prize. A mere northward twitch of the lips.

Now she beamed. She was lumos itself as she took in Draco’s dishevelled form. Like all
bright and shining things, it hurt to look at. Benjamin wished he’d chosen to sit in the busted
chair so that it would have deposited him on the floor under her desk, thus providing a hiding
place from this humiliating interaction.

Yet when Draco opened his mouth again, hope was restored.

“You hag! You told me you were in grave danger! And that colour looks terrible on you.”

They all looked at Hermione’s blouse, which was a lovely shade of light blue.

Benjamin thought he might get back in the game with a spot of chivalry. “I think it looks
nice.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” she replied cheerfully, ignoring her hero.

“Who’s this? Why have you called me in here at the crack of dawn wearing colour?”

“That’s really the part that bothers you? I thought the Howler would have done it. Where
were you, anyway? You don’t appear to be fully clothed.”

“It’s not yet nine, Granger. I was at home!”

She rolled her eyes at him, then finally appeared to remember their audience.

“Put your wand away, Malfoy. And sit. We have something to discuss.”

He didn’t put his wand away. Instead, he turned it on the trap chair. Enchantment removed, it
disintegrated in a rattle of wood and nails.

“You know what your problem is? You want it too badly. The look on your face gives you
away every time. Speaking of, I will get my chair back. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you
sitting in it. I’m just playing the long game.”

Drawing up a new chair out of thin air, he sat. They glared at each other.

Benjamin’s head started to hurt.

---

There was mercifully less bizarre, angry flirting after the prophecy was read aloud.
“What the fuck?”

Hermione repeated it slowly, as if to a stupid person.

“I’m confused, Granger, not deaf. We’re all thinking the same thing, right? It’s a bit Voldy,
yes?”

“Not necessarily. She must be guided toward the Light. Sounds rather hopeful, if you ask
me.”

“She will bring forth demons to walk the earth strikes you as hopeful? Merlin, you’re
cheery.”

“Yes, I'm stuck on that bit. I didn't think demons were even real.”

Draco considered taking the opportunity to point out that she was real, but dismissed the
insult as too obvious. "Maybe we've misinterpreted it? The demons could be metaphorical."

Hermione shrugged. “Unlike all that nonsense Trelawney used to spout, this one seems
perfectly coherent to me. I'm not sure how else it could be taken.”

Benjamin spoke up. “Perhaps there’s a related prophecy somewhere that could provide more
information. I can look…”

Hermione turned to him. They both kept forgetting he was there. “Who’ve you told about
this?”

“Only you.” He looked at Draco. “And you too, I suppose.” Draco scowled at being made an
afterthought.

“You’ll come to me directly, yes? If you find anything similar?” Hermione was smiling
kindly at Benjamin.

Was she seriously flirting with the poor lad? Draco looked at him closely before dismissing
him as a non-threat.

Benjamin, who until that moment had never been flirted with, at least not by someone who
was any good at it, babbled something in the affirmative.

“Excellent.” Hermione’s smile widened. “And we’ll need to keep this out of Ministry
records. Is that possible?”

“Oh. No, I don’t think...”

Benjamin stopped. They were making eyes at each other again.

---

In their defence, they weren’t actually making eyes at each other. Well, they were, but their
eyes were saying something very different to what the poor Junior Unspeakable was
imagining.

It was an entire conversation composed of subtext. And once again, there were three
perspectives on how, precisely, it went.

Hermione’s interpretation of the conversation went something like this:

Hermione: You can’t tell M.M.! If the Muggles find out there’s an end-of-the-world scenario
in progress, they’ll probably bomb the earth preemptively.

Draco: You’re right. And you can’t tell your minister because everyone’s still fairly twitchy
over the concept of evil orphan children after the last one. They’ll definitely go for a “kill
baby Hitler” solution.

Hermione: Excellent, we’re in agreement. We’ll find the child, guide it toward the Light –
whatever that means – and stop doomsday without anyone knowing.

Draco: Fantastic plan, Granger. You’ve done it again. What should we do about Benjamin?

Hermione: Let’s try asking him nicely not to tell anyone.

---

Meanwhile, Draco was having the following imaginary conversation with Hermione’s
expressive eyes:

Hermione: You looked rather dashing earlier, swooping in to save me from grave danger.

Draco: You scared the shit out of me, which I don’t at all appreciate. I can’t focus on this
situation because I’m too busy thinking of creative retributions.

Hermione: I’m very sorry; won’t let it happen again. By the way, you win all arguments
forever.

Draco: If that kid doesn’t stop looking at you like that, I’m going to hex him.

---

As an outside observer, Benjamin’s version was probably closest to the truth.

Hermione: *look of concern*

Draco: *suggestive leer*

Hermione: *slight purse of the lips*

Draco: *irritated scowl*

And then they both turned to look at him in unison, which was highly disconcerting. Draco’s
glare could have cut glass.
 ---

Hermione turned the flirtation back on to extract a promise not to speak of this to anyone.
She didn’t need to know that Benjamin’s agreement owed more to Draco’s unspoken threats
than to Hermione’s considerable charms.

“But what about the logbook? I can’t just remove it—”

“Oh, just leave that to me,” she said breezily, jotting something down in a black notebook on
her desk.

“Fixer,” Draco explained.

Benjamin was then hustled out of the office with the assurance that Hermione, at least, had
helped to stop an all-powerful sorcerer once and felt confident she could do it again. He
needn’t worry; the end of the world would almost certainly be on the Muggles’ shoulders,
and probably not for a good three hundred years if they were lucky.

When the door closed behind him, Draco turned accusatory eyes on Hermione.

“That teenager has a crush on you.”

“Jealous, Malfoy?”

“Of him? Never.”

“Oh? Am I to understand you would be jealous if it were someone else?”

Damn. She’d won again.

---

Hermione’s standing nine-thirty a.m. appointment with Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt

usually ran late.

The first half always went swimmingly. She would, with precision and efficiency, update him
on her various in-flight projects, as well as share any information the Magical Liaison
Chairperson had asked her to pass along.

And then she’d spend the second half complaining about the Magical Liaison Chairperson.

“I really don’t think he’s qualified,” she’d say. “He asked me yesterday how Muggles
managed to fit a steam engine inside a Fiat.”

“I didn’t hire him, Hermione,” Kingsley would remind her for the thousandth time. “And I
think he’s done a perfectly admirable job thus far. The two of you have made tremendous
progress.”

“He thinks car engines are steam-powered!”

“Aren’t they?”

Kingsley was fairly certain that’s what he’d been taught in his Muggle Studies class, although
he’d left Hogwarts a few decades ago. Muggle technology had presumably advanced since
then.

When she finished whinging for the day, she’d storm out in a huff, leaving Kingsley to
wonder when the two of them were finally going to realise they were actually in love with
each other so that he wouldn’t have to listen to her gripe about Draco Malfoy all the time.

The fact that she didn’t, on this particular morning, lodge a single complaint about her
counterpart should have clued him into the fact that something was afoot. Instead, he was just
happy to make his next appointment on time.

Meanwhile, Hermione was sweating.

She didn’t like lying (this was only because she wasn’t any good at it). She also didn’t like
the idea of a parentless Muggle-born eleven-year-old, untrained and unaided, gathering
power until she blew up the world like a well-cast bombarda.

She really, really didn’t like the idea of what would happen to the child if anyone else found
her first.

Hermione and Draco had rehashed their nonverbal conversation in a more audible fashion
after Benjamin exited the room. It might have surprised others to learn that he’d been fully in
agreement with her plan. It didn’t surprise her, though. Draco understood what it had been
like to be sent down the wrong path as a child, and how hard it was to overcome bad choices
later on. She’d willingly throw herself from the Tower Bridge before admitting it, but she
admired that about him.

So she sat in Kingsley’s office, perspiring until her light blue blouse clung claustrophobically
against her skin, and counted down the hours until she was once again in the presence of the
one person she never had any occasion to lie to.

---

Most aspects of the wizarding world were separated from Muggle society by a thickly-drawn
line of demarcation.

There wasn’t really a lot of crossover between, say, a Muggle accountant and an Auror. They
didn’t consume the same media (Aurors didn’t have television), attend the same sporting
events (Muggles lacked broomsticks), or visit the same shops (wizarding fashions tended to
involve a lot of cloaks and hidden wand compartments).

If there was one area in which the line was smudgy, it was herbology.

Plant enthusiasts would probably tell you that all plants are magical, in their own way.

Sure, there were wizarding plants like venomous tentacula, which would strangle you if you
got too close. And no Muggle weed could give you the ability to breathe underwater or force
you to laugh uncontrollably if chewed.

But, as a patient plant enthusiast might explain, if you expanded your definition of “magical”
beyond “that which can be performed by a wand,” plenty of Muggle plants fit the description.

Certain varieties of bamboo could grow an entire foot in a single twenty-four-hour period.
They could also make your neighbours hate you if you planted it beside your house. This was
due to its tendency to spread to the inside of their houses, growing up through their
floorboards at the aforementioned rate of one foot per twenty-four hours.

Bamboo also achieved immortality that even Voldemort had not, being impossible to kill.

Matricaria recutita, commonly known as chamomile, could be said to contain near-magical

properties, despite not being considered a plant of the wizarding world. Made into tea, it
helped to alleviate anxiety, stress, and insomnia.

It was no substitute for proper mental healthcare, which everyone of a certain generation
sorely needed after fighting a literal war during their formative years, but it helped.

And then there was nepeta cataria, which had made Crookshanks very, very high once.

Therefore, it was a herbologist’s job to categorise newly-discovered plant species as either

Actually Magical or Muggle But Fascinating.

This necessitated fieldwork, a bit like Muggle archaeology. New plant species were being
discovered all the time in interesting places like Thailand or Bolivia. Herbologists there were
having a real time of it, working on the forefront of magical plant research and discovery in
new and exciting locales.

But Neville Longbottom had never really liked to travel.

He spent most of the last decade and a half in his greenhouse, drinking chamomile tea and
hiding from people. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people, or the idea of travel, for that matter,
but Neville was a creature of habit. And once he got in the habit of only really talking to
plants, and out of the habit of forcing himself to interact with the outside world, the desire to
do anything else shrivelled like an under-watered bubotuber.

When he was twenty-seven years of age, his gran passed away.

That had been a shock to the system. Not because of her death, which had been considerably
more peaceful than his gran ever was, but because of the funeral. Many of his friends from
Hogwarts had attended in support, which was nice, but also strange, because he discovered
that he no longer knew them at all.

He’d made awkward small talk with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, with whom he’d once
fought against the forces of evil. He listened politely as Hermione Granger told him about her
new job at the Ministry, which sounded confusing and borderline illegal.

He looked at Luna Lovegood’s child, astonished that she’d been the first of all of them to
reproduce.
But most of all, he felt lonely and angry with himself. If they were strangers, it was really his
own fault for not keeping in touch more. And he should’ve made an effort after the funeral.
He knew that he should have. But that part of himself was a shrivelled bubotuber, and you
can’t really revive those once they’ve been neglected for long enough.

So the years passed, and he got older, and his world grew smaller, but at least he always had
his plants.

And then one day, his old thesis advisor informed him of a recent discovery that Neville
decided he did want to travel for. It was not that far, after all.

This discovery didn’t take place in Thailand, but somewhere considerably more boring.
Actually, boring was kind of the point, because this new plant species hadn’t sprung up out of
the ground in just any location. It required two particular, conflicting conditions in order to
survive.

The first condition was pollution. Coal pollution, to be exact. It thrived on the sticky black
residue of coal-burning ovens. One might expect to find the new species somewhere
industrialised and crowded, like Shenzhen, or 1850s London.

However, much like Neville, the new plant also required that it not be disturbed.

In all of the world, this new magical plant species (or possibly Muggle But Fascinating –
Neville hadn’t determined yet), had chosen to reveal itself in the industrial yet functionally
empty town of Stoke-on-Trent.

---

Stoke-on-Trent!

Pansy cried about it in the shower. She cried about it while she packed. She cried about it to
the Muggle cabbie who took her there from the train station.

Her entire life had fallen apart in a single day, and yet this was the hardest pill to swallow.
Why, of all the places in the world, would she be tormented by repeated cosmic instructions
to visit Stoke-on-Trent?

“It’s really not that bad, duck,” the cabbie offered consolingly. “Hardly smells anymore.”

She burst into fresh tears. In Pansy’s defence, she was very tired.

The night before, she’d left the gala still husbandless and made her way back to her little
cottage at the south end of her parent’s property.

A house-elf was helping her out of the unsuccessful dress when that strange Thing happened
again. One moment, Veta was telling her that her feet wouldn’t hurt so badly if she’d worn
more sensible shoes, and the next, the little elf was staring at her in shock.

“What is it? What’s happened?” She checked to make sure she didn’t have a nose bleed or
had accidentally transfigured her hair into a different shape. All appeared normal.
“What did Mistress Pansy say?”

“I asked what happened. Did something happen?”

The house-elf looked more confused than ever. Before the question could be sorted out, the
Thing happened again. Veta fell over in surprise this time.

“Veta! What is it?” Pansy was beginning to feel slightly ill.

The Thing happened once more.

It took an hour for Pansy to accept the truth. By that time, she had delivered the following
prophecies into Benjamin Davies Preston’s logbook:

“ONE IS NOT THE OTHER, AND THE OTHER IS NOT THE ONE.”

“A TERRIBLE STORM GATHERS IN STOKE-ON-TRENT.”

“STOKE-ON-TRENT”

“STOKE-ON-TRENT”

“STOKE-ON-TRENT”

“STOKE-ON-TRENT”

“What’s happening to me?” Pansy cried during one of her longer stretches of lucidity. She
wasn’t a stupid woman, and had received acceptable marks in divination, so she understood
what was happening. If she’d been in her right mind, she might’ve better expressed the
question as why.

Veta, who was a remarkably pragmatic house-elf, had no answers, only solutions. “Mistress
Pansy must travel to Stoke-on-Trent!”

And it was true, because once the suggestion had been made, the ceaseless prophecies ceased.
At least for now. Pansy was plagued with certainty that if she didn’t go to Stoke immediately,
they would return.

The problem was travel. Well, there were a lot of problems, but that was one of the most
pressing ones.

Pansy was too afraid to Apparate there, or ask Veta to take her. What if she had a prophecy
mid-Apparition and splinched herself? Neither could she fly and risk falling to her death
while shouting something about an upcoming global cabbage shortage.

So she let Veta help her pack (because she was crying too hard to be of much use) and
struggled to pay attention while the elf, who knew practically everything, explained how to
get on a Muggle train and then hail a Muggle taxi and then pay with Muggle money.

When dawn came, she left, only stopping to beg Veta to make up a lie to satisfy her mother.
 She needn’t have bothered. Pragmatic Veta had already decided that she wouldn’t be the one
to break the embarrassing news about a Seer on the family tree and a Fallen Woman
presumably lurking on a branch somewhere nearby.

---

“Goodness,” said Benjamin, once he was back on shift. “It sounds like Stoke-on-Trent will be
having an interesting summer, what with all the storms.”

It didn’t have anything to do with a child, so he labelled it, shelved it, and moved on.

Chapter End Notes

Please consider this my blanket apology to the people of Stoke. It was a convenient
target with a funny name, randomly chosen, and it’s nothing personal whatsoever. I’m
sure you’re all very lovely. (Seriously though, in the unlikely event that you are from the
area, be advised that we have not even begun to earn that "Stoke-on-Trent slander" tag.)

NEXT WEEK: A sacred Muggle oath is made. Hermione and Draco annoy a nun. Two
girls get a bright idea.
 A Parentless Child Who Is Not a Muggle
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Like all real, definitely-not-imaginary wars, there were rules of engagement.

Serious bodily harm was off the table. Neither of them actually wanted to hurt the other,
because then they’d probably lose their jobs and, more importantly, the game.

To that point, so was sabotaging the other's work. They’d come to an unspoken agreement
early on that neither the Muggle world nor the wizarding one needed to be collateral damage.
Direct attacks were more fun, anyway.

Otherwise, there were almost no limits to the types of pranks they might employ. He might
replace her notebook with one that translated her writing into Portuguese overnight so that
she couldn't read it later. She might put a boggart in his hall cupboard. They had done both of
those things, each while giggling delightedly to themselves like Batman villains.

And then there was the past. If the rules had been written down in Hermione’s little black
notebook, the ones that detailed what they could and couldn’t dredge up would take up half
the page.

Hermione was perfectly comfortable reminding him what a git he’d been to her at Hogwarts.
(Once, she’d actually charmed his favourite pen to spell his name as “git” instead of the usual
letters. Before M.M. kindly informed him, he’d submitted a request for magical support of
crowd safety measures for an upcoming concert at the O2 under the name Draco Malfoy, Git.
The git had appeared in a large flourish above the signature line.)

References to Voldermort and the war were permitted, albeit ineffective as a battle tactic. By
the end of it, Draco had been counting the days until the Dark Lord finally shuffled off his
mortal coil with a helpful shove from Harry. There were no points to be gained with remarks
like, "well at least I didn't pick the losing side” when the loser was wearing a metaphorical
VOLDEMORT STINKS button under his robes.

She wouldn’t, however, taunt him about his stint as a Death Eater. Once, she thought maybe
enough time had passed that she could poke lightly at him for it, but the absolutely haunted
look on his face when she’d turned up the next day to apologise for hijacking his Dark Mark
into hissing a message at him told her otherwise. She’d felt so badly that she’d spent an entire
two months being cordial and distant, which had the unexpected result of making them both
exceptionally miserable.

Hermione was pretty sure Azkaban wasn’t an effective method of criminal reform, but
regardless, he’d spent two years there and he had reformed, perhaps in spite of it. So there
wasn’t really a reason to bring it up anyway. And even Hermione's cold heart wouldn’t allow
her to remind someone, even a mortal enemy, of their time in Azkaban.
She also wouldn’t bring up Bellatrix. Mention of that day in Malfoy Manor would have
ended the war with all the subtlety of an atomic bomb. She knew precisely what would
happen if she used it. He'd apologise profusely and sincerely, that haunted look snuffing out
every ounce of his usual humour, and then he would never speak to her again.

For Draco’s part, he found it important for her to believe that while he still fully loathed her,
it wasn’t for the predictable and uninspired motives of inherited bigotry.

He’d make fun of her appearance so long as he complimented it in equal measure (to wit, the
flirting). He’d tease her for general swottiness so long as she understood that he respected her
intelligence. He’d wave his family name and position around like a Beater’s bat, but only in
an ironic way so that she’d know he was only pretending to be insufferable about it.

He would never, ever reference her blood status. She did, occasionally, if only to enjoy his
sudden silence and stricken expression.

Above all, they must remember that they hated each other. They mustn’t mistake the
enjoyment of the fight for enjoyment of each other’s company. They mustn’t get too
comfortable.

That last rule was really important. They broke it no fewer than a dozen times a day.

---

There were, on a good day, approximately seventeen obstacles between Hermione’s fireplace
and her squishy burnt-orange sofa.

She was the type of woman who shed shoes, hard trousers, and bra the moment she stepped
into her flat, so Draco executed a well-rehearsed step over the three pairs of heels on the
hearth and studiously ignored the white undergarment strewn haphazardly beside them. (He’d
looked on plenty of other occasions, and could call up an exact mental rendering if needed.)

Once books, cat toys, and a streak of something orange and angry that made a swipe at his
ankles were successfully circumnavigated, he reached the sofa where she sat, already and
unsurprisingly dressed in comfortable-looking loungewear.

“Alright, Granger?”

She hesitated. “Fuck off, Malfoy?” It came out as a question.

He scowled, collapsing in a tired heap of limbs beside her. He never, as a general rule,
resisted the opportunity to take up more than his fair share of space when sat next to each
other. “I didn’t have the energy to think of anything creative. I’ll make it doubly obscene next
time.”

“How much energy could you possibly spend thinking up greetings? Last month you said
How do you do, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Once you called me the light of your loins. I
just assumed you said whatever popped into that dim head of yours at the time. Now that I
know you plan it…”
“I’m not in the mood. My dim head has been rather occupied with prophetical nonsense.”

It had been, anyway. He felt somewhat better now that he was there. His knees nudged wider
until one of them brushed her own.

With three lateral wiggles, she retreated to the far end of the sofa. The rest of the space was
claimed by his limbs as he rotated to lay horizontally, head against her hip. She frowned at
the encroachment but didn’t retaliate, probably because she was biding her time for revenge.
The curve of her thigh was a pleasantly soft pillow in the meantime.

“Do you think it’s nonsense? You know I have a low opinion of Seers—”

“Didn’t you yell at Trelawney and storm out of her class?”

“She said I had no aura!”

“You have an aura, alright. Junior Unspeakable Benjamin Davies Preston was staring at it all
morning.”

Without any sort of permission, his insubordinate features formed a scowl that was the very
picture of jealousy.

“Don’t be crude. He was perfectly nice. Anyway, we have a child to save, if we’re to believe
this mysterious Seer.”

“And ourselves, let’s not forget. I’m selfishly in it for apocalypse prevention, not the
opportunity to try my hand at fatherhood.”

“Soon you’ll require an excavator to crawl beneath the bar you’ve set for yourself.”

He observed her from his new vantage point, lying pressed against her leg while she loomed
above him. Attractive from any angle, unfortunately.

“I’ve recently had it relocated to hell, actually,” he told her. “Besides, you strike me as
someone who hasn’t interacted with a child since she was one.”

She tugged a lock of his hair in irritation. It made his scalp tingle. “Not true! Harry and
Ginny have a two-year-old that I’ve interacted with plenty. I'm its godmother, actually.”

“Oh? How many times have you interacted with it on your own?” He tilted his head to meet
her eyes, careful not to dislodge the soft weight of her hand against his forehead.

“I’m waiting for him to be less sticky, that’s all. We haven’t anything in common at his age.”

“Never fear, Granger. The key thing to know about children is that they just do the opposite
of whatever you tell them. So if your plan is just to chuck your biography at her and tell her
to do whatever you did, she’ll be mastering the Unforgivables in record time.”

“I don’t have a biography!” [She did. She just preferred to pretend it didn’t exist, since it had
been authored without her consent by none other than Rita Skeeter.] “And what do you even
know about children? Don’t they run screaming from the sight of you?”

He resolved to have a copy of Becoming Hermione: The Untold True Story of the Brightest
Witch of Her Age (Unauthorised) waiting for her on her desk the next morning.

“There are not one but four children below the ages of eight who fondly refer to me as ‘Uncle
Draco.’”

Three-quarters of said children were Blaise Zabini’s new triplets – three on the first go, poor
sod – who hadn’t yet mastered speech, but he was confident with a few more diction lessons
he could get one or two of them to verbalise something approaching his name as their first
words. The third was a lost cause, only having eyes for the family pet. “Doggie” was a
foregone conclusion.

“I’ll arrange a welfare check for the poor dears. So neither of us have experience with eleven-
year-olds, then.”

“I’d say we both have experience with moody, difficult eleven-year-olds.”

“I was a perfectly pleasant child! If I ever became anything else, it was only after people
started trying to kill me! You, on the other hand—”

“It’s leviOsa, not leviosA.” Draco made his voice as high as it would go, which was not very.
“That was the absolute beginning of my wanting to murder you, which means you started the
whole thing. Oh god, not the notebook! Don’t tell me you have a ten-point plan for saving the
world?”

Her little black notebook was held carefully in front of her face so as to hide the contents
from Draco.

“Nine points, actually. Do you think it should have ten? I could—”

He liberated the book from between her unsuspecting fingers. “Step one: Acquire the child.
Yes, well done. Glad you had it written or I would’ve forgot. Step two: Develop believable
cover story. Why not just, ‘Hello everyone, this is the Granger-Malfoy love child I’ve been
secreting away for years.’ Everyone’ll be too shocked to ask questions, and they won’t be the
least surprised when she goes on to destroy the world, given her lineage.”

The book was snatched back with viperous precision.

“Even my exceptional imagination couldn’t invent anything less believable," she sniffed.
“How about a long-lost cousin come to visit?”

“And then what? After October, you bid your cousin a fond farewell and never speak of her
again?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought…”

“Let’s just go with work-related,” he suggested. “You’ve developed a rather useful veil of
mystery regarding your actual job duties, you know, and everyone’s too terrified of you to ask
questions. You could probably show up to work with a snorkel and a map of the Mariana
Trench and receive only best wishes on the success of your important mission. The sudden
appearance of a child won’t raise any eyebrows.”

Her shapely leg stiffened with indignation beneath the crown of his head. He reached a hand
around to feel it. She let him for a moment, then delivered a sharp blow with the notebook.

“The only person who needs to be terrified of me is currently resting his dirty shoes on my
favourite piece of furniture!”

The perfectly clean dragon-leather wingtips were kicked off unceremoniously so that he
might bury his socked feet deeper within her overstuffed cushions.

“What are steps three through nine, then?”

She recited them quickly without letting the notebook dip within grabbing distance.

“Provide secure, stable living arrangements. Education regarding right and wrong.”

“Surely you're not volunteering me for that one.”

“Close monitoring of her emotional state. Ensuring she falls in with the right crowd at
Hogwarts.”

“Or that one.”

“Further close monitoring at Hogwarts. Be present on her birthday, i.e. the end of the world.
And finally, if worst comes to worst, be ready to toss around a load of evanescos to vanish
whatever demons she manages to concoct, although I still don't believe they really exist. My
research has been inconclusive.”

Bit of a shit plan. It didn’t need to be said out loud, so he didn’t bother.

“Regarding step three. Is she going to sleep on the floor?” he asked, turning his head to
survey her kid-unfriendly flat. There had been a second bedroom once, but roughly forty
thousand books had already made themselves quite comfortable there, and the eviction
process would be tedious and lengthy.

“I thought she could stay with you, in the interest of stability. More space and fewer tripping
hazards.”

It was said casually, as if it were perfectly normal to invite a child to live in someone else’s
house. Too casually, Draco’s suspicious mind decided.

He jolted upright with a sudden burst of adrenaline. “You deceitful witch! This whole thing
was just a trick, wasn’t it? There never was any prophecy; you’re just trying to plant some
random pre-teen in my home to annoy me!”

The absolute scale of the thing widened the borders of what he thought possible. His next
move would be positively lethal.
The deceitful witch in question had the audacity to look affronted. “This isn’t one of your
stupid pranks!”

That was a bit rich coming from the instigator of all seven pranks involving replacing his
morning coffee with the decaffeinated alternative, or, once, a flat Muggle soda.

“My stupid—”

Hermione gravely extended her right pinky, effectively shutting down the entire
confrontation before it could escalate. Draco, understanding, immediately sobered.

[One August afternoon, three years ago, M.M. had mentioned casually to Draco that one of
her cabinet ministers “pinky promised” that something would be done, so she expected that
they would follow through. Perplexed, Draco brought the expression up with Hermione at
their next appointment, the setting of which was a casual stroll in Hyde Park. She’d nodded
sagely and informed him it was the most binding of agreements among Muggles, as indelible
as an Unbreakable Vow (albeit without the sudden death element). It was only to be used in
the most sincere and dire of circumstances, so there hadn’t been an occasion that warranted it
until now.]

He eyed the pinky cautiously. Then, with all the solemnity that the sacred ceremony merited,
he wrapped it with his own and squeezed gently to seal the oath.

“She can stay at mine,” he conceded, mind still reeling from the seriousness of what had just
occurred. “And you’re quite certain you don’t want to tell anyone? On your side, not mine,
for obvious reasons.”

There were a lot of obvious reasons to not tell the Muggles about a superpowered child,
starting with medical testing and ending with imagine if the Americans found out.

“Safer not to, I think. Kingsley would probably haul her before the Wizengamot and
accidentally scare her into turning evil. Everyone’s singularly interested in preventing the rise
of wizarding megalomaniacs, for a certain reason we don’t need to explore. He’d never let
her be sent off to Hogwarts, at least, which is just cruel. Harry’d have to report it, because
unlike me, he has people to report to. I can’t even tell my other friends because they’re all
married to one another and terrible gossips.”

“Can’t wait to tell my friends I’ve produced a work-related child with Hermione Granger,” he
grumbled.

“I know how to find her,” she announced, discovering a way to make the turn of a notebook
page communicate her extreme lack of sympathy for his plight.

“Go on then, thrill me with your brilliance.”

He lay back down atop her lap and received a sharp knee to the shoulder blade.

“Well, she’s eleven, isn’t she? Hogwarts letters go out in a week or so. We just need to find
the Muggle-born orphan on the list who was born on All Hallow's Eve – that’s the thirty-first
of October.” She added that last part with an implied in case you were too stupid to know
that.

“What if she’s living with extended family? You can’t just steal her. Why is it always me
having to concern myself over the welfare of these poor Muggles?”

She poked him sternly in the temple, so he caught her hand to prevent further intrusions. Her
fingers were warm and delicate, although resistant to his efforts to twine them with his own.

“First of all,” she informed him breezily while fighting to regain possession of her
appendage, “it’s quite literally your job. I should know, as I requested a copy of your duties
five years ago just to confirm it was a real position. Second, she’s not a Muggle. The
prophecy explicitly said PARENTLESS CHILD WHO IS NOT A MUGGLE.”

He massaged the centre of her palm with his thumb. “Odd wording, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t it
have just said PARENTLESS WITCH? Or MUGGLE-BORN?”

Her hand relaxed in defeat, but he continued to hold it just in case it tried anything else.

“Yes, I thought so too. But it’s likely just a Seer being mysterious and vague on purpose.
They do that, you know. So they can claim to have predicted something really important
when really it’s just about the Special Advisor for Troll Legislation eating a funny sandwich
six months from now.”

“Meaningless distinction, you think?”

“Probably.”

[It wasn’t, by the way, a meaningless distinction. Pansy wasn’t that sort of Seer.]

“We’ll play the acquisition part by ear then, depending on her current living arrangements.
As for her future living arrangements, I’ve seen how you eat. You can’t just feed her chow
mein takeaway and Discos crisps.”

Draco shrugged against her thighs, happy to concede this point. “You can manage the feeding
arrangements, then.”

“No cursing around her. And don’t go bringing any of your loose women home while she’s
there.”

“Loose women? What year is it? Besides, I like my women uptight.” He rotated his head in
her lap in order to perform a suggestive appraisal of her stiff posture.

“Don’t start. You know what I mean.”

“Yes, perfectly understood. Sex in the office only, then. Yours or mine?”

“You’re welcome to use mine. I’ll be downstairs with Benjamin.” She smiled placidly into
his scowling face.
After a few more minutes of logistical discussions about child-rearing accompanied by the
passive stroke of Draco’s hand along her calf, it occurred to them both that this was
becoming distressingly like a real co-parenting relationship. They endeavoured to get back
into familiar territory by extricating their limbs and saying something mean.

“As we’re meant to be steering her toward the Light, try not to talk to her too much,”
Hermione said.

“Your hair looks stupid like that.”

She put up a hand to explore her hair, which was secured in a loose bun by her wand. She
pulled it out and pointed it at him in warning.

Unfortunately, the resulting cascade of deep brown curls flipped the switch in his mind
labelled Flirt with Granger.

“Did you pick out those pyjamas for me?” They were white and satiny.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” she said, real heat in her voice that time.

There she was. Draco gave his most dashing grin.

---

There was only one parentless female child born on the thirty-first of October who was set to
receive her Hogwarts letter that month, as it turned out.

“Lilith Alecto Atkinson? Lilith? Why have her deceased parents saddled this poor girl with
the evilest name imaginable?”

“Wait until you hear where the orphanage is located.”

Draco waited.

“Stoke-on-Trent.”

“Merlin’s tits, she really is the devil. Nothing good could possibly come from there.”

---

You’ve probably heard it said by someone with more certainty than evidence that opposites
attract.

Unfortunately, repeating something often doesn’t necessarily make it true. If it did, Ronald
Weasley would have been single-handedly responsible for the England national team
emerging as the victor of the 2010 Quidditch World Cup. But it doesn’t, so they didn’t.

Then again, just because something’s an overused saying doesn’t make it inherently false.
You have to take these things on a case-by-case basis. For example, everything Hermione and
Draco did to position themselves as opposites – the wearing of opposite colours, the taking of
opposite sides on every discussion point imaginable, the opposite approaches to work-life
balance – only served to make everyone around them more acutely aware of their mutual
attraction. (You couldn’t tell them that, of course, because they’d make a horrified face and
then go on a multi-hour rant about how much they each hated the other. Any of their
unfortunate friends could testify to that.)

Further evidence that sometimes opposites really do attract resided in the Our Lady of
Perpetual Mourning Children's Home, located in a pleasant residential suburb of Stoke-on-
Trent.

This was a different type of attraction, because it was between two eleven-year-old girls. Two
best friends, in fact, who were as different as two girls who had a fair amount in common
could be.

They were both lacking in the parent department. They were both residing in the same
Catholic children's home, under the slightly-less-than-watchful eye of the nuns (more on
blind Sister Charlotte later). They were both born on the thirty-first of October of the year
two thousand.

That was where the similarities ended.

Lilith Alecto Atkinson was moody and clever and independent. Her best friend, Gemma
Thompson-Stewart, was bubbly and vivacious and charming.

Lilith was dark-haired and brown-eyed and serious. Gemma was what the nuns called
“cherubic.”

Lilith was a constant source of irritation for her teachers and guardians. Try as she might, she
just couldn’t seem to behave the way everyone expected. Gemma, who had never seen the
inside of the headmaster’s office, needed only to smile and everything was forgiven. She
frequently employed this power to get Lilith out of trouble.

Possibly because no one except Gemma was ever very happy with her, Lilith preferred the
company of books to humans. Gemma dragged her out of her room and forced her to interact
with others on occasion, claiming she just needed to practise her social skills.

Lilith liked ghost stories and spiders and was deeply interested in demons and the occult,
which the nuns had inadvertently encouraged by allowing her to read Dante’s Inferno when
she was seven years old. Gemma liked the occult, too; she knew every member of One
Direction’s horoscope.

Lilith had a big secret. Gemma couldn’t keep one, which is why Lilith never told her that she
could do magic.

Lilith had a surprising level of control over her considerable magic for an untrained, unaided
eleven-year-old who hadn’t even received her Hogwarts letter yet.

Gemma was as Muggle as they came.

 ---

Mr Kenneth Price and his wife Joyce had been waiting a very long time to become adoptive
parents. More accurately, Joyce Price had been waiting to become a mother. Kenneth Price
had been waiting for it to be over with so that she would stop talking about it all the time.

It wasn’t at all like adopting a dog, of which they had four of the small, yappy variety.

There were background checks and home visits. They’d been required to take classes and fill
out a mountain of paperwork. Then there were fees to be paid, and then you had to pick out
one with the right temperament for your situation.

On second thought, it was rather like adopting a dog, except with a great deal more
responsibility. Because unlike the Prices’ local animal shelter, Our Lady of Perpetual
Mourning Children's Home really didn’t like to accept returns.

In total, three years passed while they fulfilled legal requirements and filled out
questionnaires and waited. The waiting was the worst part, because they were getting up
there in age, and every year that passed meant they had fewer and fewer options available.

There would be no running around after small children with Mr Price’s knees in the state they
were in (he wouldn’t have, anyway). Nor could they take in any truly troubled cases, not
having the energy to deal with poorly behaved children anymore (he never had, anyway).

No indeed, Mr and Mrs Price had asked for and been promised a polite, well-behaved
daughter of eleven.

Cherubic, the nuns had said.

She’d better be, Mr Price had replied. All this trouble and we could have had two more dogs
instead. No, three.

You’ll like this one, the sisters had promised. Better behaved than a dog, even.

I’ll be returning her if not, he’d informed them grumpily.

Then the nuns had informed him that they didn’t take returns, to which he’d harrumphed but
finally left off arguing.

And so all the long waiting culminated in one final, short wait in the small waiting room of
the Our Lady of Perpetual Mourning Children's Home, as Gemma Thompson-Stewart packed
her bags to go home.

---

Meanwhile, just down the hall from the small waiting room in a slightly smaller office,
Hermione and Draco were pretending to be the type of couple you’d want to hand a child
over to.
This was proving more difficult than anticipated. Not because of anything to do with their
behaviour, for once, but because of that of the child they’d come asking after.

“Are you quite certain that’s the one you want?” The nun regarded them sceptically.

Close your eyes and imagine a nun. That’s this one. She was the very archetype of a prioress:
severe and unsmiling and arthritic, yet still capable of whipping a ruler across your knuckles
quicker than you could hide them under your desk.

The large, guileless smiles plastered over Hermione and Draco’s faces slipped.

“Why? Shouldn’t we?” Hermione glanced anxiously at her faux-husband.

Sister Mary Caroline looked as though they’d just told her their favourite flavour of ice
cream was tripe, instead of what they had actually said, which was, “Good afternoon, we’re
here to apply for the guardianship of Lilith Atkinson.”

“I assure you, you don’t want that one.”

“I assure you, we do,” said Draco firmly, getting in a bit of early practice on his parental
outrage. He removed his dark sunglasses in order to offer her the full weight of his surety.

The sister felt duty-bound to give this nice young couple the full picture. After all, Our Lady
of Perpetual Mourning Children’s Home didn’t like to accept returns.

“She’s disagreeable. A bad apple. She prefers books to people; we can hardly even get her to
talk.”

She shook her head helplessly as if it were impossible to understand why any child would
prefer the company of books to that of elderly nuns.

“Oh!” Hermione relaxed in her chair. “That’s alright, then. I was like that as well at her age.”

Because he was attempting to look like a man sitting next to a wife he loved instead of a
work nemesis he loathed, Draco didn’t say, “You’re like that now, you insufferable know-it-
all.”

“Wicked books,” the nun clarified.

“Wicked how?” This from Hermione, who was wondering whether Lilith had managed to get
her hands on Moste Potente Potions, or perhaps Secrets of the Darkest Arts.

“Sister Jeannine caught her reading something called Witches-Something-or-Other last

week.”

[It had been Roald Dahl’s The Witches, and Lilith had been wondering when her hair was
going to start falling out.]

Draco recanted his earlier severe expression with a charming smile. “She sounds perfect.
We’ll take her.”
Sister Mary Caroline looked at them suspiciously. Everyone knew you didn’t just give a child
to someone whose favourite ice cream flavour was tripe.

“We can start the process, but it’s quite extensive, as I’m sure you’ll understand. There’s
background checks, home visits, required classes—”

Hermione slid a blank sheet of paper across the desk, interrupting what was sure to be a
lengthy accounting of the nuns' due diligence. Sister Mary Caroline’s eyes glazed over as she
looked at it briefly, and then her whole attitude underwent a major transformation. She smiled
broadly at them.

“Excellent, this appears to be in order. You can take a seat in the waiting room and I’ll go
have her pack her things.”

Hermione couldn’t recall having included a mood-altering charm on the paper along with all
the others, but assumed she must have done. In reality, Sister Mary Caroline had just realised
that everyone’s least favourite child – the tripe of the Our Lady of Perpetual Mourning
Children's Home – was finally leaving them.

“Actually, it’s quite the coincidence you’re here today,” she said, as she ushered them out of
the small office and into the slightly larger waiting room. “We have another set of new
parents waiting to pick up a child as well.”

“Oh? That’s nice,” Hermione murmured distractedly.

In her other ear, Draco was quietly informing her that whatever she’d done to that parchment
was almost certainly illegal and that she shouldn’t perform such blatant acts of Muggle
manipulation in front of the Magical Liaison Chairperson if she didn’t want to be escorted to
prison.

“Handcuff me and see what happens! In fact, we could do it right here if you like,” she
retorted, a touch too loudly.

Perverse weirdos, thought Sister Mary Caroline. If Hermione’s definitely illegal charms had
allowed her, she might have reconsidered sending one of her charges home with a couple
who thought standing in front of a nun was an appropriate time and place to discuss their
decidedly kinky bedroom activities.

---

“How long have you been waiting to adopt?”

The female half of the elderly couple in the waiting room was attempting to make small talk.
Draco decided to let Hermione handle it. Despite it being quite literally his job to represent
their interests, he didn’t make it a habit to spend time conversing with Muggles outside of
work. This was not due to lingering prejudices. It was only that they were very boring.

“Oh…four days, give or take.”

Mrs Price frowned in disapproval. Apparently, if you were young and stylishly dressed, Our
Lady of Perpetual Mourning Children’s Home followed a different set of procedures.

“Who are you here for?” asked the waiting room’s other occupant. Sister Charlotte smiled
pleasantly in their direction with a kindness that Sister Mary Caroline wasn’t capable of.
Sister Charlotte wasn’t capable of sight, being (as the home’s younger occupants like to call
her) blind as a bat.

“Lilith,” Hermione said, at the same time Mr Price answered, “Gemma.”

She had only been looking vaguely in their direction, after all, and could have been speaking
to any of them.

“Good luck,” Sister Charlotte chuckled.

“Sorry, what’s that you said?” Mr Price asked, too loudly. “What’s wrong with Gemma?”

“Oh, nothing at all. Nothing at all. She’s a wonderful child. You’ll be very happy with her.”
The nun smiled to herself and remained conspicuously silent about Lilith.

Draco considered what type of punishments for poor behaviour he was willing to dole out. A
stern talking-to and loss of minor privileges was pretty much the extent of it. He hoped it
would be sufficient.

They sat for a while. Draco decided to entertain himself by pretending to be deeply in love
with his fake wife, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her smile became fixed and
glassy.

Mr and Mrs Price were watching.

Draco kissed her affectionately on the cheek.

She made herself go stiff. It was like kissing a tree, except this particular oak knew at least
five nonverbal jinxes that would make his trousers fall about his ankles when he stood up, so
there was an exciting element of danger to it.

“Don’t you think you’re rather young to be adopting?” asked Mr Price, because he was that
sort of obnoxious old man.

“Don’t you think you’re rather old?” grumbled Hermione. She had accomplished more than
most in her young life (she had a biography, for heaven’s sake) and did not appreciate being
dismissed on the basis of age.

Luckily, Mr Price was deaf in his right ear.

Draco took her hand consolingly and she pinched him. He withdrew.

“Where do you live, dear?” Mrs Price was the sort to try to smooth over her husband’s
rudeness through polite conversation.
“London.” It was impossible to be more specific than that, since Draco’s flat in Wizarding
London didn’t exist on any map the Prices would have been familiar with.

“Oh, how exciting. I’m sure Lilith will love it there. We’re not far from here, just outside of
town.”

“How lovely,” lied Hermione.

The blind Sister Charlotte began humming to herself, so they all fell silent, not wanting to
interrupt.

Mrs Price was still watching them smilingly, obviously thinking something along the lines of
“what an attractive couple.” Draco, bored, took the opportunity to lovingly tuck a curl of
hair behind Hermione’s ear. Because she was under observation, she could only offer a
pinched, pleasant look with a gleam in her eye that promised much pain later.

He was looking forward to it.

---

Lilith sat on Gemma’s bed, watching her best friend pack to leave her forever.

“Or you could always run away and come back here, if you hate it,” she offered glumly.

“I might do. As much as I hate Stoke, I can’t imagine how much worse outside of town is.
And they’re old! If Sister Mary Caroline says they’re old, you know they’re really old.”

Gemma didn’t have many clothes to pack, but she did have a significant collection of teen
magazines. She was sorting them into piles, one to take and one to distribute amongst the
younger children.

One of those younger children was screaming something down the hall. Lilith had to raise her
voice to be heard.

“At least you’re getting adopted! I’ll be stuck here forever with nuns that hate me.”

“You could try being more likeable, you know.” The advice was delivered with a frankness
that only a best friend could pull off without being socked in the arm.

“It’s too late. They have it out for me. Besides, the hatred is mutual.”

Gemma stood to wrap her arms around Lilith. They’d been saying goodbye all morning, so
the tears were over with, but she still had hugs to dispense.

“This would be easier if I knew that you were going somewhere too. I hate leaving you here.”

“No one wants to adopt the problem child, Gem. I’ll be here forever.”

Sister Mary Caroline’s stern face appeared in the doorway. “You’re going too, Lilith. Pack
up, your new family is waiting. A young couple from London.”
Sometimes nuns have remarkable timing. Manna from heaven, or whatever.

The astonished girls attempted to extract more details from the sister, but she’d already left to
deal with the screaming younger child.

A quick five minutes later, they’d absorbed this new reality (with squeals on Gemma’s part
and silent, suspicious shock on Lilith’s), packed their sparse belongings, and arrived outside
the waiting room. There was a small window in the door through which they could see the
side profiles of the five people within. As long as they didn’t make too much noise, they
wouldn’t be noticed. In other words, it was a perfect spot to spy on their new guardians.

It was easy to tell whose was whose.

Old and boring for Gemma. Young and interesting-looking for Lilith. And then blind as a bat
Sister Charlotte, who smiled vaguely around the little room at no one in particular.

The handsome blond man pushed his sunglasses up, which he’d been wearing indoors for
some stupid reason, and gave the woman a sloppy kiss on the cheek. She blushed and gave a
display of irritation that was obviously feigned.

Lilith groaned. “Eurgh, gross. They’re the PDA type. If they’re going to be snogging in front
of me, I’ll be forced to run away.”

Gemma was smiling widely at the foul display. “I think it’s romantic! Look at how he’s
looking at her! Better than my lot, anyway. I’ll perish from boredom.”

They both looked at the elderly couple, who looked as though they hadn’t progressed beyond
tender hand-holding in years.

“Not to be ungrateful or whatever, but I wish I had them. I bet you’ll be able to get away with
anything. Mine look too smart.” Lilith, who liked to be the smartest one in the room, scowled
at the young couple.

“Yeah, just look at what they’re wearing. Think they’re models?”

“Nah, she’s too short. He must be an investment banker with that suit.”

“Bet they’re loaded! You’ll deffo be going to some fancy private school next term.” Gemma
grinned at her friend, knowing she’d absolutely loathe this.

She was right. Lilith’s face had gone frownier than usual. “Christ, Gemma! What if it’s a
boarding school? It’ll be a thousand times harder to run away from! I want to live in the
countryside with the boring old geezers.”

“Well, I want to live in London with the hot, posh Millennials.”

Gemma could picture her life in London quite clearly. She’d have a big room, all to herself,
and loads of friends and cool clothes that weren’t picked out by nuns and she’d get to ride the
tube on her own and visit museums and talk to people who weren’t from Stoke-on-Trent and
therefore inherently boring.
Lilith’s reasons for wanting to live outside of town with the geezers were no less deeply-felt.
They were just far more secret.

The thing about having secret magical powers and a Catholic upbringing is that you were
pretty sure you were inherently evil, like Lucifer, or (according to Sister Mary Caroline) Eve.
She had, after all, read Dante’s Inferno four times in an attempt to determine which level of
Hell she was headed for. Six was the obvious choice, being for heretics, but the seventh circle
had something to do with violence, and she’d once accidentally used her magic to push a boy
down a flight of stairs after he’d pulled Gemma’s hair. It was only three stairs, and he was
fine, but still.

So she’d decided early on that she couldn’t tell anyone. Children with demonic powers didn’t
tend to get adopted, in her limited experience.

And yet she needed to do magic in the same way Gemma needed to tell you if the cute boy in
your class had been looking in your direction. The more you tried to keep it in, the more
likely it was to explode out of you at an inappropriate moment. When that happened, you
ended up accidentally shoving a bully down a miniature flight of stairs without using your
hands.

It had been hard enough keeping it from her best friend. She wasn’t sure how she’d manage it
in crowded, overstimulating London with those two bright-looking youngish people hovering
over her.

“This is so unfair,” Gemma said.

“Adults are such morons. Anyone could’ve seen that they’ve got the wrong kids.”

They sighed in unison, understanding all too well that life rarely gave you the choice of
picking your favourite of two options, at least not when you were eleven.

“I suppose we’d better get on with it, then,” said Gemma sadly. It was an indication of how
very boring Mr and Mrs Price looked that she couldn’t even pretend to be excited to meet
them.

“Yeah,” Lilith muttered despondently, then grimaced in disgust as the blond man tenderly
tucked a lock of hair behind his wife’s ear.

“You’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Course. I’ll visit too, if I’m not sent away to some horrid institution.”

“You’re mad. Boarding school sounds ace.” Gemma attempted another grin, but jealousy
ruined it.

“I’d trade you if I could.”

“Me too, but we can’t.”

“No, because…”
 They looked out through the little window again. Not at the two sets of prospective foster
parents, but at the only other person with them in the waiting room. One very old, very blind
Sister Charlotte.

If lightbulbs made any noise, the silence in the hall would have been broken by the sound of
two popping on simultaneously above their heads.

“We couldn’t,” Lilith said after a moment, chewing her lip consideringly.

“They’d find out, wouldn’t they?”

“Yeah, there’s bound to be digital records. A photo of us somewhere. We might get away
with tricking the old folks, but never them.” Lilith nodded to Draco and Hermione, who
didn’t have digital records or the computers to read them on.

“Still, it would be fun. We could just—”

“—see how long it takes them! Plus then we’d get to see each other again, when they do the
switch—”

“Or they might let us stay!”

Gemma giggled in delight at their brilliant plan. The bottom half of Lilith’s face visibly
twitched into something that might have generously been counted as a smile.

“I’m Gemma Thompson-Stewart,” Lilith said, trying out Gemma’s chipper tone. “Wait, I
forgot your middle name!”

“Eden.”

“Of course it is.” She practised a winning smile, the sheer toothiness of which caused
Gemma to draw back in horror. “I’m Gemma Eden Thompson-Stewart! I like rainbows and
unicorns! I have a crush on Jerry Brannigan!” Lilith dodged an elbow. “Alright, I think I’ve
got it. Now you do me.”

“My name’s Lilith Alecto Atkinson,” said Gemma, affecting a sonorous voice. “I like staying
in my room and reading books and being cross with everyone all the time. I’ll die of misery if
I’m sent to boarding school with kids my own age.”

“I’m hardly ever cross with you!” Lilith gave a final, intense scowl, afraid it might be the last
one she ever bestowed upon her friend.

Gemma wrapped her in a final hug, squeezing tightly enough to make up for all the future
embraces she wouldn’t have the chance to give.

Then, hand in hand, they left to go introduce themselves to the wrong sets of guardians.

Chapter End Notes

Uh oh! Trouble in parad – er, Stoke.

Lilith’s middle name is actually not a reference to Alecto Carrow and is certainly not a
hint at her parentage. Instead she gets it from Alecto the Ninth, and if you understand
that reference, we should be friends.

On the topic of names: out of respect for Gemma and Lilith's chosen identities, and also
so as not to be confusing, my narrator will call the girls by their swapped names from
this point until...well, you'll see.

NEXT WEEK: Neville isn't very suave. The Improper Use of Magic office has a new
employee. Another nine-point plan is developed. The word moratorium begins to be
overused.
 Chamomile Tea and Menty Bs
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Though he’d never admit it to Hermione, there had been a moment – just a fraction of a
second, really – when Draco was certain that the solemn, dark-haired girl who’d just entered
the waiting room was Lilith Atkinson. Surely if they were looking for an unusually powerful
child it had to be her, and not the bright-eyed creature from the Rococo period nearly
skipping in place next to her.

But then the serious, clever-looking girl went and introduced herself to the older couple as
Gemma Thompson-Stewart and the cherubic other one bounded up to him with a smile.

It bothered him, because, after all, you couldn’t tell who was a Muggle just by looking at
them. That type of thinking was what got him in trouble all those years ago. He’d even gone
to prison over it – that and a few other things – and he thought he’d long since thoroughly
purged the notion from his mind. It was an unpleasant revelation to find that he hadn't.

So he looked into her young, smiling face and promised her silently that he would be a good
(fake, temporary) parent and that he would do everything in his power to help her make better
choices than he'd once made. He had a whole emotional moment over it as Hermione handled
the introductions. Feelings he hadn’t bothered with in years flooded him, all that regret and
shame he’d lived with until he’d matured enough to realise he could choose, if he wanted, to
be something wholly different. And he had chosen, or so he’d thought, because he only
wanted Hermione to hate him for all of the stupid, childish, prank-related reasons they’d
invented and not for any of the very real and perfectly valid ones she once had.

But when he’d looked at the wrong child and thought Muggle, he realised he needed to do
better, for the sake of Lilith, and apocalypse prevention, and for Hermione herself.

He would do better. He would be better.

By the time they stepped outside into sunlight, he was a changed man.

And then Hermione ruined the whole thing by leaning over to mutter, “I would’ve sworn it
was the other one.”

---

They made it as far as the car park before the obvious problem presented itself. They hadn’t a
car.

“Guess we’re doing this here, then,” said Draco, casting a wandless Notice-Me-Not around
them.
“We can’t tell her she’s a witch in the middle of a car park!” Hermione whispered furiously.
“We should take her to lunch or something.”

“I’m a what?”

Lilith (who was really Gemma) wondered whether it was too late to change her mind. Across
the car park, she saw Gemma (who was really Lilith) slide into a small sedan with her new
geezer parents. She waved, but Gemma didn’t seem to notice her.

“Are you proposing that we walk to lunch?” Draco looked pointedly around at the residential
neighbourhood and then down at Hermione’s ecru slingbacks.

She sighed in defeat. “Very well. Lilith, I’m sure this is going to be very confusing and a lot
to take in, but we have something important to tell you. But first, please know that whatever
happens, we really do mean to take excellent care of you, and everything will work out in the
end. You won’t have to worry about that.”

Lilith wasn’t naturally prone to worrying, but that did the trick.

“Sorry,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“Very comforting, Granger. You’re a natural.”

“You do it, then!”

Lilith slid one foot behind the other in case she needed to make a run for it.

“You’re a witch,” said Draco. “Congratulations. It’s a bit like winning the lottery, or so I hear.
That’s a Muggle thing I don’t understand.”

“That’s only because it’s a proletariat thing, you snobbish—”

“The point is, you can do magic. I’m certain you already have; it always shows up one way
or another. Haven’t you ever done something you couldn’t explain, like open locked doors or
make something vanish?”

When Hermione, who’d also grown up perfectly Muggle, had been delivered the same
information around her parent’s kitchen table by a Ministry-appointed Muggle Liaison
Officer, it was a massive relief, really, to learn that she’d been right. She’d had several
operating theories, including faerie changeling, alien experimentation, and spontaneous
evolution of the human species, but she’d been hedging her bets on congenital magical
capabilities that someone was going to explain to her sooner or later.

Therefore, she’d been expecting Lilith to say something along the lines of, “yes, of course,
and now my whole life makes sense now that I know this critical piece of information about
myself.”

Instead, Lilith’s eyes darted toward the entrance to the children’s home.
“It might’ve happened when you were angry or scared,” Hermione added anxiously. “Surely
you know what we mean.”

“I don’t usually get angry,” said Lilith, forgetting who she was pretending to be. “The sisters
always said I was as cool as a cucumber.” They liked to call the real Lilith a “little devil,”
which, coming from a nun, was a serious accusation.

“Don’t look at me,” Draco said, as Hermione turned to him helplessly. “I was flying around
on a toy broomstick at the age of two. Time for a party trick, I think.”

Hermione whipped out her wand and made it snow. Then she did what she always did when
she was nervous. She lapsed into lecture.

Lilith asked considerably fewer questions than either of them was expecting, instead staring
at the snowflakes that drifted down around her with a far-off expression as Hermione
attempted to compress the entirety of wizarding knowledge into a brief monologue that only
bordered on coherent.

Noticing that not one-tenth of the information was hitting its intended target, Draco cut her
off. “You’d think McGonagall was about to appear from the bushes to administer a test on
Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.”

“A strong foundation is critical to her success. I can’t tell you how behind I felt when I
started at Hogwarts.”

“Perhaps we might make it home before we move on to nonverbal charms, though.”

They watched as a large, damp snowflake drifted down to land softly on Lilith’s palm.

Hermione wondered whether she believed any of it.

Lilith believed all of it. Snow in July was hard to dispute, and besides, Hermione had also
pointed her wand at a bird pecking at a nearby patch of grass and turned it into a white ferret.
For some reason, Draco had seemed extremely flustered by that.

But Lilith was too busy worrying to enjoy her lottery winnings. They definitely had the
wrong girl. The only problem was that the real Lilith wasn’t the right girl, either. The real
Lilith couldn’t do magic. She would have told Gemma, no question.

Still, she’d been about to tell them that they’d somehow got it wrong when the woman
pretending to be her new adoptive mother said, “And you’ll love Hogwarts. All the young
magical children like yourself go there.”

“Is it a boarding school?” Lilith asked.

“Oh, yes. In Scotland, actually.”

Well, that decided it. She wasn’t about to send the real Lilith to boarding school in Scotland.
It sounded impossible to run away from. She would loathe it.
“Are you a witch too, then?” she asked Draco.

“Wizard, actually,” he replied, peacocking unnecessarily.

“The wizarding world’s terribly old-fashioned about its gendered nouns,” Hermione
explained. “Wait until you find out about purebloods.”

“Granger, don’t start. I won’t have her hating me in the first half hour.”

“Excellent, I’ll let you tell her about the war, then. Make sure I’m there, though. I want to
fact-check.”

“I already learned about the war.” It was sort of true. Lilith had been focusing more on the
back of Jerry Brannigan’s head than on the lesson, but certain details stuck. “There was an
extremely scary man who wanted a lot of power and did a load of really horrible things to get
it. The good guys won in the end.”

“There, see. She’s already got it.” He smiled broadly at Hermione.

“Let’s just go home.” Hermione was feeling more wrong-footed than usual around him
following his excessive display of fake affection in the waiting room. “Your home, I mean. I
think she’s up for side-along.” To Lilith, she added, “You’ll be staying with Malfoy until the
start of term, if you’re alright with it. He has more space.”

“Who’s Malfoy?”

“Oh. Him. That’s, erm, Draco’s surname.”

“Not yours?”

Hermione reddened. Of course now Lilith had questions. “We’re not married. We’re more
like…colleagues.”

“We hate each other,” Draco clarified further.

An eye doctor had visited the children's home earlier that year, and all the residents had taken
it in turns to undergo an examination. Lilith had been declared to have perfect vision.
Therefore, she could see that this was not remotely true.

“So you’re not married and you don’t live together. Are you dating at least?”

She was informed emphatically that they were not. This did not dissuade her. Instead, she
asked, “When are your birthdays?”

Upon learning that Hermione’s was the nineteenth of September and Draco’s was the fifth of
June, she made a mental note to look in the back of one of her Mizz magazines to check the
compatibility rating of a Virgo and a Gemini.

---
If Voldemort or his followers had ever taken a break from being almost comically evil to
think critically about the advantages of Muggle technology, they might not have thought
themselves quite so superior.

And any Muggle who visited the Ministry of Magic would have laughed themselves silly at
the sight of the so-called superior race attempting to run an entire government on ink and
parchment, and then said, “No thanks, I think I’ll keep my computer.”

It really was an astounding amount of parchment, one that would’ve decimated the sheep
population of Britain, if parchment was still made out of sheepskin instead of magic. And the
number of witches and wizards employed by the Ministry to manage all that paperwork
bordered on the absurd: entire departments full of low-level workers whose job could’ve been
automated in half a second by a microchip.

These employees were uniformly young, gossipy, and awed by Hermione Granger. (This was
in part because she didn’t have to do any paperwork, ever. It was better for everyone if no
record of her work existed.)

The low-level quill-pushers in the Improper Use of Magic Office were no different. That
included the brand new Third Assistant Trainee, who, on the morning of Hermione and
Draco’s visit to Stoke, was receiving a too-brief crash course in government bureaucracy.

“Alright, then. Here’s where the reports will appear any time magic is used on or in front of a
Muggle. Or anything illegal, really.” The First Assistant pointed to an inbox on a nearby
desk. As they watched, a piece of parchment appeared within. “We get only the location and
the type of spell.”

The Second Assistant picked it up and read aloud, “Locomotion Charm performed in the
presence of a Muggle. Location: Ewhurst Bowling Centre.”

The Third Assistant Trainee was appalled.

“That’s ridiculous. Who would break the Statute of Secrecy to win at bowling against
Muggles?”

“One thing this job will teach you is that people are very stupid,” the First Assistant told him,
while the Second Assistant nodded emphatically. “Now, what you’ve got to do is to come
over here to this map and find the witch or wizard in that location.”

It was a massive map of Great Britain containing thousands of tiny dots labelled with the
names of every known witch and wizard in the isles. The Third Assistant Trainee gawked at
it and tried not to think about the invasion of privacy it constituted.

“Once you have a name and location, fill out one of these official warning letters and hand it
to an owl for delivery.” The First Assistant expertly located the Ewhurst Bowling Centre on
the map and pointed to a small dot labelled “Wyndell Porking.” She hastily filled out a white
form before passing it to a waiting owl.
“If you can’t tell who did it, write down all the details on one of the pink forms. Those go to
the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol for further investigation.” The Second Assistant pointed
to a pink stack nearby.

“And if there’s no witch or wizard in the area, it might be a case of accidental magic by an
underage person, who won’t show up on the map. File a blue report – that’ll go to the
Oblivators for cleanup – and move on.”

“If it’s one of the really bad spells, you know the ones, file a red report.”

“What happens to the red reports?”

“They go straight to Harry Potter’s inbox,” explained the Second Assistant with a shudder.

“The main thing is to work quickly before anyone Disapparates from their location. Got it?”

“I think so?” It really was a lot of paperwork, and the Third Assistant Trainee wasn’t great
with remembering simple instructions. He hadn’t excelled at Hogwarts, which is probably
why he was now a low-level trainee in the Improper Use of Magic Office instead of studying
law, which his mum had been pushing for.

“Good, because there’s one more thing.”

“More?” The Third Assistant Trainee looked helplessly at the colour-coded forms.

“Yes, and this is really important—”

“—so don’t forget—”

“—or you could lose your job. Worse, she might come down here—”

“—and Merlin only knows what could happen then.”

“Who might come down here? What’s happening?” The Third Assistant Trainee’s anxiety
mounted as he absorbed the rapid-fire warnings.

“Hermione Granger. If you see her name on the map, you file the report right there.” The
First Assistant pointed to a bin on the floor. Someone had written “Hermione Granger’s
Inbox” in red paint across the outside.

“Into a rubbish bin?”

“Stand back,” the Second Assistant warned him, before tossing a blank pink form into the
bin. It erupted into flames, quickly incinerating the form with a burst of orange fire that
scorched the Third Assistant Trainee’s left sleeve.

“What does she do?” the Third Assistant Trainee asked, aghast.

“No one knows. We don’t ask questions.” The First Assistant shrugged. “The point is, if she’s
involved, bin it.”
“She’s not murdering people or anything,” the Second Assistant elaborated. “It’s never
anything terrible—”

“—just, you know, illegal and confusing—”

“—except it’s not illegal because I don’t think laws apply to her—”

“—and apparently it has something to do with Draco Malfoy. You can see they’re together all
the time on the map.”

The atmosphere of the room became a little chillier at the invocation of that particular name.

“Now, look, you’re already falling behind.” The Second Assistant nodded to the inbox, which
now held three new pieces of parchment. “Any further questions?”

But the First and Second Assistants had their own inboxes to attend to, so they didn’t pause
to wait. They exited, leaving the Third Assistant Trainee with a rapidly-increasing stack of
reports, several piles of colour-coded forms, and a still-smoking rubbish bin.

---

It was Actually Magical.

Really, actually magical. Neville could hardly believe his luck. It had only taken him three
days to work it out, and it would have been fewer if the Muggle scientists from the University
of Oxford hadn’t been so insistent on hovering around whenever he was in poking distance of
the new plant species, which had turned out to be a sort of limp grey fungus.

By the time he arrived in Stoke-on-Trent, they’d taken their photos and their samples and
were in the process of arguing over who should get to name it. The current frontrunners were
carbo comedentis and taediosum griseo, which roughly translated to eater of coal and
extremely boring grey lump, respectively.

Neither was inaccurate. The squishy little fungus did survive on the layer of toxic black film
that seemed to coat a concerning number of surfaces in town, and it was fairly disappointing
as new plant discoveries go. Unless, that is, you ingested it. The Muggle scientists hadn’t
tried that, for some reason.

Neville waited until the botanists were gone to give it a go. Even if it hadn’t been illegal, he
wasn’t so rude as to use offensive magic against a fellow plant-lover, even these, who were
particularly unpleasant. They’d spent the first two days questioning his credentials and
snickering at him as he tried a few of his favourite methods to get a plant’s magical nature to
reveal itself: talking to it, tickling it lightly, prodding it discreetly with his wand.

“What university did you say you were from again?”

The lead botanist smirked as Neville stroked a finger down the fungus’ spongy length. His
fellow botanists laughed. It put Neville strongly in mind of a double herbology lesson in fifth
year when he’d had the misfortune to be partnered with Vincent Crabbe for an entire term.
There had been a lot of mean-spirited laughing then, too.
He ignored them and they finally left, as bullies are wont to do.

It perhaps wasn’t a best practice to shove a bit of unidentified fungus matter down one’s
throat, but he had a bezoar handy, just in case. He went for it.

Moments later, he floated. As Neville’s feet left the ground entirely, he fished into his pocket
and unwrapped a sugar quill. You never knew how long magical side effects lasted; he could
be up there for hours.

As he hovered about in midair, waiting for the fungus to set him back down, he reviewed his
next steps.

He would take samples back to his lab for further study. He'd write a paper, and it would be
peer-reviewed and subject to additional testing, but ultimately, taediosum griseo would be
classified as Actually Magical, and then it would be granted protections and the Muggles
couldn’t see it anymore. It would be a confusing loss for the team of botanists from the
University of Oxford, but they were bullies, so Neville couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had perhaps another day’s work there in Stoke. Some final samples to collect, a few stasis
and protection spells to cast. But for the most part, his business there was concluded.

Neville decided that perhaps travel wasn’t so bad after all, so long as it was brief and within
Apparition distance of his home.

A mercifully short ten minutes later, his feet reunited with the earth and he left to go celebrate
by buying himself a beer at the only decent-looking pub in town.

---

Pansy sat on a curb, having herself a menty b.

At least, that’s what a dirty-looking man had called it when he’d asked her, shouting rudely
out the rolled-down window of a passing car, whether she was having a menty b, shug? He’d
sped off before she could confirm or deny the accusation.

She supposed she was having a mental breakdown. The crying had ceased days ago, but only
out of exhaustion. She wondered if all the prophecies made her tired, too, although she
couldn’t confirm or deny whether she was still having those, either.

Veta had found her some lodging, in a small house just outside of town where she wouldn’t
be bothered by close neighbours. How Veta had managed to secure Muggle lodging, she
didn’t want to know. There was something almost terrifyingly competent about that elf.

Pansy had plenty of Muggle money for food and decent success at obtaining it so far. She
was safe, so long as she had her wand, and didn’t lack for any of the things one would need
to survive, if not thrive, for a while.

And so what had brought the menty b to its crest, as she sat in the throes of a panic attack on
the curb of a random street in a random neighbourhood in a town Pansy would never have
willingly set foot in, was the question of why am I here?
[Two neighbourhoods over, Sister Mary Caroline was explaining to several of the younger
children, in an authoritative voice, the answer to this very question. It involved a lot of
sacrifice and repentance. They were getting very bored.]

She had no idea what her presence was meant to accomplish. For all she knew, the prophecies
had been more of a celestial stammer than repeated instructions to Get Thee to Stoke-on-
Trent. And yet, she had a feeling – a sensitivity, no doubt passed on through generations as a
gift from whatever idiot ancestor had ruined her life – that she was precisely where she
needed to be.

But why?

She dropped her head between her knees and tried to breathe. It was very hot and smelly out,
which didn’t help.

“Erm, are you – are you alright?” A male voice. If he got closer, she’d stun him. She almost
hoped he would. It would be a relief to dispense with one of her problems so easily.

“Mmfine. Go away,” she mumbled.

“Can I…” the voice trailed off, as if not sure what to offer. “Felly-tone anyone for you?”

Veta had recently explained about telephones, so she was pretty sure this man had just said
the word wrong. She looked up, confused.

There was a very tall person blocking the sunlight in the street before her. His head fit right
where the sun would have been so that his face was ringed in light. She squinted to see him,
unable to make out much more than a suggestion of stubble and glasses. She was positive he
was handsome, though; she had a good sense of those things.

“Pansy? Pansy Parkinson?”

If she’d been standing, she might’ve fallen. But because she was a Parkinson, and practically
bred to be unflappable (present mental breakdown excluded), she defaulted to politeness.

“I’m very sorry, have we met?”

She stood on wobbly knees, the better to see his face. Definitely handsome, like a decently
young, attractive professor. Rather, like how she imagined a young, attractive professor to
look, since there had been a tragic shortage of those at Hogwarts.

The strange man just stared at her in surprise. “It’s me, Neville,” he finally managed.

Pansy sat back down abruptly. “Neville Longbottom?” She nearly screeched the name from
her undignified position near the ground. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I’m – I’m here for work. What are you doing here?” He crouched down beside her, which
was actually very polite because her neck had begun to hurt.

“No idea,” she said faintly. Then, to her great embarrassment, she began to cry.
 ---

Neville wasn’t what anyone would call suave. Therefore, you’ll have to forgive him if the
sight of a beautiful woman breaking down in tears before him did not miraculously inspire
grand gestures of the sweep-her-off-her-feet variety.

Instead, he leaned away on his heels as if he wanted to fall backwards out of the whole
situation, then extended a stiff arm to pat her lightly on the shoulder. “There, there,” he
muttered, feeling and sounding like an idiot. “It’ll be alright.”

Strangely enough, it worked.

---

Neville insisted on escorting her back to her little rented cottage while Pansy attempted to
provide a reasonable explanation for her presence in Stoke.

First, she said she was there for a family thing. He adjusted his glasses and looked at her,
politely offering her a second chance at coming up with something more believable. Then she
said she had something important to do in the area, which was possibly true, but still came
out sounding like a question.

He looked doubtfully at her red-rimmed eyes and offered to make her a cup of chamomile
tea.

“Herbal tea’s not really tea,” she pointed out. She was one of those people who was snobby
about the beverage.

Neville grasped at this comment like a life preserver. If Pansy Parkinson was a plant lover
like himself, he would at least have something to talk with her about. He tended to talk when
he was nervous, and there was nothing more nerve-wracking than finding yourself standing
in a strange kitchen with a woman who used to bully you fifteen years ago, but had just been
inexplicably found crying in the street, and was also exceptionally pretty and, so far, quite
polite.

He launched into an explanation of the various anxiety-alleviating benefits of matricaria

recutita while he boiled water with his wand.

Pansy, who couldn’t have cared less which genus of plant the leaves came from provided it
tasted the way Veta made it, pretended to listen.

Could Neville Longbottom possibly be the reason she was there? Of all the unbelievable
things that had happened to her of late, him coincidentally appearing in front of her as she
practised deep breathing on a curb was the most difficult to accept. Was the universe’s plan to
humiliate her in front of him as some sort of karmic justice for the way she’d mistreated him
at Hogwarts?

If so, it was working. She felt miserable.

“Was I horrible to you?” she asked, interrupting something he was saying about amino acids.
“At Hogwarts. I was, wasn’t I?”

“Erm...”

It was enough of an answer. She let her head drop onto the table to inform karma that it had
won.

He tentatively set the cup down in front of her and took a seat.

“Pansy, are you alright? You don’t seem…well.”

She laughed against the floral tablecloth. “I’m having a crisis, I think.”

“Can I help?”

His voice sounded sincere. Had he always been so nice, and she too shallow to notice?
Another thing for her to feel even more miserable about later. She lifted her head. “Have I
said anything strange since we’ve been together?”

“Anything strange?”

“Yes, like anything unusual. Out of the ordinary.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer in a polite way. Practically everything about the afternoon had
been out of the ordinary. “Well, I thought it was rather unusual that you would be here on
family business.”

“Oh. Right. That was a lie.”

“Yes, I thought so. Would you like to tell me the real reason?”

She drank a bit of the tea and pulled a face. “You’ll think I’m mad. Madder than you already
do.”

Neville stopped to consider this. At Hogwarts, she’d always struck him as exceptionally
practical in the way that pureblood heirs often were; having one’s life mapped out from the
age of three didn’t nurture an imaginative spirit, usually. He would have expected to see her
waltzing across the pages of The Daily Prophet’s society section (if he read that, which he
didn’t), not crying on the pavement in the middle of the afternoon in Stoke-on-Trent.

And yet, he thought, that’s what everyone must have expected of her. He could see her
ringless left hand clutching the teacup and suspected the words “are you married?” might
catapult her back into misery. The expectations were, no doubt, stifling. For the first time
ever, it occurred to him that her fate could have been his, if his parents hadn’t placed
themselves firmly in the “blood traitor” category following the first wizarding war. He was,
after all, one Fallen Woman more pureblooded than Pansy herself.

“I don’t think you’re mad. And I don’t have anyone to tell, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”
He would probably tell his plants, but most of them didn’t have ears, and none were capable
of human speech.

And so she told him, because she really didn’t have anything left to lose at that point, dignity
included. He listened with a quiet interest, and she distantly wondered if anyone had ever
really listened to her speak before. In Pansy’s experience, most people were only ever
thinking of their next words while they waited for you to close your mouth so that they could
open theirs.

Neville didn’t do that.

When she’d finished, she asked, almost shyly, whether he believed her.

Of course he did. “I was the subject of a prophecy once.”

“You were?” She sat forward. This was the most interesting thing Neville Longbottom had
ever said to her.

“Well, no, actually. I wasn’t the subject of a prophecy.”

She leaned back again, disappointed.

He sensed he’d lost his audience. “No, I mean…it was an important distinction. There were
two children it could’ve been referring to, and it wasn’t referring to me.”

“Oh.”

“The other one was Harry. It was about a child who had the power to defeat Voldemort.”

“Oh.”

“Sometimes Seers are vague like that. They’ll talk about a certain person born on a certain
day, and there are two people it could be. Everyone has to guess and hope they’ve got it right.
In Harry’s case, luckily, they did.”

“I hope I’m not that sort of Seer.”

“No, I’m sure your prophecies are very straightforward.”

She remembered the first one she’d made after Veta started writing them down. ONE IS NOT
THE OTHER, AND THE OTHER IS NOT THE ONE.

“Yes, perfectly coherent,” she said faintly.

“So, what do you think you have to do here?”

I don’t know, Pansy almost said. In fact, my life has been entirely directionless since you last
saw me, and everyone seems to think that I’ve wasted my best years so there doesn’t seem to
be a point in doing anything anywhere at all.
But as she took a breath to enumerate the sad facts of her whole sorry existence, it finally
occurred to her that she could take a breath. The constricting weight of expectation was
lessened, if not entirely gone, because for the first time in years, she did not feel alone. And
the person she was not alone with was a man who had the lowest possible expectations of her
and therefore couldn’t be let down any further.

All she had to do was be less horrible than she’d been to him fifteen years ago and she might
go a whole day – a whole week, even – without being the source of disappointment in
another person’s eyes.

If she could convince him to stay with her, that was. Pansy thought herself equal to the
challenge.

“Doesn’t it seem like too much of a coincidence that we should both be here?” she asked
him. “At the same time?”

“You think it’s to do with me?”

“Yes,” she said, hoping it was true. “I’ve been here for three days and I haven’t had any other
ideas yet. It’s as likely as anything else.”

Neville took off his glasses and nervously polished them on a handkerchief he'd pulled from
his pocket. “I’ve been here for three days, too.”

This coincidence seemed to confirm that it was not a coincidence.

“It’s the fungus, then. That must be what this is about.” He started to explain his discovery,
but only got three or four words in before she cut him off with a horrified expression.

“Absolutely not! There’s no way I’ve started having prophecies about a fungus! I refuse to
accept it.”

[Thankfully, she was correct, and none of us needs to hear any more about the appropriately-
named taediosum griseo.]

“How long will you be in town?” she asked, chancing a soft smile.

Neville thought about returning to the soft, damp quiet of his greenhouse where parts of his
soul might continue to shrivel, unattended, as months of unassailed solitude became years
became decades.

“I’m not sure. No plans to leave just yet.”

Pansy took in another deep lungful of the polluted Stoke air – once categorised by the
Environment Agency as “Chernobyl-esque” – and felt lighter than she had in years.

---

Twenty minutes on the job, and the Improper Use of Magic Office’s Third Assistant Trainee
had already fallen behind.
Someone in Dumfries had just performed tarantallegra on a poor Muggle. He was still trying
to work out whether that was bad enough to warrant a red form (he certainly wouldn’t
appreciate being forced to dance uncontrollably) when a further five reports popped into the
inbox on top of the four that had already collected there.

“Shit,” he said to himself, because it was all he really had time for. He’d got his blues and
pinks confused, and now some poor Muggle in Great Yarmouth was being levitated.

The white forms would have to do. Working as fast as possible, he scribbled one for the
levitation and another for the dancing feet charm.

The next three reports were all the same. Someone in Stoke-on-Trent was performing quite a
lot of magic in a public setting. He wrote “improper use of magic on Muggles” and hoped it
was sufficient.

Now all he had to do was to locate the persons responsible on the map, put names on, and
send the reports off.

A wizard named George Pidgeon had done the levitation. He wrote the name on the
appropriate form.

The perpetrator of the dancing feet charm was somebody named Blake Cabbage. This, too,
was taken down.

Stoke was then located on the map. So was Hermione Granger. So was Draco Malfoy.

The Third Assistant Trainee stared in shock at the names. Before, they hadn’t seemed like
real people, in the way famous people (or infamous, in Draco’s case) never did. But now,
seeing their tiny dots committing illegal acts of magic in the presence of Muggles on the
concerningly detailed map, he was struck by the realisation that they were more than just
names in his history books.

They were real.

Behind him, his inbox continued to fill up.

The First Assistant popped her head in to survey her trainee’s progress.

“You’re falling behind! Are those ready? Send them off!”

She waved her wand and the three forms zoomed out of the Third Assistant Trainee’s hand,
folded themselves into envelopes in midair, and were launched into the waiting beaks of three
Ministry owls.

The two that bore letters addressed with recipient names disappeared in a flap of wings. The
third, blinking slowly, awaited further instructions.

“But…that one was for Hermione Granger…” the Third Assistant Trainee said faintly.
Owls have excellent hearing. They are not, however, skilled at understanding subtext.
Therefore, the third owl heard what was literally said, and completely missed what the Third
Assistant Trainee actually meant, which was, But that one was for Hermione Granger, and
therefore should be delivered directly into that terrifying bin.

It took to the sky.

---

The moment Lilith was deposited in her comfortable, spacious new room in Draco’s flat and
left to unpack, Hermione grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him at top speed down the hall
to the gourmet kitchen he’d never once cooked in.

“We’ve made a terrible mistake,” she whispered to Draco as he trailed closely in her wake.

“Regretting parenthood already?”

“I’m beginning to believe we didn’t think this through.” She climbed onto a counter to locate
a hidden bag of Discos crisps in the back corner of one of the cupboards. She’d attended
enough late-night meetings at Draco’s flat over the past five years to know where he kept
them (out of reach, he thought, but women of Hermione’s short stature were adaptable), and
to know that when he opened his cupboard later to find that she’d replaced the bag with only
one or two crumbs left at the bottom, he was capable of producing some truly novel
expletives.

“You’re right. I can’t recall you ever having a less thought-out plan. I actually only agreed to
it because I wanted to be here to witness this exact moment, when your eyes go perfectly
round and you confess in a whisper that you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

She settled back onto the counter and shoved a handful of looted crisps into her mouth
angrily. “’S not funny.”

“Chew first, then speak. Honestly, Granger, you need to set a better example for the child.”

Hermione stress-ate her way through another handful before responding. “That’s precisely
the problem. Steps three and four. They’re utterly bollocksed before we even begin.”

“Are those the ones about getting her into Gryffindor?”

Swallowing over a dry mouthful, she wiped a palm print of crisp dust onto Draco’s kitchen
towel. He snatched it from her hands and folded it neatly before returning it to its hanger.

“I don’t recall having said anything about Gryffindor.”

“No, it was significantly more coded language. Getting her in with the right crowd, or
whatever. I’m well aware of what you consider the right sort of friends to be.” Draco’s brow
furrowed as she dove back into the bag.

“Wrong,” she said. “I actually put that on there because I assumed she’d be Slytherin, and
therefore she needs the right kind of Slytherin friends, like you, and not the wrong sort, like
Tom Riddle.”

He snorted in amusement. “That was very nearly a compliment. What steps have you
bollocksed, then?”

“Not me, us. The stable, secure environment one, as well as the education in morality. Can
you think of two people less capable of providing stability? We can hardly stand to be in a
room together.”

Draco moved closer to snatch the bag from her reluctant hands. “Stop taking your anxiety out
on my snacks, Granger. You’ll make yourself ill. And these are excellent questions that you
should have considered before we became legal guardians to an eleven-year-old.”

Her stomach roiled.

“Legal guardians! That’s the other thing. What happens after the thirty-first of October? Is
she going to come back here on school holidays? We can’t just drop her back off at that
horrid place with the Perpetually Moaning Sisters or whatever.”

Draco shoved a handful of crisps into his own mouth before responding. “No,” he said with
finality. “I don’t want that either. We’ll figure something else out, presuming we succeed and
this year actually contains school holidays. Demons walking around might put a damper on
the festive spirit.”

“She's not what I expected. I thought she’d be more…”

“Like me as a child?”

Usually, when he looked at her, he was either calculating his next move or gauging her
reaction to the one he’d just made. Now, his expression contained a vulnerability she’d never
seen, as though her almost-compliment had propped open a door behind his eyes and he’d
forgotten to lock up.

“You were not predisposed to evil either, Malfoy. Children aren’t, as a general rule.”

“Think it was all down to upbringing, then?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s not invoke your father. I think the point is that you aren’t
evil, despite everyone’s best efforts to the contrary.”

“That was a compliment.”

Hermione knew it was. What’s worse, she had meant it. “It’s only the stress of the day. Don’t
think ill-conceived legal guardianship has had a softening effect on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Granger. We both know you’re impervious to my softening efforts.”

“Why must you make everything sound like innuendo?”

Draco gave a genuine laugh, and she steeled herself not to soften at the sound. “That wasn’t.
Hardening efforts, on the other hand…”

From her seated position on his countertop, Hermione examined her thighs, which were
visible beneath the hem of her pleated white skirt. She smoothed the pleats down with her
palms.

“I think we need a moratorium. We shouldn’t fight around her.”

“Yes,” he agreed. He was looking at her thighs now, too. “No fighting. In the interest of
stability.”

“And the flirting. I know it’s not real, but we probably shouldn’t—”

He leaned against the counter, hands to either side of her legs, and she abruptly closed her
mouth. “No promises on that front, Granger.”

Her dark brown eyes met his and held him in place. “There’s a moratorium,” she said softly.
“Don’t forget it.”

If they hadn’t been so consumed with one another at that moment, they might’ve understood
that, for them, fighting was stability. It kept them on even footing. It held them at a
comfortable distance. If his grey eyes hadn’t been so earnest, or if her bare legs hadn’t been
so distractingly close, it might have occurred to them that fighting was the very pillar on
which their relationship stood.

Remove it, and the whole thing might crumble. They might collapse inward.

And when they did, they might fall directly into each other's arms.

---

“I thought we might start with a short meeting,” Hermione said, once Lilith was through
unpacking her piteously few belongings, most of which appeared to be teen magazines. “To
get to know each other.”

Draco turned to Lilith. “That’s actually everything you need to know about Granger.
Meetings are her idea of a fun icebreaker. Just wait until the notebook comes out – but wait!
There it is.”

Lilith settled into a seat across from the adults at Draco’s kitchen table, ignoring the angry
smack of Hermione’s notebook on the wood surface. “The nuns used to have meetings like
this every week. Family Meetings, they called them, although it wasn’t really a meeting.
They just talked about the rules a lot.”

Draco pondered this. “I don’t think I have rules. Granger, are we strict parents? I think we’re
quite lax, Lilith. Just no hexing anyone inside the house, please.” He turned to Hermione.
“Actually, that goes for you too.”

She kicked him beneath the table. “We’re not parents, and this isn’t a Family Meeting.”
“Hmm. Legally speaking, I think we—” he began, but was silenced with a second, more
forceful kick. “You have very pointy shoes, Granger. If you bruise me, I shall retaliate.”

“Lilith,” Hermione went on, “although we aren’t real parents, we’re going to do our best to
prepare you for Hogwarts, teach you all about the magical world, help you, erm, discern right
from wrong—”

“The nuns did loads of that already,” Lilith said, slumping in her chair. If she’d thought the
cool, young-looking couple would be delivering sermons, she might have thought twice
about trading places with the real Lilith. “I know about all the sins – gluttony, pride, wrath,
and so on.”

“That’s you straight to hell, then,” Hermione muttered to Draco. “How many charms did you
use on your hair this morning?”

He ran a hand through his pridefully maintained platinum locks and glowered at her. “Tell
that to my snack cupboard, you glutton. Besides, Lilith, I don’t think those lessons transfer.
There’s only three rules you need to know to avoid wizard hell, which is called Azkaban. No
murder, no torture, and no mind control.”

Hermione’s eyes widened a fraction. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him reference, even in
the vaguest of terms, Azkaban or his stint therein.

Lilith grinned. “Okay. No murder or torture.”

“And no mind control,” he insisted, conscious of Hermione’s eyes on him. “That one’s
important.” (Madam Rosmerta could testify to that, and had.)

With no idea what was going on, Lilith readily agreed.

Draco, having just accomplished excellent role-modelling before Hermione had attempted
any whatsoever, quirked a triumphant smile at her. “There. I’ve done it. First.”

Whatever positive thoughts she might have been thinking about him Disapparated straight
out of her head. She didn’t have a chance to respond, though, because just then an owl
arrived, bearing something scrawled hastily on angry-looking Ministry letterhead.

Draco snatched the letter from her and grinned. “All that rule-breaking with that nun seems to
be catching up with you, Granger. Would you like to hear about prison food, or would you
prefer it to be a surprise?”

She regretted their moratorium all the way to the Ministry.

---

“Hello,” Hermione greeted the three on-shift occupants of the Improper Use of Magic Office.
“I’m not sure I’m in the right place; perhaps you could direct me. I’d like to talk to someone
about this.”
She held out the letter for inspection. None of them moved to take it, because they were too
busy having a collective moment of panic.

“Well,” she continued, as the silence became uncomfortable. “I was hoping you might be
persuaded to look the other way on this one. My business in Stoke-on-Trent is work-related.”

The First Assistant managed to gather a few of her wits. “I’m so sorry. He’s new!” She glared
at the wilting Third Assistant Trainee while the Second Assistant began to have an out-of-
body experience.

Hermione offered what she thought was a reassuring smile. For some reason, these younger
Ministry employees were all so skittish. She thought it probably had something to do with
being raised in a time of peace. None of them had ever dealt with real adversity.

“That’s quite alright—” she began.

The First Assistant cringed in horror. “But it isn’t! That letter shouldn’t have—”

“No, honestly, it’s perfectly—”

“We’re very sorry! He’ll be punished, I swear—”

“No,” said Hermione firmly. “Just please ignore anything you happened to see in Stoke. No
one needs to be punished for anything.”

The First Assistant resembled nothing so much as a bobblehead as she agreed, in an

increasingly loud volume, that all reports from Stoke would be thoroughly ignored.

“Anything in Stoke, right in the bin, right away, got it,” she parroted, as Hermione smiled
blithely in thanks.

The Second Assistant, whose blood had rushed to her face at the appearance of the extremely
famous and terrifying Hermione Granger in their small office, stared at her through the white
spots that danced across her vision.

The Third Assistant Trainee felt violently ill. His mum would be furious if he were sacked on
his first day, and by Hermione Granger, no less.

When Hermione left the office, the First Assistant filed the letter in the charmed bin while the
Second Assistant lowered herself to a sitting position on the ground as a precautionary
measure against fainting.

“You were right. She’s terrifying,” the Third Assistant Trainee eventually said, when they had
all recovered from the encounter with the perfectly pleasant and not-at-all scary Hermione.

“I cannot believe you still have your job,” said the First Assistant. “If it were up to me—”

“It was an accident!”

“What was she doing in Stoke, anyway?”

“She turned a bird into a ferret in front of a Muggle. How could that be work-related?”

“Who knows?” the Second Assistant shrugged. “No one will even say what she does here.
Maybe she did it to save the world. Maybe she just likes ferrets.”

---

The thing about having a best friend so unlike yourself was that people assumed you had to
be on the opposite end of the spectrum on everything.

Because one was known to be disagreeable, the other looked practically saintly by contrast.

Because one was clever and bookish, the other must be silly and simple.

Because one had a rotten temper, it followed that the other must be kind.

The child now pretending to be Lilith was kind. But she wasn’t simple or silly. She certainly
wasn’t saintly.

She’d understood what Hermione and Draco had told her, but more importantly, what they
hadn’t. We’ll help you prepare for Hogwarts, they’d said, without mentioning any plans
beyond the start of term. This isn’t a Family Meeting because we’re not a real family. We’re
not parents. We don’t even like each other.

When she was younger and her imagination not so sanded down by years of living with ill-
tempered nuns and the disappointing facts of her existence, Lilith used to dream, like all
orphanage children did, of her someday family. She didn’t much care what they looked like,
so long as they were nice. Maybe one of them would drive a really cool car. Maybe one of
them could teach her how to paint. Maybe they could go on holiday together to the coast,
somewhere with fresh air (which Stoke, geographical marvel that it was, didn’t seem to get).

She was flexible on the finer points, so long as she had a family.

The shape and appearance of her new life seemed right, on the surface. Better, really, than
anything the combined imagination of twenty orphanage children could have invented.

After all, they arrived by magic, which was fantastic, to an equally fantastic flat (Draco was
definitely loaded), and then she’d been given the big room all to herself that she’d always
wanted.

But beneath its shiny outer layer there was a fragile hollowness where stability ought to be.
Lilith felt the whole thing might collapse in on itself if she squeezed too tightly.

Families adopted children and kept them. People who worked together did not. People who
worked together and claimed to hate each other especially did not.

Someday, probably soon, they’d find out that she wasn’t a witch. And then there’d really be
no reason to keep her because they weren’t a family at all. Just three people bound together
by a lie and a work obligation. Then they’d send her back, and then both she and the real
Lilith would be miserable. Her only hope was to turn this very abnormal arrangement into a
real, functioning family before that happened.

Lilith didn’t know how to manipulate the weather or turn animals into different sorts of
animals, but she was good at one thing: bringing people who obviously liked each other
together. In other words, meddling.

She’d seen practically every film on the topic. Her knowledge of the relevant literature
(gossip rags and rom-coms) was profound.

In school, she’d helped not one, but two of her classmates ask out their crushes. One of those
relationships had even lasted an entire month before her friend Olivia had decided she
actually liked a boy called Jack better and moved on rather abruptly and hurtfully.

Therefore, she was confident in her ability to get Draco and Hermione to see that they were
meant to be together forever. Not only because it meant they might keep her, but because they
were, in fact, perfect for each other. She just needed to get them to see it.

When they’d arrived in Draco’s flat by actual magic, Hermione had pointed to a small pile of
toiletries still in their packages, brand-new night clothes, a stack of books Lilith had little
interest in reading, and a small journal with an attached miniature pen. She located the
journal and flipped it to the first page.

Fifteen minutes later, she’d produced a foolproof nine-point plan to getting your new
adoptive parents to fall madly in love.

It was a good sight more foolproof than Hermione’s own nine-point plan, actually. It read:

1. Get them to say nice things to each other

2. Tell H. that D. likes her and vice versa
3. Convince them to go on a date
4. Get them to go on a romantic holiday
5. Make them buy each other something nice
6. Get them to talk about their feelings
7. Get D. to ask her out (or vice versa)
8. Convince them to move in together
9. Make them play spin the bottle, if needed

Lilith wasn’t too sure about that last one, but it seemed to work in a few movies she’d
watched while the nuns weren’t paying attention.

Satisfied that they’d be married by the end of term, she left her new room to go enact phase
one of her plan.

---

Hermione returned un-arrested from her visit to the Ministry bearing takeaway chow mein.
As they ate, the adults indulged endless questions about magic, their jobs (which sounded as
though they ought to be illegal) and Hogwarts. Two minutes into that last topic, Hermione
found herself picking at a cuticle while Draco chose his words very carefully and directed his
answers toward his dinner.

“And you weren’t friends in school?”

“We aren’t friends now.”

“Why weren’t you friends?”

“That’s a rather long story.”

“What were you like in school?”

“Granger was quite studious. I was a bit…uppity.”

Hermione choked on a bite of pork.

“And you didn’t like each other back then, even a little?”

And so on.

Finally, Draco had the brilliant idea of transfiguring her fork into a mouse, which both
distracted and awed Lilith. In retaliation, Hermione cast wingardium leviosa with
unnecessary emphasis on the long o vowel sound and levitated her around the flat while she
giggled.

Draco sent his fox patronus chasing after them. Lilith was delighted.

She was too young, perhaps, or too unaccustomed to the particular stupidity of two adults
who were maintaining a pointless grudge through sheer stubbornness. Either way, Lilith
didn’t realise a new battle in their ongoing war had been waged that night, the objective of
which was to amaze her with increasingly impressive spellwork.

Hermione won by transfiguring his sofa into a swimming pool, complete with an inflatable
flamingo. Lilith waded in, heedless of the water splashing on the hardwood.

“Turn it back, Granger, or you’ll find yourself swimming in a puddle, and I’m fairly
confident I can manage pond scum if sufficiently motivated.”

She did, mouthing the word moratorium at him, but now the cushions smelled of chlorine. He
escalated to an expelliarmus just as she conveniently declared the game over.

“Can we watch a film?” Lilith asked, wondering whether forced proximity for the length of a
120-minute romantic comedy ought to be added to her list.

Draco snorted. “This one’s all you, Granger.”

Lilith had never come so close to blurting out the truth as she did when Hermione, wincing
apologetically, informed her that not only were there no films, there were no mobile phones,
texting, microwaves, television, yes that included reality television, cars, and, most shocking
of all, the entirety of the internet was unavailable.

“We do have running water,” she offered reassuringly. “Also, magic.”

Astutely observing that indoor plumbing wasn’t much of a consolation, Draco handed over
his wand. “Give it a go. Try lumos.” He demonstrated the movement.

“That’s against the rules,” Hermione pointed out primly. “She’s not supposed to—”

“Don’t worry, Lilith. They’ve yet to invent a rule Granger can’t break with impunity,
apparently.”

Lilith held the funny stick of wood as instructed and pretended to try to cast the spell.
Nothing happened, obviously. Thankfully, neither adult seemed that put out about it.

“It’s alright. There was a boy at Hogwarts with us who didn’t do any magic at all until third
year or so,” said Draco, accepting his wand back with a shrug.

Hermione glowered. “That’s a very unkind thing to say about Neville.”

“Longbottom? Not at all. I was referring to Weasley.”

Lilith watched Hermione’s fingers twitch toward her wand and flipped her little notebook
open. “I think you ought to try saying something nice to each other.”

Although she didn’t know it, enough compliments had been distributed that day already, and
any more would have further upended the delicate balance of their strange relationship. They
declined to answer.

---

From page 18 of Mizz Magazine, December 2011 publication:

Virgo-Gemini compatibility rating: five out of five hot peppers

Mercury rules these two signs, so you shouldn’t be surprised to find them butting heads!
Grounded, practical Virgo might find Gemini a little flighty, while playful, impulsive Gemini
may consider Virgo to be too uptight for their own good.

They’re both intellectual and quick-witted signs that love to be right, which can stand in the
way of them recognising their mutual attraction, even when it’s painfully obvious to others.
But all’s fair in love and war, so the tension between these so-called enemies actually makes
for an explosively passionate pairing, if they can get over themselves long enough to act on
it.
Chapter End Notes

*slaps 14-chapter outline* This bad boy can fit so many interconnected side plots.

I'm cheating a bit by making quite a few of these upcoming chapters a tiny bit (very)
long. You have that to look forward to, I guess.

The unhinged plotting, I must admit, has not quite peaked. (I think that happens right
around the end of chapter 13.) Also something to look forward to? Something to fear?
You decide.

NEXT WEEK: Small, yappy dogs discover an affinity for flight. Hermione’s job really
ought to be illegal. Living arrangements are up for review. Pansy gets into the mood.
 A Temporary Cessation of Hostilities
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It was late in the evening on Pansy’s sixth day in Stoke – the third day since her probably-
not-coincidental meeting with Neville – and precisely zero progress had been made by either
party.

Each morning, he Apparated to her rented cottage, where they would spend the day
attempting to read tea leaves, or moon charts, or (once, disturbingly) knuckle bones, which
Veta had delivered in person only ten minutes after she’d been asked if she might know
where to procure some.

Without exception, they failed to produce results. No matter how hard she looked, she saw
only misshapen blobs of tea leaves, constellations that held no deeper meaning, and a
suspiciously human-shaped pile of white osseous matter that Neville promptly disposed of by
unspoken agreement.

Every evening, Neville would return home, which was in Apparition-distance, and she’d stay
in the Muggle cottage, struggling to stave off the despair that descended in his absence. But
Neville, who seemed to be made of patience and ideas, wouldn’t let her give in to it.

She was coming close just now, though.

“I look like a rug. Like a very ugly rug.” She lifted her arms to demonstrate. The red and gold
paisley caftan fluttered around her as if poised to take flight.

“You don’t look like a rug. Maybe a bit like a pillow. And we agreed dressing the part might
help put you in the right frame of mind.”

Pansy groaned. “You’re right! Like one of Trelawney’s throw pillows.” She flapped her arms
a few times and sighed. “I don’t feel inspired. I feel stupid.”

“I think you look – well, you always look nice.” Neville did not meet her eyes as he said it,
partly because she did always look nice, and partly because the paisley caftan was very hard
to look at without laughing. Both things could be true, apparently.

“Let’s just get on with it.” Pansy gathered a fistful of the oversized garment and plopped
unceremoniously in front of her new crystal ball, purchased by mail order from an advert at
the back of Witch Weekly. It was guaranteed by the manufacturer to enable divine sight and
impart mystical visions from beyond the veil. The details of the guarantee had not been
elaborated on.

Pansy was quite certain it was a standard spherical piece of glass. Still, she wasn’t in a
position to turn down any opportunity to find answers, even when that opportunity came in
the form of an obvious scam, or an unattractive item of clothing. If she thought about it too
hard, she might cry again, so she simply didn’t.

Neville unfolded the included brochure. “This says – hm. It says before you can do any
crystal ball gazing, the Seer must prepare their body to receive the gift of Sight.”

“Gross.”

“It looks like the first step is mood lighting. Candlelight is essential to set the mood for the
evening.”

“Am I trying to see the future or seduce it?” Pansy grumbled, but stood to switch off the
electric lights of her rented Muggle cottage before locating a candle. “There. Sufficiently
moody, I hope. What’s next?”

“Erm, it says you should be lying down in order to…receive.”

“It does not say that.”

Blushing, Neville pointed to the sofa. “Go on, then.”

Depositing the lit candle on the table with a huff, she scooped up the crystal ball, which was
neither real crystal nor magical in any way, and moved to lie on the sofa, holding it in front of
her face.

“Now what? If you say something about romantic music—”

“Er, yes, actually. It says sensual music will help relax the mind.”

“Neville! Are we certain we have the instructions for the right thing? This sounds like the
start of a disappointing Friday evening with a very inept partner.”

Neville was becoming increasingly thankful for the mood lighting, which mostly disguised
his flushed cheeks. On the other hand, it cast Pansy in an ethereal glow, which he found it
difficult to look away from, paisley and all.

“We can skip the music,” he said, forcing his attention back to the pamphlet. “The radio only
plays talking, anyway.”

[They’d located a Muggle radio in the cottage, but unfortunately had not located the FM
button. That afternoon, Neville had listened with interest as two disembodied voices
discussed the recent improvement in afternoon traffic, which they’d bafflingly attributed to a
corresponding increase in motion sickness.]

Neville’s eyes landed on the next line of instructions and widened in horror. He flipped the
pamphlet shut with a snap.

“What does it say?” Pansy asked, summoning the papers into her hand before Neville could
stop her. She rested the crystal ball on her stomach and read aloud, “Effort must be taken to
ensure the body is in a thoroughly relaxed, satiated state before proceeding. Eurgh. That
sounds like—”

“I know!” he said quickly. “We don’t need to—”

“Do all Seers orgasm before having visions, do you think? Oh wait.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I forgot that includes me. No, I definitely didn’t.”

Neville removed his glasses to press the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“Do you think it would work, though?” she mused. “I’m willing to try anything at this point,
and I do mean anything.”

He dropped his hands and gaped at her.

“By myself, I mean,” she clarified with a wave of her hand. “I wasn’t suggesting that you
should give me an orgasm. Although maybe it works better with a partner? I mean, I know it
works better with a partner. Broadly speaking, anyway; I think it depends on the partner. But
for the purposes of having a vision…Are you alright?”

Neville, who was in the midst of a shock-induced coughing fit, escaped to the kitchen to
make a cup of tea. Spending time in her presence necessitated quite a lot of chamomile, he’d
found.

She lifted the crystal ball and squinted into it. “This is pointless. I’m not relaxed, this is just a
piece of glass, and if visions could be forced, Trelawney would’ve done it every class just to
show off.”

Neville grasped at the change of subject like a lifeline.

“There are a few other things we can test,” he called back. “I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll
try again. I’ve been looking into a few plants we might consider. A couple of them are not
exactly legal, strictly speaking, but I think they’re mostly harmless.”

Pansy sat up to prop her chin on the back of the sofa, watching as he poured boiling water
into two cups with practised movements. He had nice hands, she decided. And a nice face.
And he was nice. It was so rare, in her world, to have someone pleasant to talk to. It was not
nearly as boring as she might have imagined.

“Neville?”

He looked up, stopping short. The candlelight flickered softly across the bridge of her nose.
“Yes?”

“Do you want to move in? There’s a spare room.”

At his look of blank surprise, she realised that a rejection by Neville Longbottom of all
people might be the humiliation that finally pushed her over the edge.
“It’s alright if you don’t want to,” she said, looking down at the glass orb she still held. “I
know you have a life, and you don’t want to be here with me all the time. Forget I asked.”

“Yes. Yes, Pansy. I’ll move in.”

She tapped her nails against the cold, translucent surface. “Okay. Good.”

“Good.”

The room was dim, lit only by the diligent efforts of a single candle. Still, when she looked
up again, she could make out the shape of his smile.

---

The first step of Lilith’s nine-point plan to make her new adoptive parents fall madly in love
was turning out to be less foolproof than she’d originally imagined.

It wasn’t the plan’s fault. It was only that Draco and Hermione were acting like bigger fools
than she ever could’ve accounted for.

The closest they’d come to Step one: Get them to say nice things to each other was “she’s fun
to annoy” and “he’s not as stupid as he looks.” Then they’d said something about a
moratorium and shot nasty glares at each other.

It was like being adopted into the middle of a contentious custody battle.

Every morning that week, Hermione arrived at the flat bearing breakfast for Lilith and a few
sharp jabs for Draco. Then she was given the choice of spending the day at the Ministry of
Magic with Hermione, or at the normal Ministry with Draco. She invariably picked the much
more interesting magical option.

In the evenings, she listened to the adults argue with each other about whether or not demons
were real, between repeated warnings that she should definitely not, in either case, attempt to
summon any. All of Lilith’s attempts to turn the conversation to the fact that they were
obviously soulmates went ignored.

(If it had been that easy, one of their friends would have accomplished it years ago.)

By the end of the week, Lilith decided it was time for a change in strategy. She called a
Family Meeting.

“This isn’t working,” she told them, hands folded neatly before her.

“It isn’t?” Hermione asked, settling into the seat next to Lilith’s. “You haven’t had a good
first week?”

“Not entirely.” When Hermione looked disappointed, she hurried to explain. “I mean, I like
you both very much. The Ministry of Magic is awesome. Travelling by fireplace is cool. And
I like your flat,” she added to Draco, who raised an eyebrow, waiting for the but that was
clearly coming.
“But,” she continued, “didn’t you take any of the parenting classes? This isn’t anything like a
normal family.”

Hermione and Draco glanced at each other warily. “We might’ve skipped a few of the
required steps in the adoption procedure,” he admitted slowly. “Does this not feel like – what
was it, Granger? A stable living arrangement?”

“No,” Lilith informed them honestly. “You’re supposed to be living together. I think you
should move in, Hermione.”

It was a bold move, skipping straight to step eight of the plan. She held her breath and hoped
it would pay off. It did not.

“Can’t,” Draco said, snorting with amusement at the prospect. “She’d kill me in my sleep.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “No, but Crookshanks might.”

Lilith crossed her arms and frowned at them both. “This is what I mean! You can’t even have
a conversation like normal adults. It’s so annoying.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” Draco grinned at her. “Our friends hardly complain anymore.”

“It’s true,” Hermione shrugged. “Hating each other has never stopped us from working well
together. That said, if this is feeling unstable…” She flipped open her notebook and referred
down to the nine-point apocalypse prevention plan written there. “Can we have a quick
moment, Lilith?”

She cast a muffliato while Lilith slumped dramatically in her seat.

When they could talk without being overheard, Draco turned to her. “Well, we’ve managed to
fuck it up already. I’m surprised no demons have spontaneously appeared yet.”

“I’m not moving in with you.” Hermione rubbed her temples. It had been a long, tiring week,
during which she’d spent more consecutive hours with Draco than she had in the past several
months combined. It annoyed her how much she hadn’t hated it.

“Obviously. But you could try being nicer?”

Hermione sniffed. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been perfectly nice all week.”

“Well, you clearly need to try harder.”

“Fine. I have an idea.” She ended the charm and smiled warmly at Lilith, who was now
scowling in a fair approximation of the child in Stoke who she was pretending to be.

“I’m not moving in. But we promise to be nicer to each other, and this weekend I’ll take you
both to the Muggle cinema. I doubt Malfoy’s ever been, because he’s completely ignorant to
the Muggle world, despite working in it.”

“That was mean,” he pointed out.

“Oh, right. I forgot already. Sorry.”

“Like a date?” Lilith asked hopefully, willing to overlook the whole incident if Step three:
Convince them to go on a date could be checked off her list.

“No,” Hermione said quickly. “Like a…family outing. Although I must stress that this isn’t
really a family.”

“And I’m hiring a house-elf,” Draco announced.

Lilith’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s a house-elf?”

“Unpaid labour!” Hermione glared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“I said hire, Granger. Don’t be difficult. You’re the one complaining about feeding her
takeaway for every meal. Besides, my parents’ house elves practically raised me. It could
help with the stability situation.”

“And were they hired? Besides, that’s not exactly a glowing endorsement of their child-
rearing skills.”

“Be nice,” he warned her. “As difficult as it must be for you.”

“I forgot again,” she shrugged.

Lilith gave a sigh and hoped that Gemma, at least, was having an easier time of it in Stoke.

---

Gemma remembered very clearly the first time she’d ever done anything magical.

She’d been seven years old, and she was being yelled at for something. Perhaps she hadn’t
cleaned the room she shared with Lilith (who was, at that time, known as Gemma), or maybe
she’d taken someone’s toy and had objected to returning it. There weren’t a lot of things you
could do at seven that warranted being screamed at by an adult, in her opinion, so she was
pretty sure she hadn’t deserved it. But the nun who’d been doing the yelling didn’t prescribe
to modern childrearing methods, and so she’d been down in Gemma’s face, mouth moving,
uvula flapping.

Gemma had been thinking, “Ow, that really hurts my ears. Please shut up.” And then the
noise stopped.

The nun was slow to react, so she continued silently berating Gemma for a full sentence
before she noticed. Her voice didn’t come back, either, not after sucking on a lozenge, nor
after a visit to the local doctor, nor after the priest forced everybody to pray for the recovery
of her vocal cords.

It wasn’t until Gemma had started feeling guilty and thought, “I wish she could talk again”
that the sister’s voice returned, and Gemma realised she’d done actual magic.
Most children would have rejoiced to discover secret magical talents. But Sister Mary
Caroline liked to tell stories about an exorcism she’d attended in the sixties, and it sounded
dreadful. So Gemma vowed to keep her demonic powers a secret, even from her best friend.

She withdrew into herself, spending most of her time holed up in her room, reading all the
books about magic she could get her hands on without the nuns noticing. She cultivated a
reputation of being a loner, reasoning that if she wasn’t around people, she couldn’t get mad
at them, and if she wasn’t mad, she wouldn’t accidentally catch something on fire, or make a
table float across the room, or shatter a window.

The only exception to her solitude was Lilith, whom she was never mad at. Still, as much as
she missed her friend, it was a relief to know she was safely far away, where she would never
be in danger from an accidental burst of magic.

Plus, now she got to spend all her time practising. She really liked to practise on the Prices’
four small, yappy dogs.

[If you’re the sort of person who cares more for the welfare of animals than that of humans,
you needn’t worry. The four yappy dogs were perfectly unharmed. The same cannot be said
for the Prices.]

They weren’t awful, as adoptive parents went. (She’d watched Annie, so she was generally
aware of what the lower end of the spectrum entailed.)

But if Mrs Price caught her looking unoccupied, she’d try to get her signed up for swimming
lessons, or take her to meet her friends over tea, or make conversation about the weather,
which was only ever hot and smelly. And even when Gemma submitted to the tedium, Mrs
Price always seemed slightly disappointed, as if the reality of Gemma didn’t quite live up to
the expectation that three long years of waiting to adopt had created in the older woman’s
mind.

If Mr Price (she would not call him dad, ever, and when she’d tried to call him Kenneth, he’d
jerked his head back in alarm) caught her looking unoccupied, he’d try to make her clean out
his toolshed or fetch something from the kitchen for him. If she looked something other than
delighted to obey, he’d glare at her and grumble something about being sold a false bill of
goods by the nuns. Then he’d mutter the words “no returns” to himself and go back to
ignoring her.

Therefore, she spent a lot of time outside, away from the house, taking the dogs for a walk.

Except instead of walking them, she liked to levitate them down the lane. They liked this,
too.

At first she could only manage the one, and they’d have to take it in turns. But by the end of
the first week, she could reliably float three wriggling, yapping dogs a metre off the ground
in front of her, while the fourth jumped at her feet optimistically.

That afternoon found her strolling down the lane, concentrating hard on the fourth dog while
the others performed barrel rolls above the tall grass. Concentrating too hard, probably,
because she didn’t notice the car pull up behind her until it was too late.

“GEMMA!” Mr Price had leaned fully out of his car window, the better to yell at her.

She spun, a hand raised in front of her as if she could prevent the scene from unfolding. If
she’d known about disillusionment charms, and had significantly more control over her
magic, she might’ve attempted one. As it was, she remained perfectly visible, and time did
not stop.

It seemed to speed up, in fact. Several things happened at once.

The first was that Mr Price caught sight of the dogs, two of whom were now doggy-paddling
through empty air. A third floated on its back near Gemma’s shoulder, tongue lolling out of
the side of his open mouth. Mr Price’s jaw slackened.

Meanwhile, Gemma had the frantic idea that perhaps Mr Price could be convinced he'd just
developed sudden-onset dementia. She focused her mind on setting the dogs down gently.

Magic is a muscle. Learning to use wandless magic, in particular, is like learning to use a fork
as a small child. You're going to miss and poke yourself in the chin a few times before you
get the hang of it.

Gemma hadn’t yet developed fine motor control.

The fourth dog joined its siblings in the air, tail wagging. She began to panic and tried again.

The car, and Mr Price along with it, began to levitate.

“Oh, Christ.”

The fourth dog, delighted to finally be included, launched itself through the air toward the
car, barking madly. The others followed, tiny legs flapping like paddles around her head.

Mr Price found his voice, and used it to begin yelling. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, GIRL?
PUT ME DOWN RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” she called back frantically. It was very hard to focus
with all the excited yapping and furious shouting.

The car continued to rise.

One of the dogs caught up to Mr Price, and he leaned precariously out of the window to
snatch it around its belly. Depositing it on the passenger's seat, he leaned back out for the
next closest dog. Meanwhile, the one already in the car made a running leap through the
opposite window, where it mercifully did not fall to the ground, which was now quite far
away.

“I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING NOT RIGHT ABOUT YOU! I’M RETURNING
YOU TO THAT ORPHANAGE!”
“They don’t take returns, you dolt!” Gemma couldn’t help yelling back at him, although she
was starting to become very afraid. There was likely to be an exorcism in her near future if
she didn’t find a way to fix this.

“I’LL HAVE YOU ARRESTED!” The voice was further away now.

Gemma clapped her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes shut, and began chanting to
herself. “Put them down. Put them down. Put them down. Put them down.”

Something warm and wriggling pressed against her shin. She opened her eyes to find that all
four of the dogs had been reunited with gravity and were gathered around her. They hopped
on their hind legs at her feet, begging to be floated once more.

The car was back on the ground, too, only it was upside down. One of the wheels spun freely.

“Mr Price?” she called. There was silence for a moment, then, groaning dramatically, he
emerged by crawling through the rolled-down driver's side window.

They stared at each other in mutual shock as he clambered to his feet. Gemma had the idea to
pick one of the dogs up as a measure of protection in case he attacked.

“What…what happened?” Mr Price clapped a hand to his head and turned his stunned gaze
on the car, which rested neatly in the centre of the lane on its roof.

“Nothing?” Gemma said hesitantly, wondering if the dementia tactic might still work.

Mr Price turned back to her, blinking slowly. “Right. Nothing happened.” His voice was very
flat.

She squinted at him. “Did you hit your head?”

“I hit my head.” He pulled his hand away and looked at it. He looked uninjured, as far as
Gemma could tell.

“You need to go to hospital. You flipped your car.”

“I flipped my car,” he parroted.

Gemma wondered if maybe it was dementia.

[It wasn’t. It was, however, the very first example of a wandless Imperius Curse in recorded
history, which was possibly worse, depending on how you looked at it.]

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” she asked miserably.

“I am going to repeat everything you say.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, no.”
“Mr Price! Stop.”

He snapped his mouth shut.

Gemma stared at him in astonishment. She was going to get away with the whole thing, she
realised. Although they should probably still rule out that head injury, just in case.

Then she escorted him home, where a very worried Mrs Price threatened to take his keys
away permanently. They had to call a taxi to take him to hospital, in the end, because the car
was blocking the lane. Gemma didn’t dare try to move it.

---

“It’s Stoke. It’s her.”

The Improper Use of Magic Office’s First Assistant grabbed the sheet of parchment and
headed for the charmed bin, which had recently been relabeled “Hermione Granger’s Inbox /
Stoke-on-Trent.”

“It’s the Imperius Curse!” The Third Assistant Trainee tried to snatch it back but was
unsuccessful.

“You heard her! We’re to ignore everything that happens in Stoke. Do you want her to come
back down here?” She tossed the parchment in the bin, where it was promptly claimed by the
incinerator.

“No, of course not. But it’s illegal! Like, really illegal! People go to prison for that. If she’s
doing the Imperius Curse on people, we have to tell Harry Potter—”

“Will you shut up!” the Second Assistant hissed. “He works on this floor!”

It was too late. The assistants of the Improper Use of Magic Office were about to meet their
second war hero in the space of a week.

“Hello,” said Harry, popping his head around the corner. “I was just in the corridor and I
heard my name. Something about the Imperius Curse?”

The First Assistant moaned into her hands. “If I could sack you, I would do it right now,” she
told the Third Assistant Trainee.

“Is something the matter?” Harry peered at them in concern. Every year these assistants
seemed to get younger and more skittish.

“No!” responded the First and Second Assistants.

“Yes,” said the Third Assistant Trainee.

Harry looked to the youngest of the bunch. “Alright, I think you’d better tell me what’s going
on.”
“Hermione-Granger-is-using-the-Imperius-Curse-on-people,” he said, before either of the
other two assistants could stop him.

“That cannot be what you saw,” Harry said, in his kindest tone. The young man in front of
him looked close to jumping out of his skin.

“See?” snapped the First Assistant. “I told you she’s allowed to—”

“No, I mean – Hermione isn’t performing the Imperius Curse. That’s absurd. She wouldn’t.”

All three assistants pinched their lips together, not wishing to contradict Harry Potter, Saviour
of Humanity.

“Do you have any evidence?”

The Third Assistant Trainee looked pointedly at the smoking rubbish bin.

Harry sighed. “Is there anyone else it could’ve been? Any…former Death Eaters with her,
perhaps?” He took no joy in making the accusation, but he hadn’t become Head Auror by
ignoring what was blatantly obvious.

It belatedly occurred to the Third Assistant Trainee that he was very close to making a serious
allegation against not only Hermione Granger, but a former Death Eater as well. He cringed
regretfully.

“There wasn’t anyone there, actually. That could mean they Disapparated in a hurry, or that it
was an underage person, who wouldn’t show up on the map. But she said she had important
business – we thought it was her.” His tone grew defensive. “We all thought it was her.”

His colleagues looked at him venomously and said nothing.

“Well, it was obviously not a child. I’ll look into it. And please don’t file any more reports in
that bin – she’s not above the law. I don’t care what she tells you.” Harry gave them a
reassuring nod and left.

“Now you’ve done it,” the Second Assistant told the trainee, whose days were numbered. He
would now either be fired by Hermione Granger or blasted off the face of the earth by a
certain ex-Death Eater bent on revenge. She wasn’t certain which was worse. “And he’s
wrong. She is above the law. You’ll see.”

---

Neither Hermione nor Draco were falsely accused of using the Imperius Curse that day,
because when Harry tried to reach her by Floo, he discovered that she wasn’t in her office or
at home. He then tried Draco’s Floo, but found it closed.

But even if Hermione had owned a cell phone, she would’ve been unavailable. At that
moment, they were in Muggle London with Lilith, watching The Amazing Spiderman.
Actually, only Draco was really watching the film. Lilith was mostly watching Hermione,
who, in the darkness of the theatre, kept sneaking smugly amused glances at the slack-jawed
astonishment across Draco’s face. At one point, in evident amazement at the marvel of
Muggle cinema, he made a grab for Hermione’s hand. Lilith watched in triumph as Hermione
looked down at their clasped hands, bit her lip as if considering, and then turned her gaze
back on the screen with a smile she could barely suppress.

---

After several days of increasingly peckish owls from Harry, Hermione left Lilith with Draco
and popped through the fireplace to Grimmauld Place. She’d been avoiding this interaction,
uncertain she’d be able to say the words, “Yes, I’ve temporarily adopted a work-related child
with Malfoy” with enough confidence to forestall any difficult follow-up questions.

Still, it seemed word had spread around the Ministry, judging by Harry’s repeated requests
for an urgent meeting, the latest of which simply read, “You can’t avoid me forever,
Hermione.”

It was a short-lived relief to discover that he hadn’t found out about Lilith yet, and that a very
different rumour was apparently circulating the Ministry corridors.

“I haven’t been using the Imperius Curse, Harry! Hang on, did they seriously tell you I’ve
been using the Imperius Curse?”

Harry shrugged. “It was strongly implied that you were somehow involved.”

She snorted. “I hope you know how absurd that sounds.”

“Yes, I thought so too.” He winced. “Look, I know you and Malfoy have a…complicated
relationship, but if there’s any chance he’s—”

“Harry Potter! Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

Harry hadn’t seen her angry in quite some years, and was suddenly reminded why he and
Ron had always sought to avoid it.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I know it’s been a long time, and he’s different now, but someone is
apparently letting off Imperius Curses in your presence. I’m only following the obvious lead
here.”

She narrowed her eyes menacingly. “If you’d bothered to get to know him at all, you would
understand that you’ve just said something very stupid.”

He raised a confrontational eyebrow. “I thought you claimed to hate him.”

Instead of agreeing, like Harry had expected, Hermione pressed her lips together and changed
the subject. “I’ve met those Improper Use of Magic Office assistants. They don’t appear to be
very bright. What proof did they offer?”
“None, because apparently you’ve terrified them into destroying evidence. And they did say
the perpetrator wasn’t showing up on the map, which could mean it's an underage person. But
that obviously isn’t possible, no child could—”

“Oh, bollocks.” Hermione collapsed onto Harry’s sofa, anger flicking off like a switch.

Harry frowned at the sudden change in her demeanour. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I absolutely cannot.”

“It’s an Unforgivable Curse! I am the Head Auror! Hermione, you know I have to get
involved.”

Her forehead creased in pity as she looked up at him. “Don’t make me say it, Harry.”

“You can’t get away with just anything, I don’t care what Kingsley says!”

“Please don’t, I really won’t enjoy pulling rank on you.”

“Don’t lie; we both know you will. This is ridiculous—”

“No, this is my job,” she said coolly. “If there are any reports related to this incident, send
them to me so I can have them destroyed.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, during which Hermione did her best not to look
too smug and Harry tried not to give in too quickly. She did outrank him, after all, and they
both knew it.

He sank into the chair next to her with a sigh. “Your job should be illegal.”

“You wouldn’t arrest me.” She smiled fondly at him.

Harry ran a defeated hand through his hair, making it stand up even higher than usual. “You’ll
tell me if there’s anything I need to worry about, won’t you?”

She assured him that she had it well in hand, and that the whole thing was likely a
misunderstanding that came down to the ineptitude of those young assistants. She promised
to have a strongly-worded conversation with them later.

Then she left to have a different strongly-worded conversation with the wrong eleven-year-
old about why we don’t force people to do things against their will.

---

Draco had never hired a house-elf before, and he wasn’t sure he’d got it right.

The advert he’d placed in the Prophet had read: Part-time house-elf wanted; paid position;
cooking, childcare, and light cleaning; inquire with D. Malfoy. Room & board not incl.
Every sane house-elf in Britain who’d read it had thought, “house-elves live in your house,
you dimwit. It’s right there in the name.”

Therefore, only Wally had responded.

Draco stood awkwardly in his kitchen, attempting to conduct an interview while the ancient
elf rummaged through his pantry. Not to take stock of what was there, apparently, but to find
something to eat. Wally withdrew, holding a bag of almonds, and popped one between his
toothless gums to suck on it.

“Do you have any prior experience?” Draco ventured, deciding not to comment.

“Yes,” said Wally. He moved the almond to the other side.

While Draco waited for an elaboration that wasn’t coming, Lilith giggled through her hand.
“I like him.”

“Are there any references you can share?” Draco asked, without much optimism.

“Does Mistress Lilith have any enemies?” Wally asked her, declining to participate in the
ongoing interview.

She scrunched up her face in thought. “I don’t think so?”

Wally nodded in approval. “When shall I start, Master Draco?”

“Erm,” Draco stalled, as Lilith smiled up at him expectantly. “What did you mean about
enemies?”

Before Wally could answer (not that he would’ve, Draco suspected), a thumping noise in the
living room announced that Hermione had just kicked off her shoes after exiting the Floo.
“Malfoy, we need to—” She halted in the doorway. “Oh, my.”

Wally was grinning widely at her, displaying an utter lack of teeth.

“Hermione! We’ve hired an elf,” Lilith beamed at her. “This is Wally.”

Hermione studied the maniacal gleam in Wally’s eye and glanced doubtfully at Draco. “Have
we?”

He spread his hands helplessly. “Apparently so.”

“Hello, then. Well…I suppose it's good timing, because we need to talk. Wally can stay here
with Lilith for a moment?” The last part was a question, directed at the elf. He flashed his
gums at her again. This time, she managed not to flinch.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Draco muttered, but she had already grabbed his arm, intent
on dragging him to safety before any illegal curses could be fired in his direction.

---
In Draco’s living room, under the protection of a muffliato, Hermione delivered the bad
news.

“Who’s she Imperiusing, then? Not us, surely?”

Hermione twisted a strand of her hair into an anxious tangle. “I don’t know! Now I’m
rethinking everything. Did I even want to watch a film with you? That seems very out of
character for me.”

He frowned. “You’re right. And I enjoyed it, which is not how I usually feel in your
presence.”

“We’re failing at this,” Hermione said. “We didn’t even know she was doing it.”

“I don’t think she knows she’s doing it. I haven’t seen her do any magic at all.”

They stared at each other glumly.

“I think – I think we should move in together,” Hermione finally said.

“Merlin. Is she doing it right now?” He placed a hand on either side of her face and leaned in,
studying her eyes.

Hermione wondered if perhaps she was under some primitive, wandless form of mind
control. Take Draco’s hands around her face, for example: she hadn’t the slightest desire for
him to remove them. There was something quite settling about those deep pools of grey; she
could slip in and take a brief respite from worrying about apocalyptic scenarios for as long as
he held her in his gaze.

Still. The important thing to do when you find yourself trapped under a spell, whether that’s
an Unforgiveable or the soft brush of comforting fingers along your hairline, is to fight back.

“I’m not being Imperiused, Malfoy! Get off me.” She wrapped her hands around his fingers
to pull them away. “I simply think we ought to try to keep her happy. And we obviously need
to keep a closer eye on each other, just in case.”

“So you think the solution to her Imperiusing us into spending more time together is to…
spend more time together?”

“Well, she won’t need to resort to that if we’re already living together,” Hermione said,
demonstrating flawless logic. “We’re lucky that her main goal seems to be matchmaking, and
not something more sinister. Besides, it’s only for six more weeks until she goes to school.”

He kept his face very near her own, examining her closely. “If you hadn’t pinky promised, I’d
swear this was all somehow still a prank.”

Hermione fought hard against her smile and won. “Do you have an extra room? An office I
could temporarily requisition?”
“There’s another guest room you can use.” He was still looking at her consideringly.
Hermione thought he might be considering whether it was too late to do something entirely
different with his life.

“I don’t have any desire to live here,” she felt compelled to remind him. “It’s only for Lilith.
Apocalypse prevention, et cetera.”

“It’s not that. I’m trying to determine whether the fact that I do want you here is due to mind
control or simply the convenience of it all. Pranking will be almost too easy with you one
room over.”

Hermione looked down at her hands, which – to her complete shock – were still touching his
own, and weighed the implication of one room over. “You can’t. There’s a moratorium,” she
reminded him.

Draco looked down at their hands, too. He pulled his away softly. “Right. I forgot. Must be
the mind control, then.”

“I cannot think what else it could be, given that we obviously loathe one another. Still, I think
we can coexist peacefully in the same house for Lilith’s sake.”

“Then…I look forward to peacefully coexisting with you.” The obvious sincerity of that
statement startled them both. Draco blinked and turned away, eyes a little hazy, and
Hermione resolved to look up the physical symptoms of the Imperius Curse just in case.

He led her past Lilith’s room to the flight of stairs that would take them to the second level.
They passed his own bedroom, which had been kept tightly locked and guarded with a
sneakoscope since the early days of their war. She knew, because she’d once activated it
while trying to relocate a grindylow to his en suite bath.

He paused at a door she hadn’t had the occasion to break into yet and placed a hesitant hand
on the handle. “Granger—" The hand withdrew as he turned to face her. "Do you ever think
we’ve taken it too far?”

“With Lilith? I’m still reasonably confident we can pull it off.”

Draco’s brow knitted, but he said nothing, just unlocked the door with his wand and pushed it
open. With a muttered excuse about not leaving she-Voldemort unattended with a mad elf, he
was gone.

If Hermione had been half as bad at lying to herself as she was at lying to everyone else, she
would have noticed some four-and-a-half years ago, when the initial blush of outrage at
Draco’s appointment as Magical Liaison Chairperson had faded, that her cup of hatred
runneth empty. If she had, she might’ve flipped open her notebook to the first unmarked page
and drafted a short list titled “Ways to convince yourself you hate someone again so that you
don’t lose a war over it.”

It would have included three items:

First, don’t think about them too much, and never in a positive way.

Second, don’t look at them too closely lest you get distracted. (This one was specific to
Draco, and probably isn’t generally applicable to all adversaries.)

Third, keep your distance. Proximity is anathema to loathing.

Hermione measured the interval between their doors with her eyes, realised they’d be sharing
a wall, and practised several ineffective deep-breathing techniques.

---

After Hermione finished reminding an extremely confused Lilith that mind control was
strictly prohibited, she delivered the news.

Lilith’s only reaction was to smile gleefully and strike a line through something in her
notebook.

“My cat’s coming too. I hope you’re not allergic.”

“We didn’t discuss the cat,” Draco cut in. “And neither did we discuss you creating a
miniature clone of yourself.” He eyed Lilith’s small black notebook, a smaller version of
Hermione’s own, with displeasure.

“He’s only a half-cat,” Hermione reasoned. “And it’s a good thing if she’s anything like me.
Better than the alternative, anyway.”

“What’s the other half?” Lilith asked.

Draco folded his arms. “What’s the alternative?”

“Kneazle, and—” Hermione shot him a dark look, then (recalling the words stability and
moral education), carefully concluded, “disorganised.”

“Your cat hates me, Granger.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“That creature has no concept of the word moratorium.”

“I can’t control him.”

Then the adults had a silent argument with their eyes. Lilith wasn’t any good at interpreting
angry glares, since most of the nuns had practised more audible forms of communication, like
angry screaming. She just kept her most winning smile plastered on and waited for it to end.

When it did, Hermione seemed to have won.

Draco’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “The cat stays.”

 Lilith was impressed. If they could arrange all that with their eyes alone, they really were
soulmates.

[The silent conversation went as follows:

Hermione: “I don’t think I can do this, Malfoy. Already the delicate equilibrium we’ve
maintained for five years has been upended. You said something that was almost nice earlier
which, come to think of it, probably means that the world really is ending.”

Meanwhile, from Draco: “This situation is becoming entirely too friendly for my comfort. I'm
probably going to do something stupid.”

Therefore, an arrangement was reached. But it had nothing to do with Crookshanks, and
everything to do with two people who, beginning to feel the ground shift beneath their feet,
decided to scramble backwards into more familiar territory.]

---

The moratorium died at eight o’clock that evening, when Draco opened a window for
Crookshanks and locked it behind him.

Honestly, it had lasted longer than either of them expected.

Chapter End Notes

Today, as I’m posting this, it’s the 31st of October, which feels fitting. Happy birthday to
Gemma & Lilith, and Happy Halloween to you all.

NEXT WEEK: A Muggle walks into a wand shop. Seismic activity in Flourish and
Blotts. Spurgeon.
 The Swift Return of Hostilities
Chapter Notes

Ok! I believe I promised that the plot would eventually resemble nothing so much as a
catastrophic train derailment.

I've been so excited to post this chapter, because today, we are officially leaving the
station!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

War was messy. None of Draco’s victories came without consequence.

Friends and employers (and half-kneazles) might be inadvertently caught in the crossfire
once in a while. Sometimes ground had to be ceded in order to strike a bigger blow later.
Even a decisive victory came with the knowledge that whatever damage he’d done would be
returned twofold at the next opportunity.

The unintended consequence of all the flirting was that he occasionally found it necessary to
remind his body that it wasn’t real.

This was usually accomplished by finding whatever conveniently located woman was
amenable (a great number were, because he was the dangerous sort of handsome, impeccably
done up in black three-piece suits, and very practised at flirting). His main criteria was that
they didn’t look at all like Hermione. Blondes, then, mostly. Definitely no shiny, coiling hair
or clever mouths.

Unfortunately, coitus was currently interruptus, what with an impressionable eleven-year-old

living downstairs and a clever-mouthed harpy taking up residence on the other side of the
wall.

So when he rounded the corner on his way to his room just in time to see Hermione exit the
hall loo in a tiny, white silk camisole and tiny, matching silk shorts, he found himself urgently
in need of a fresh reminder. He also needed a refresher course on how to behave like a normal
person, because a dumbstruck stare was suddenly all he could manage.

And Merlin, was there a lot to stare at.

He took in the shapely curve of her thighs, traced the unobstructed length of her collarbone,
skimmed the tops of her breasts (he could see the sides, too, probably, if he tilted his head just
so). Her hair was tied up in a puff at the top of her head that begged to be softly palmed.

The effect was positively bridal. The implied virginal innocence of all the delicate white lace
and tiny bows perfectly balanced her natural sensuality, leaving Draco with the distinct
impression of a trussed up wedding gift delivering herself into the waiting arms of some new,
faceless husband. He felt a bolt of resentment toward the non-existent groom. Perhaps if his
mind had been capable of conjuring such wonders, he might have given in to his mother’s
marital scheming years ago.

Except that the soft, secretive smile she gave him was not remotely virginal. It was sadistic.
He wondered when she’d had time to purchase new, impractical nightwear in the five hours
since she’d granted herself permission to live in his house.

The lingerie was not lingerie. It was an attack.

A decently successful one, given that he suddenly found he had no idea what to do with his
hands.

Well, he had one idea of what to do with his hands and that carefully-memorised mental
image, but he suspected if he did it he wouldn’t ever be able to stop doing it, and then she’d
win the war by default because he’d be unable to fight her with one hand permanently
relocated down his pants.

“There’s a moratorium,” he snapped. “This is cheating.”

“I haven’t any idea what you mean. I’m just on my way to bed.” She adjusted the camisole,
which cruelly involved pulling it down a little.

“I’ve seen what you wear to bed, Granger. This” – he waved a hand at the spill of cleavage –
“is a direct violation of the rules.”

“I don’t see how. You know I like to be comfortable, and Lilith’s already asleep.” She
plastered on her most infuriatingly tranquil expression.

“Merlin’s tits, you’re insufferable.”

“Perhaps if you stop thinking about tits all the time…”

Draco studied the blank, titless ceiling. “I am trying extremely hard to not think about your
tits. Or your nipples, which, by the way, are perfectly visible.”

“I had no idea you were so prudish about loungewear. This might be a difficult six weeks for
you.”

With a jolt of discovery, Draco found that he wasn’t looking at the ceiling anymore. He
dragged his errant gaze back up to her face, where a smug smile awaited him.

“You will dress appropriately in my house!”

She looked down at her breasts. (So did he.) “Or what?”

Draco swiftly undid his cuffs, then reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt from the neck.
Her eyes tracked the descending movements for five whole buttons until they snapped back
up to his face, rounder than before.
“What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable. I hear we’re permitted to walk about half-naked. Fully naked, too, I
shouldn’t wonder.” Chest and abdominals successfully liberated from the constraints of fine
cotton twill, he shrugged the garment off and let it drop to the floor.

Hermione took one full step back. Anticipating the movement, he stepped forward. She
stepped laterally; so did he. If they’d been touching, it might have looked like a half-decent
box step, one performed with exceptionally diligent eye contact.

Draco wondered whether a staring contest was covered under the cessation of hostilities. Her
gaze remained determinedly fixed on his face, although one of her eyelids spasmed a little.
His own eyes were starting to water with the effort not to glance down.

“You are such a child,” she finally said.

He gave in first, which didn’t really feel like a loss, because it meant that he got to take a
long, indulgent perusal of her body, which was mostly available to be perused.

He felt, rather than saw, that she was doing the same. A swell of victory bloomed somewhere
further south than he was expecting.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said to her chest.

“Yes. Right. Goodnight, then.” She directed the words at his navel.

Then, marshalling her willpower with what appeared to be a great deal of effort, she shoved
past him, slipped into her room – his guest room, forcibly requisitioned – and closed the door
firmly in his face.

Draco smirked at the door frame and vowed never to wear a shirt in her presence again.

---

Despite repeatedly reminding herself she hadn’t done anything wrong, Hermione still felt as
though something illicit was going on.

The impractical nightwear had seemed like a good idea at the time. He’d deserved it for the
hour Crookshanks had spent meowing to be let back inside, and anyway, it wasn’t technically
breaking the truce.

But a guilty churn of her stomach started around the time it had backfired spectacularly.
She’d caught herself staring open-mouthed at the smooth, pale expanse of muscled abdomen
that he’d kept, for some reason, hidden from view for the duration of their professional
relationship.

It didn’t abate as she cosied up in his guest bed and fancied she could smell him amongst the
pillows. (This was stupid, really, because why would guest pillows smell like him? And why
should she know what he smelled like, anyway?)
Perhaps if she’d been less comfortable in his house, or had slept less soundly on the other
side of a wall from someone she shouldn’t have been able to complete a REM cycle around,
she wouldn't have felt that a line had been crossed. She wouldn’t have tiptoed past his shut
door the next morning with the furtive steps of someone trying to avoid an awkward
encounter in the sober light of day.

She’d showered, pulled on a cream linen pantsuit, and flinched at imagined noises.

Then she made breakfast.

Midway through, it occurred to her she might be trying to give Lilith a sense of familial
stability at the expense of her own sanity. She felt as though she’d left reality and was playing
house in someone’s demented fever dream.

Lilith emerged sleepily, roused by the smells, followed shortly by Draco.

Hermione looked at his sleep-mussed hair and bare feet and looked away. Then looked at him
and looked away again.

He was wearing a matching set of satiny black pyjamas. She wondered whether he’d slept in
them, or if he’d only just pulled them over that extraordinarily diverting chest. Then she
immediately decided to make an appointment with a Mind Healer, because a sane Hermione
Granger did not speculate about what Draco Malfoy wore to bed.

She waved a plate in his general direction, refusing to look at him a third time, and they all
sat to eat.

“How long have you been awake? Wally will be here later. There’s no need for you to be
slaving away in my kitchen.” He yawned.

“That isn’t funny, you great prat.” She looked about for her wand to threaten him with.

“Don’t be so combative this early. It’s practically still dark out.”

She stabbed a sausage with a fork. Lilith frowned at Draco until he rolled his eyes at
Hermione in apology.

Lilith rolled her own eyes then, deeply unimpressed with her adult role models. They both
mentally renewed their resolve not to fight in front of her anymore.

It lasted all of ten minutes.

---

Hermione’s feeling of wrongdoing was unfortunately more persistent.

It followed her (chased her, really) all the way to Harry’s office that morning, Lilith in tow. It
caught up to her as she stood in his doorway and forced a bright red blush to her cheeks.

“Good morning,” he greeted her pleasantly. “Were you running? You look heated.”
“It’s nearly August,” she grumbled. “Hot outside.”

“We didn’t go outside,” Lilith pointed out. “We took the fireplace here.”

“We did? Who’s we?” Harry eyed the small child in his office and hoped fervently that
Hermione hadn’t acquired a child for some wildly irresponsible work-related reason. Or
worse, a prank of some kind.

“This is Lilith. Lilith, this is my very good friend Harry Potter. He’s the Head Auror, which is
a bit like if an MI6 agent had magic but still spent all his time behind a desk.”

They shook hands politely while Harry waited for the explanation that wasn’t coming.

“Hermione, please don’t tell me this is Malfoy-related.”

“It is. And also work-related.”

Harry slumped in his chair.

“She’s staying with him before she starts at Hogwarts next month,” Hermione went on,
deciding to conveniently forget to mention her own living arrangements.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like it.”

Lilith didn’t know what was going on either, but she considered any male friends of
Hermione's a potential roadblock in her nine-point plan to get her to marry Draco and turn
her fake family into a real, permanent one. She figured she'd better let Harry know where
things stood so that he wouldn't get any ideas.

“Hermione and Draco adopted me,” she explained.

Harry stared at her in shock. Hermione felt that her face had probably turned an unusual
colour. Chartreuse, perhaps, or magenta.

“Muffliato,” she said, when she could speak.

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione. What the actual fuck?” Harry’s eyes, already slightly enlarged by
his glasses, looked in danger of liberating themselves from his skull.

“Don’t curse in front of her. For all I know, she can read lips.”

Hermione was beginning to suspect Lilith was a lot more devious than anyone had given her
credit for. She might have picked that up from her or Draco, which would serve them right.

“You and Malfoy adopted a child. Together. You’ve adopted a work-related child? Please
explain, Hermione. I’m spiralling. My entire universe is collapsing.”

“We don’t have a child, Harry!” Just as he’d started to relax, she amended, “Well, we do, but
it’s only temporary.”
She hoped Lilith hadn’t lipread that. Truthfully, she still didn’t know what would happen
after October, so she’d opted not to think about it for the time being.

Harry rubbed his forehead. Sometimes talking to Hermione could induce tension headaches.
“You can’t temporarily adopt a child, Hermione. That’s absurd.”

“I’m still figuring that part out. As I’ve said, it’s work-related, which means I can’t talk about
it, and you can’t tell anyone anything.”

“Wait. This doesn’t have anything to do with the Imperius—”

“Don’t be ridiculous! She doesn’t even have her wand yet. No child could do that spell.”
Hermione held her breath, hoping Harry wasn’t good enough at his job to detect the lie.

“Hm. I suppose you’re right.”

“She’s Muggle-born, you know, and an orphan. She needs someone to help her get
acclimated.”

It was a dirty tactic, appealing to his emotions like that, but it worked as well as she had
expected. He softened instantly.

“Alright. But I strongly object, as always, to the nature of your work.”

“You’re only jealous I don’t have to do paperwork.” She winked at him cheerfully.

“It’s not funny, Hermione. I shudder to think what you and Malfoy get up to while I’m filing
paperwork and being held accountable for everything my officers do.”

“We are not getting up to anything!” This was a tired argument, so she shouldn’t have
blushed when she said it, but the memory of Draco’s shirtless chest from the previous night
made her feel as though she was very much up to something.

Harry noticed and peered at her. She avoided further questions by lifting the silencing charm
like the coward that she was.

“I don’t like it when you do that,” Lilith informed them.

Abashed, Hermione turned to her. “It was very rude. I apologise.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Lilith,” said Harry. “Are you, erm, enjoying your stay with
Malfoy?”

“Oh, yes. And Hermione lives with us now too.”

Harry looked back at her. Magenta, she decided. Her face was definitely magenta.

“Muffliato,” she said again.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s work-related, too?”

“Yes, of course.”

It was a very bad lie that fooled no one.

---

Deciding that he’d better get it over with, Draco was having a remarkably similar
conversation in a well-appointed sitting room across the country while the infant on his lap
gummed the end of his tie.

“You’ve adopted a child.”

“Yes.”

“With Hermione Granger.”

“No.”

“But you’ve adopted a child.”

“Yes.”

“And Hermione Granger has adopted a child.”

“Yes.”

“And her child is the same as your child.”

“Yes.”

“So you and Hermione Granger have adopted a child together.”

“No.”

“Can you see why I’m confused?”

Blaise Zabini, whose lap was occupied by a further two infants, looked down just in time to
witness yet another pair of trousers soiled by a steady stream of spit-up.

“Draco,” said Draco. “Dray. Co.”

“Draaaiighhh,” gurgled one of the triplets.

“That counts! I’m counting that.”

“Sweet Salazar, I think you’re right.” Blaise looked ill as he gently pulled his wand from
Spurgeon’s squishy iron clutch to perform a quick scourgify. “But can you say it was ‘Ma’ so
that Daphne doesn’t smother me in my sleep? I think she’s on the verge of it anyway. She
doesn’t get much rest, so she doesn’t see why I should be able to.”
“I think she has a point, actually. But I won’t say a word so long as you promise not to tell
my mother anything about my temporary work-related fatherhood. I’m only telling you and
Theo in case it gets around.”

“Yes, we wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea about the child you haven’t adopted with
Hermione Granger. But is that what we’re calling it? Fatherhood? I thought this was more of
a short-term housing-related charity. Flats for Orphans, or something.”

Draco considered all the emotional stability and morality-related guidance he was supposed
to be imparting. “Unfortunately, fatherhood is probably most accurate. Don’t think I’m
capable?”

“Draayyy,” Spurgeon drooled happily.

“No, actually, I’ve always thought you and Granger would give up the ghost and settle down
happily someday.”

Draco’s lap-infant protested soggily as he stiffened in indignation. “Sorry, Diamanda. Here.”

He returned the damp tie to her tiny grip. “That’s not at all what’s happening. We still
positively loathe each other. This won’t have any bearing on that at all.”

Clotilde opened her mouth and began to wail.

“She hates lies,” Blaise informed him over the din. “She’s recently begun sensing them. Say
something honest about your feelings toward Granger so she’ll stop.”

“She has excellent breasts,” Draco offered. “Also, two of your children have now said my
name as their first word.”

The wailing ceased.

“That’s remarkable! Can I try it again?”

“It’s remarkable how oblivious you are,” Blaise muttered. “Yes, why not.”

“Hermione Granger has a face like an old tomato and the sex appeal of the Giant Squid.”

Clotilde’s small face scrunched into snotty wrinkles as her mouth opened to omit a sudden,
piercing scream.

“Delightful!” Draco yelled above the sound. “Useful talent, that.”

Blaise turned an irritated look on his friend. “You’re in love with her and one of these days
you’ll realise it.”

It was hardly the first time someone in Draco’s life had seriously misinterpreted the nature of
his purely hostile relationship with Hermione, so he ignored it in favour of pulling funny
faces at the little lie-detector, who had fallen silent again.
Half an hour later, Daphne emerged from her nap, dishevelled and still exhausted, to claim
possession of Diamanda. With a final, meaningfully enunciated ‘Draco’ at the triplets and a
wink at Blaise, Draco stepped into the Floo.

Only when the green flames rose up to claim him did he realise why Clotilde had stopped
crying.

---

Hermione and Lilith arrived in her office the following Friday to find all of her office
furniture disassembled into its component parts and sorted by material into neat piles around
the room. Her chair (Draco’s chair that she’d stolen) was missing.

“Is this a normal magic thing?” Lilith wanted to know.

“This is a normal Malfoy thing,” Hermione ground out.

“Oh. He’s just doing it because he likes you. Sister Jeannine always said when boys tease
you, it means they’re interested.”

“That is not true and you should never believe anyone who says otherwise. The appropriate
way to show you like someone is to be nice to them. But he isn’t, because he doesn’t.”

“But—”

“Please, Lilith. I don’t want to hear any more about it. I promised you we’d both take care of
you, but we don’t have to like or even tolerate each other to do that.”

“HERMIONE GRANGER!” Kingsley bellowed from his office down the corridor. Hermione
carefully stepped around a naked sofa cushion and into the hall. They entered to find him
staring at the decimated remains of a desk.

“Good morning, Kingsley. I see he got yours, too. That’s new.”

“I demand an end to the madness!” Kingsley raised a clenched fist to pound on his desk
before remembering he didn’t have one anymore.

“You said that last week. You know I can’t control him.”

“I’m only asking that you don’t provoke him! What did you do to him last?”

Hermione squinted at the clock. “I’m not sure, actually. I don’t think he’s discovered the
latest thing just yet. He wasn’t supposed to meet with M.M. until today.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Oh, almost certainly not.”

Hermione had spelled all of his trousers to fall apart at the seams the moment he crossed the
threshold of 10 Downing Street. He should be standing in his briefs right about then, actually.
“Think about what you’re teaching her, Hermione!” Kingsley pointed at Lilith, and then at
the pile of desk parts on the floor. “You cannot seriously believe you’re setting a good
example!”

Lilith had accompanied Hermione to the office every day for two weeks. Within minutes of
their first meeting, she’d utterly charmed Kingsley beyond reason. He’d hardly even asked
any of the difficult-to-answer questions Hermione had been dreading, like “who gave you a
child?” and “what are you going to do with it?”

[In reality, Kingsley had carefully chosen not to look too closely at the facts of the situation
in an effort to protect his own mental health. After five years of watching his employee and
her Muggle Ministry counterpart go at each other’s throats, he very much Did Not Want To
Know what they were playing at this time. The child seemed happy and safe, and that was
good enough for him.]

“I’m teaching her to fight back against bullies,” Hermione said firmly.

“GRANGER!” Draco’s voice erupted from back down the hall.

“We’re in here!” she called back cheerfully.

Draco arrived, fuming and trouserless, a moment later. His dress shirt and blazer covered
some, but not all, of the black briefs he’d been wearing when he’d found himself suddenly
and unexpectedly underdressed for his Friday meeting. The unorthodox look was topped off
by dress socks and his favourite dragon-hide shoes.

“What the fuck, Granger. You’ve gone too far! There were cameras there – I’m probably on
Muggle television right now!”

Kingsley picked up a piece of his shattered desk forlornly before tossing it back in the pile
with a sigh.

“Can we watch it? I want to see Draco on television!” Lilith tugged on Hermione’s sleeve
with one hand while keeping the other clamped firmly over her eyes.

“I’m sorry, you know we can’t. Besides, I think we’ve all seen enough of Malfoy for the
day.” She gave his muscular thighs an appreciative appraisal.

Colour bloomed across his cheeks. “You’re the one that’s been walking around in your
skivvies all week!”

Lilith attempted to close her ears while also keeping her eyes covered.

“Me? This is the first time I’ve seen you wearing a shirt in days!”

[It wasn’t strictly true. The bottom floor of Draco’s flat, where Lilith resided, was perfectly
child-friendly. The upper floor, between the hours of 9 pm and 8 am, was increasingly
becoming clothing-optional, to Hermione and Draco’s mutual and growing frustration.]
Kingsley decided the room needed to contain at least one adult, and no one else seemed
qualified. “Hermione, I’m quite serious. If you don’t behave with some level of decorum, I’ll
be forced to reconsider your employment here.”

She smiled warmly at the empty threat. “I’m sure Malfoy’s very sorry about the desk, and for
waltzing in here in his unmentionables. He won’t let it happen again.”

“You won’t need employment when I murder you, Granger.”

“And that would be an impressive threat coming from someone wearing trousers, I’m sure.”

Draco helped himself to Kingsley’s Floo and left without another word.

Hermione turned back to her boss and made a face at the pieces of wood. “I’ll get you a new
desk. I really am sorry about that.”

Rubbing at a forehead wrinkle he was sure he hadn't had a moment ago, Kingsley sighed.
“What’s this about the two of you not wearing any clothes? The Ministry has a dress code,
you know.”

“We’re living together on a temporary, work-related basis. He’s attempting to annoy me with
his pectorals. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“It’s because they fancy each other,” explained Lilith, who’d only just taken her fingers out
of her ears and thought they were still on the topic of prank wars.

Kingsley fervently wished they would fancy each other in someone else’s office and leave
him out of it.

---

“What’s that?”

“That’s a broomstick. You can get one next year. First-years aren’t allowed to bring their
own.”

“What’s that?”

“A Pygmy Puff. They’re very cute but we’re only getting things on your list today, I’m
afraid.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s a goblin. Don’t point; it’s bad manners.”

Hermione and Draco were engaged in a new kind of war, one of attrition. On one side was
Lilith and one hundred million questions. On the other were the two adults and their waning
energy to answer them. Lilith was winning, and they’d only been in Diagon Alley for thirty
minutes.
“Let’s do her wand next,” muttered Draco. “I’d like to get it out of the way.”

“I can take this one, if you’d like.” It was the closest Hermione had ever come to mentioning
that forbidden topic. She didn’t know where Draco and the elderly owner of Ollivander’s
stood after an unfortunate kidnapping incident some fifteen years back, but she wanted to
give him the option of sitting it out.

Draco just swallowed audibly and shook his head. It was almost funny to see him so nervous,
except that it profoundly wasn’t, at the same time.

In the end, he should have taken her up on her offer, because the little bell above the door of
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. was still ringing when the owner himself
stepped out from behind the counter to point a gnarled finger at Draco.

“No, no! Get out! I don’t want your business.”

Hermione took a half-step back before remembering that she wasn’t the eleven-year-old in
the room and that she had parental duties now, which apparently included arguing with
someone she had once thought very highly of.

“We’re here to buy a wand,” she said calmly.

“No,” he said. Really, he intoned it. Hermione found it impressive that someone stooped
nearly in half with age could make a word sound so much like a spell.

“Yes,” she intoned right back.

Ollivander frowned at her. “No! I have every right to deny service. I’m sorry, Miss Granger,
but—”

“This child needs her wand! You can’t deny her that.”

“There are other wandmakers, ones Mr Malfoy and his family haven’t held hostage, who can
help you. I’ll have to ask you again to leave.”

Hermione considered another muffliato, but thought she might be on the verge of abusing
them. Besides, Lilith was going to find out sooner or later.

“I can wait outside,” offered Draco, entirely too late, as he attempted to look non-threatening.
It wasn’t successful, which wasn’t his fault. He just had that sort of presence.

Hermione, on the other hand, was aiming to make herself appear larger and more fierce. The
most obvious animal kingdom metaphor would be a protective lioness guarding her cubs,
what with her hair and her Gryffindor-ness, but there’s also the frilled-neck lizard, which
puffs up its neck into a fan shape in order to make itself more intimidating. Lizards have
considerably smaller brains than lions, and since Hermione wasn’t really using hers (in a rare
turn of events), we’ll stick with that metaphor.

“I understand your concerns, Mr Ollivander,” she said, in a highly unsympathetic tone. “But
that incident was an extremely long time ago and I think you’ll agree that many things have
changed since then. It’s in poor taste to still hold it against him after all these years, and
completely unacceptable to punish an innocent child for it.”

“Miss Granger, you can’t just expect me to forgive and move on—”

“And yet, I do.”

Draco made a startled gurgling noise that was possibly a laugh, and the small part of
Hermione’s mind that wasn’t busy fluffing up its neck frill realised that she was going to have
to come up with an explanation for why Ollivander wasn’t allowed to hate him, but she was.
She glared at him to let him know that the concept of forgiveness didn’t extend to herself.

The wandmaker looked at Lilith for the first time. He squinted at her for a long minute, then
said, “Whose child is that?”

“Ours,” said Hermione firmly.

“I can’t give her a wand!”

“You will give her a wand.” Draco gave up on looking unimposing, and did something he
rarely did, which was to imitate his father. The only difference between his current
expression and the one his late father often wore was that Hermione had never found it
attractive when Lucius did it.

“Surely you understand that I can’t—”

Hermione sighed internally and decided to abuse her powers.

“Do you know how much paperwork is required to operate a business in Diagon Alley? I
imagine you do, since your family has been selling wands since three hundred B.C.”

“Three hundred and eighty-two,” Ollivander corrected sternly.

Hermione gave him an extremely unsettling smile. “It would be a shame if the permits on file
went missing. That department of the Ministry is such a mess. It could take years before it all
gets sorted out. You’d be forced to close in the meantime.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yes! Obviously!” She had little patience for obtuseness.

Ollivander decided right then and there that it was time for a holiday. “If you’re quite sure,
then who am I to argue? Come on then.”

He led Lilith to the counter at the back of the shop and started pulling out wand boxes from
their little cubbies.

“Granger – I – erm.” Beside Hermione, Draco made a few more sounds that weren’t
recognisable as syllables.
She turned to him, confused. He wasn’t normally so inarticulate. Nor was he typically so pink
in the cheeks.

“Are you well?”

Draco wasn’t well at all. Something terrible had just happened to him. One moment, he’d
been standing in his usual spot on the opposite side of a chessboard from Hermione, watching
for a chance to seize the upper hand, and the next, he’d discovered that he was actually on
her side and they were playing an unlikely game of doubles chess. Against Ollivander, of all
people.

And then she'd defended him and won.

He knew her moves inside and out, having been on the receiving end of them a thousand
times. And yet they looked completely different from this side of the board. To his great
distress, he’d liked it.

This new fact was disorienting. No, it was positively dizzying. He tried to recover before she
noticed that he was swaying slightly.

“I’m quite well, Granger. Just committing this to memory so I can provide accurate testimony
in your inevitable trial.”

“He shouldn’t have said that. He had no right!” She was still angry on his behalf.

Draco really needed her to stop defending him before he was forced to come to terms with
how it was making him feel. “I’d rather not discuss it if you don’t mind.”

Hearing the strain in his voice, she assumed he was embarrassed to have had his past thrown
in his face in front of her and Lilith. She allowed herself another moment to silently seethe at
Ollivander before dropping it.

“How many wands did you try before you found yours?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Only two or three. I suppose he knew what sort of person I was just by looking. You?”

“Twelve! I know, I was a difficult child. You needn't say it, because I just have.”

They turned their attention back to Lilith, who was on her thirty-seventh wand.

“It just feels like a stick of wood,” she was telling Ollivander.

Draco looked back at Hermione. “I think we might have to reevaluate the moral guidance
part of the plan. I cannot believe you threatened to shut him down.”

The non-lizard part of Hermione’s brain had finally switched back on. “I was overcome.”

It was true, although she wasn’t sure what, precisely, had come over her. She’d now been
protective over Draco twice in the space of two weeks, starting with Harry, and was a little
afraid of it happening again.
They waited for another minute, then decided to stand outside. Ollivander seemed to be
spending half his time glowering at them, which was slowing down the process.

A few minutes later, Lilith emerged, clutching her new ten-and-one-quarter inch wand, made
of springy yew with a phoenix feather core. The door locked loudly behind her.

“He gave it to me for free! I think he just wanted me to leave.”

Draco looked at the wand in her hand. “Yew with a phoenix core. That’s a coincidence,
right?” It was a shorter version of Voldemort’s own, but with a much nicer-looking carved
handle.

Hermione had nearly forgotten Lilith was meant to bring about the end of the world, given
that the child was an absolute delight when she wasn’t accidentally throwing around
Unforgivable Curses and going on about her and Draco being soulmates. The sight of the
pale wand in the child’s hand was a startling reminder of why they were there at all.

[Ollivander, who’d known Lilith was a Muggle from the moment he laid eyes on her, had
told her to just pick the one she liked best. She’d chosen one decorated with pretty swirling
vines. If they hadn’t been so rude (Hermione just then, and Draco fifteen years ago), he
might’ve told them that whoever they thought the child was, she certainly wasn’t.]

Lilith looked up at him curiously. “Draco, what did he mean about your family taking him
hostage?”

“Pretty much just that my family took him hostage,” he declined to explain.

Hermione’s voice went shrill as she rose to his defence again. “It was a very long time ago
and we’ve all moved on!”

Draco swallowed, cleared his throat, and left to buy Lilith an owl.

---

The day after the St Galgani Annual Gala Benefiting Unwanted Children and Fallen Women,
Narcissa Malfoy had cracked open her diary and looked for her earliest availability. She
would need at least a full afternoon, she reasoned, to figure out what on earth was going on.

Actually, the very first thing she’d done was to owl her son and ask to speak with him
urgently.

He hadn’t responded, because at the very same time he’d received an even more urgent
Howler informing him that Hermione was in grave danger. He still hadn’t replied to his
mother, which was just typical.

So, she resolved to handle it on her own, the way she handled everything those days. In three
weeks from Saturday, that was, because she was busy until then.

It was a long three weeks.

At a luncheon one Wednesday, Gamila Zabini pulled an improbable stack of photographs
from her tiny reticule and leaned across Narcissa’s lap to engage her in forced admiration of
her son’s one-year-old triplets. She frequently checked Narcissa’s face to ensure she was
displaying an appropriate level of excitement as each new picture was revealed.

“Blaise is so good with them. He bought that little harness so he can take them on broom
rides. One at a time, of course.”

“And there’s Daphne, although she looks a bit of a fright in this one. I suppose it’s to be
expected, what with three infants. Such a devoted mother.”

“Oops, Spurgeon’s spitting up again.”

“Oh, goodness, he’s spitting up in quite a few of these, isn’t he?”

Narcissa’s smile must have slipped after the fourteenth photo, because Gamila hastily stuffed
them back into her bag with an embarrassed twist of the lips.

“I’m sorry, that was very rude of me. I’m sure someday Draco will – that is, I know how
much you—”

“Oh, no, that’s quite alright. You should be proud. It’s a beautiful family.”

Her hands, folded neatly in her lap, tightened around each other until a knuckle cracked.

Last weekend, she’d attended a charity dinner where she’d been forced to answer, not once
but seven times, the question of whether her son had got married yet or not. Flora Burbank
had asked twice, the old bat.

Her table then took it upon itself to crowd-source the issue of his bachelorhood. Between the
six women seated around her, a list of twenty-two eligible second cousins, daughter-in-laws’
sisters, and grand-nieces’ best friends was produced.

She accepted the list with a tight smile and folded it four times until it was nearly small
enough to be forgotten.

And then she spent a lot of time avoiding Prunella Parkinson.

Narcissa wasn’t going to be the one to tell Pansy’s mother that her bloodline wasn’t as pure
as previously thought. And she didn’t know what she’d say if Prunella dropped any thinly
veiled hints at their children’s suitability.

A month ago, Narcissa was prepared to lock Pansy and Draco in a room together until they
emerged affianced. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

It wasn’t the issue of blood purity, which was seen as a bit gauche these days anyway, even if
everyone was secretly hoping their sons and daughters would uphold tradition. It was more
that she didn’t know whether she wanted a daughter-in-law who spouted doomsday
prophecies at society functions. It had been a bit of a mood-killer, after all.
The ruined mood lasted until her free Saturday afternoon. She’d written down everything she
could remember of the prophecy and re-read it incessantly:

ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL
DEMONS WILL WALK THE EARTH ON 31st OCTOBER, HER BIRTHDAY
THE CHILD MUST BE GUIDED TOWARD THE LIGHT
Something about parents (?)
I’ll meet the child, and she will be delighted about it (??)

There had almost certainly been more, but she’d been too stunned at the time to catch it all.

Therefore, her first stop that afternoon was to the Ministry of Magic. They’d have a copy, and
she was sure she’d be able to convince someone to let her read it. No one really ever said no
to Narcissa Malfoy (other than her son, when he was too busy to respond to her letters).

She made it as far as the Hall of Prophecy (you could get almost anywhere by acting as if you
owned the place) where she was turned away by an extraordinarily rude young man who
informed her smugly that she wasn’t permitted to look at prophecies that didn’t concern her.
When she attempted to explain that it did concern her, he’d puffed himself up in Unspeakable
robes that were too big on his scrawny frame and pointed her toward the door.

[Here’s what had really happened:

When Narcissa turned up outside the Hall of Prophecy demanding to speak to whoever was
in charge, she’d had the unfortunate luck of coming up against Junior Unspeakable Benjamin
Davies Preston, whose shift had just started. She then tried to do what she always did, which
was to announce that she was Narcissa Malfoy, and let the name do most of the talking. It
nearly always worked, so she nearly always got her way. Benjamin, however, saw a golden
opportunity to thwart a Malfoy (even if it wasn’t the one he specifically disliked). He
gleefully sent her away, citing rules and regulations regarding access to prophecies you
weren’t involved in, and ignored her protest that she was involved with no small amount of
satisfaction. And anyway, Hermione had already been there, so the records were nonexistent.]

Narcissa had a back-up plan. Sort of. It wasn’t a very good one.

She thought she might find a book on prophecies and determine whether they always came
true, or if she could safely ignore this one and let those fools at the Ministry handle it.

---

“Bookshop next,” Hermione announced.

“Excellent! Can I look around by myself?”

Lilith had been wondering for days what to do about her legal guardians, having noted a
distinctive lack of progress at completing her nine-point plan. There didn’t seem to be any
relevant advice in any of the copies of Witch Weekly she’d read. She’d thought about what the
real Lilith would do, and had realised she’d just look it up in a book.
Hermione grinned at her. Bookish, the nun had said. It was like looking down at a smaller
version of herself.

---

“Pardon me,” a small, polite voice said.

Narcissa looked around from the row of divination texts she’d been browsing to find a
cherubic-looking child smiling up at her. It looked like the sort of child Draco might have
had, if she had been a handful of shades blonder and paler. Therefore, Narcissa was
predisposed to be kind.

“Oh! May I help you?”

“Can you help me find something? I’m looking for a book on…” The child thought for a
moment. “Relationships. Anything that might help me convince my parents to get married.
My magazines aren’t any help.”

“Do you mean love potions?” Someone should probably warn the poor girl’s estranged
parents that she was attempting to poison them.

“Oh no, they’re already in love. They’re just not married.”

Narcissa felt an odd kinship with the child. She knew what it was like to be responsible for
the marriage of an unwilling family member. And the shame of growing up with unwed
parents must be unbearable.

“I don’t know of any books that can help you, I’m afraid. Sometimes people can be
extremely stubborn about marriage.”

“Yes,” the child sighed dejectedly. “They’ve both been very difficult about it. I’ve only just
convinced them to move in together.”

“They ought to get married first,” Narcissa informed her primly. “Where is your mother?”

She wasn’t sure why she asked, because it wasn’t as though she were about to offer
unsolicited marital advice to a stranger, but she thought she might give the other woman a
withering glare as she left the shop.

The child leaned around the aisle and pointed to the wall of textbooks on the other side of the
bustling room. “Just there.”

Narcissa raised one delicate eyebrow in the direction of the pointed finger. And then the other
one went up as well, because the situation warranted it.

Hermione Granger was levitating a stack of Lilith’s first-year textbooks with one hand while
the other propped open A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, Seventh Edition. She was
reading, which was the only unsurprising thing about the situation.

“Hermione Granger is your mother?”

Lilith thought about the moment in the wand shop where Hermione had called her “ours.” It
had lit up her insides like fireworks. And so, chasing the feeling of belonging to someone,
she didn’t say, “She’s actually my legal guardian,” or even, “I’ve known her for a week or
so.”

She said, “Yes, she is, do you know her?”

Narcissa hadn’t experienced such a shock since the ladies’ toilet incident with Pansy.
Hermione Granger had a child? That seemed like the sort of thing she would have heard
about. Although, Hermione was unmarried, so Narcissa could understand why she’d want it
kept a secret. (Not a very good secret, though, if it was wandering around Diagon Alley
telling strangers who its mother was.)

“I don’t know her personally,” she said, after a moment. “Your mother is quite famous, as I’m
sure you know.”

It seemed like a safe answer. She wasn’t about to go exchange greetings with Hermione, who
would probably use something in that advanced transfiguration book against her, and
rightfully so.

“Yes, I’ve seen her in Witch Weekly. My father’s in there too, sometimes. The magazine calls
him an eligible bachelor, but he’s definitely in love with her.”

Narcissa looked more closely at the child. She didn’t look much like her mother. Whoever the
father was, he must be quite pale with strong genes.

An unspecified feeling of dread came over her.

“Who is your father?”

“Draco Malfoy. Do you know him, too? He’s getting my owl right now.”

It was the third great shock in three weeks. And if you were to measure them on a
seismograph, this one had just sunk the state of California.

“Your father – that’s not – how old are you?” Words didn’t come easily, because the contents
of her skull had just been replaced with soup.

“Eleven. I’ll be twelve in October.”

Narcissa did maths as quickly as her soupy mind would allow. If her son (HER SON) really
was this child’s father (perhaps there was a different Draco Malfoy she didn’t know about?
Anything seemed possible at this point), that would put the conception (she nearly fainted at
the thought) at right around the time he’d been released from Azkaban.

“My goodness,” she breathed. “What’s your name?”

“Lilith Malfoy,” Lilith responded cheerfully, deciding a little manifestation couldn’t hurt. She
stuck out her hand.
 Narcissa took it mechanically. “Narcissa,” she said faintly. She didn’t include her surname so
as not to be confused with the wholly unrelated family of Malfoys that she’d never heard of
before.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” Lilith replied.

She’ll be delighted…

Lilith turned at the sound of someone entering the shop, owl cage in hand. Narcissa peeked
around the shelving just in time to see her son (HER SON) walk directly over to Hermione
Granger and pull the book from her hand with a rakish grin that quickly dissolved into a
genuine soft smile she'd never seen from him before. Even from across the shop, Narcissa
could see Hermione’s entire face light up in response.

Narcissa’s heart exited her body through the soles of her feet and continued freefalling
through the earth’s mantle. She realised then that she’d been clinging to the hope that
Hermione Granger was happily unmarried to the other, nonexistent Draco Malfoy.

“I should go. Thank you for trying to help! It really was lovely to meet you.” Lilith turned to
leave.

She’ll be delighted to see you.

“Wait!”

The girl turned back.

There was too much to say, and Narcissa wasn’t sure where to start. Am I lucid dreaming?
warred with I hope you get on well with your mother, because I’m going to murder your
father. But amid the jumble of her thoughts, a different one competed more loudly for
attention.

“When is your birthday? October, you said?”

Another disciple of the mystic astrological arts. Lilith beamed at her. “Yes, the thirty-first. A
Scorpio. Goodbye!” She bounded across the shop to her parents and new owl, dark blonde
ringlets bouncing in her wake.

It was the prophesied child. A fourth great shock. It was the one to push her over the edge.

Narcissa hid back among the bookshelves, certain that if she had to speak with her son right
then, hysterics would be involved. Then, when she was pretty sure she could do it without
splinching herself, she Apparated straight home and asked the elves to bring her an entire pot
of chamomile tea.

Chapter End Notes

Everyone, please welcome back to the story: Narcissa Malfoy. She's really the
connective tissue of this fic, which is funny because I originally didn't set out to include
her at all. She unexpectedly appeared in that bathroom in chapter 1, inserted herself all
over my outline, and now here we are.

Should we talk about the triplet names? Only Diamanda has an origin story. It's a
reference to a Clive Barker character in the strange and marvelous Abarat.

I desperately wish Spurgeon had lore, but I could not possibly explain where that one
came from. Personally I like to imagine that after spending significant time and mental
energy on the girls’ names, everyone was too exhausted to argue once some Greengrass
family member floated Spurgeon as an option for the boy.

I love reading your comments, so thank you. I just keep thinking about what's coming
up and cackling loudly to myself. My friends are growing worried.

NEXT WEEK: Draco aces a quiz. Lucius forms new neural pathways. Ginny takes a
seat.
 Public Knowledge
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

On the very same Saturday that Lilith was in Diagon Alley choosing her wand and reducing
Narcissa to a bundle of quivering nerves, Gemma was in Stoke pretending to be a normal
eleven-year-old.

She wasn’t doing magic anymore. She wasn’t.

She was quite determined on that point. It hadn’t turned out to be a head injury, and the
dementia screening Mrs Price had insisted on came back normal. Therefore, Mr Price’s
sudden bout of amnesia was down to magic after all.

Probably – definitely – evil magic.

She spent a lot of time imagining what her exorcism would be like and decided that the part
she was least looking forward to was the bit where she had to crawl on the ceiling. After the
car incident, she really didn’t want to perform any more levitation, no matter how persistently
the dogs begged to be airlifted.

Of course, she still might get away with it, provided she didn’t do any more magic. Which
she absolutely wasn’t going to.

She only had to stay calm so that nothing accidental happened.

This was an increasingly tall order.

To the surprise of no one, Mr Price’s demeanour hadn’t been improved by the embarrassing
and inexplicable incident involving the family’s sedan. When he told the tow truck driver
who’d come to rescue it from its belly-up position that he didn’t know how it had got that
way, the man’s forehead had creased sympathetically and he’d begun speaking very slowly
and with a lot of enunciation.

And then Mrs Price had spotted an article in the June edition of Woman & Home about how
salmon was rich in something called fatty acids, which sounded like it shouldn’t be ingested
but was apparently good for your memory.

“Yes, Kenneth, I know what the results said, but you’re not getting any younger, are you?
High time we take preventative measures,” she told him that evening as she served their
fourth consecutive dinner of steamed salmon.

He glared at Gemma as if some distant part of him, inaccessible by conscious thought, knew
perfectly well that the fish was her fault.

I will not do magic, Gemma reminded herself as she kept her eyes on her limp, pastel dinner.
She no longer trusted her scowls not to contain something more sinister. She might flip the
whole house next, and then one of the dogs might get hurt, which she didn't want.

Mr Price waved his fork at her. A fleck of salmon escaped onto the tablecloth. “You’ll be out
of our hair soon, what with school starting in a month.”

“You haven’t got any hair,” Gemma grumbled, but only because she was seated closest to his
bad ear.

“See to it that you don’t give your teachers any trouble. I don’t have any patience for poor
marks.”

Deciding it was alright to glare at the fish, she occupied herself with delivering her fiercest
scowl upon its spongy surface.

“I’ve been in touch with a boarding school near Sheffield. If you’re not perfectly well-
behaved, they’ve assured me they’ll find a place for you next term.”

Boarding school! The words ricocheted around Gemma’s mind, dislodging her admittedly
loose self-control.

The fish vanished. So did the table it was sitting on, along with the water glasses, the
flatware, Mrs Price’s favourite aquamarine stoneware plates, the tablecloth, and the chintzy
arrangement of fake daisies that had been gathering dust in the centre of the table for going
on two decades.

Mr Price retained possession of his fork, but it soon clattered loudly to the floor as he took in
the sudden loss of his dinner, disappointing as it had been.

Mrs Price rounded on her husband in an accusation borne of forty-three years of habit.
“Kenneth! Whatever have you done with the table?”

His face began to redden as he looked at Gemma. She knew precisely what was coming next
because something remarkably similar had happened only last week, even if he didn’t
remember it.

“Yes, I know, you’re going to send me back, and then to prison.” Gemma slumped against the
back of her seat. “Is there any chance you could just forget this whole thing?”

The adults' mouths opened and closed a few times, not unlike two large, wrinkly salmon.

Mrs Price bent down to retrieve the fallen fork.

“Kenneth, I swear, you would lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your body.”

“Sorry, dear,” he responded gruffly. “Must’ve fallen.”

She sighed at him. “I’ll do the washing up, then. Gemma, do you mind giving me a hand?”

Mrs Price carried the dirty fork to the kitchen, where she washed it and then handed it off to
Gemma to dry.
Gemma waited for her to notice that the washing up had taken significantly less time than
usual, but Mrs Price just busied herself with putting away the solitary fork, which didn’t take
much time either.

She waited for Mr Price to inquire about the table, but he’d picked up the evening post and
was reading placidly as if it were perfectly normal for four chairs to be arranged facing each
other with nothing in between them.

She waited for someone to mention the sudden disappearance of dinner, but the entire
existence of fish as a species had been scooped from the Prices’ minds as if by a melon
baller.

[Later that week, Mrs Price would cause a stir at the supermarket when she spotted the
weekly specials. Her fellow shoppers suspected dementia.]

“I’m going for a walk,” Gemma called, deciding she’d better step outside before any more
permanent brain damage occurred.

The Prices didn’t answer, having utterly forgotten they’d ever adopted a child.

---

“And then you come over here to the map and locate whoever’s in the area – yes, that's right,
you’ve got it.”

The First Assistant nodded in satisfaction. This new Third Assistant Trainee was already a
vast improvement.

“Any questions?” she added, once the rest of the instructions and dire warnings had been
imparted.

The new Third Assistant Trainee shook his head. This job seemed perfectly straightforward,
and he couldn’t imagine what type of person had bungled it so catastrophically that they’d
had to be transferred to the Magical Maintenance Department on authority of the Office of
the Minister. At least, according to rumour. A different rumour speculated that Draco Malfoy
had had him killed. The new Third Assistant Trainee found this to be a touch far-fetched.

“Excellent. I’m sure you’ll do well here.” The First Assistant paused on her way out of the
room to point at the “Hermione Granger's Inbox / Stoke-on-Trent” rubbish bin, which was
full nearly to the brim with ashes. “And if you get a moment, you might want to empty that
out. It’s had a lot of use lately.”

---

In a small cottage on the outskirts of Stoke-on-Trent, three lanes and one dirt path away from
where Mr Price’s vacant mind skipped like stones over every other word in his newspaper,
Pansy and Neville sat together on the floor, heads nearly touching as they bent over an ouija
board.
She repositioned her fingers so that they were only barely touching the little wooden triangle.
There was a trick to it, the box had said. Hold it too firmly and the spirits couldn’t move it.
Hold it too lightly and they would think you were weak and wouldn’t want to talk to you.

The box also said that it was suitable for ages eight and up, which didn’t give Pansy a lot of
confidence that she wasn’t currently playing with a Muggle child’s toy.

“This is by far the stupidest thing we’ve tried.”

Neville cracked an eyelid. “Hush. You’re supposed to be concentrating.”

“Oh, I am. I am concentrating very hard on how far I’ve fallen. Do you know that I used to
have a life? I used to have friends. Now everyone thinks I’m at a wellness retreat, which is
code for Pansy’s finally having that mental breakdown she’s been threatening for years.” Her
shoulders drooped. “Although I only just now realised that a wellness retreat is actually far
less humiliating than the truth. If they could see me now, sitting on the floor of a Muggle
cottage, wearing a caftan—”

“With Neville Longbottom?” His eyes were closed again.

Pansy frowned. Did he find the self-deprecation nearly this exasperating when she did it?

“Don’t say that, Neville. You’re the only part about this situation that isn’t completely
horrid.”

The tips of her fingers nudged Neville’s and the wooden triangle skittered across the board.

Pansy snatched her hands away. “It moved! Was that you?”

“No! Oh, er, yes. Sorry.” They settled their fingers back atop the little wooden planchette.
“Go on, then. Ask a question.”

Pansy shut her eyes and, lifting her chin imperiously, channelled her mother. Now there was a
woman who could bully the spirits into coughing up answers.

“Spirits!” she called out. “I know you’re there. Tell me what I’m meant to be doing in
Stoke!”

The wooden triangle remained conspicuously still. Damn those spirits, thought Pansy. Even
they didn’t take her seriously.

But maybe they preferred dramatics? “Why did the prophecies send me here?” she asked,
trying out Trelawney’s warbly voice this time.

There was nothing save for a soft snort of amusement from Neville.

“Am I going to stay here forever until I eventually go quite mad?”

There was not even so much as a twitch toward the little painted no on the board, which
Pansy tried not to find discouraging.
“Why is it so dark out?” Neville asked.

“Spirits, if you’re going in order of priority, I’d put that one at the end.”

“No, Pansy, look.”

She opened her eyes to find that the windows had gone nearly black. They would have been
in complete darkness had Neville not insisted on the mood lighting. The small flame fought
not to drown in a pool of its own wax at the bottom of the glass holder.

“What’s happening?” she asked, checking the time with her wand. “Did the sun set?”

“Not for hours. Something’s coming.”

“Spirits?” She looked hopefully at the board, which rudely hadn’t bothered to spell out so
much as a simple hiya.

“A storm, I imagine.”

A flash of lightning illuminated the inside of the cottage. A moment later, the windows gave
a dramatic rattle and it began to rain.

Neville was right. Something was coming.

More precisely, someone.

---

The rain started the moment Gemma stepped outside.

By the time she reached the end of her lane and turned onto another, unfamiliar one, followed
by a third that was really more of a dirt path, she was drenched. She picked up speed, shoes
squelching in the sudden downpour.

But try as she might, she couldn’t outrun the storm.

This was because it was following her.

The air felt staticky, and she had a vague notion that she probably shouldn’t stand under any
trees for shelter. She’d just made up her mind to turn around and go home when a small
cottage appeared in the distance, barely visible in the sudden darkness.

Gemma hesitated, wondering whether it was safe to approach a random house. They could be
child murderers, after all. Then she remembered that she had magic, and could probably do
something worse to them if it came to it. Then she remembered that her magic wasn’t very
good or reliable, because she couldn’t even get it to stop raining on her, and that thing with
the fish had been entirely unintentional.

A sudden bolt of lightning tipped the scales in favour of the potentially dangerous criminals.
She sprinted for the door.

---

The mood lighting gave out with a sputter right as a loud knock sounded against the wooden
door of the cottage. The teacups rattled nervously in their cupboard.

Pansy stifled a shriek and grabbed for Neville in the sudden darkness. Her brain had no
sooner catalogued the firm sensation of his bicep beneath her fingers than it reminded her that
she was a witch and that she should’ve gone for her wand instead. She corrected her error
with a sheepishly-cast lumos.

“Someone’s here,” she whispered unnecessarily.

They both stared at the door.

Neville’s veins were full of adrenaline, although he wasn’t certain what had put it there. It
might have been the sudden noise outside. But the sudden nearness of Pansy, who huddled
behind him as if he were brave and strong instead of bookish and bumbling, seemed more
likely.

Either way, he was on his feet and headed for the door before she could remember that he
wasn’t the sort of person you hid behind in these situations.

The knocking sounded again, and Neville hoped fervently it wasn’t some sort of corporeal
spirit, come to ask Pansy why she’d been so demanding with her questions earlier.

He wrenched the door open.

Neville’s first impression was that there was nothing there at all, which shot fear right
through the centre of his heart. But then he looked down and was met by a sodden child with
big, dark eyes and a fierce scowl.

Pansy hastily extinguished her wand and hid it behind her back. She hit the switch on the
wall, flooding the front room with artificial light.

They all looked at each other.

“Are you child murderers?” the child finally asked. Neville had the distinct impression that of
the three of them, she was by far the most capable of such an act.

“We are not,” Neville told her cautiously.

“Well then, are you going to let me in? This storm has been following me for three streets.”
She squeezed the ends of her hair in demonstration, causing water to splatter at Neville’s feet.

“Hang on!” Pansy reached around him to slam the door shut in the child’s face.

“Pansy! We can’t just—”

“I look like a witch!”

“You are a witch.”

“Yes, and I look it. This stupid outfit. Where’s your wand?” He handed it over reluctantly and
she ran to the sofa, shoving it together with hers beneath a cushion.

“HELLO?” The girl’s irritation was plainly audible through the heavy door.

“What do we do, Neville? I don’t know what to say to a Muggle. I’ve hardly even met any!”

Neville gave her a reassuring smile. It was a faint smile, and it didn’t last long, because he
didn’t know any Muggles either. Nor children, for that matter. He wondered if all Muggle
children were as intimidating as this one.

“Just don’t talk about magic, I think? Come on, she’s getting soaked out there.”

He opened the door again and tried not to flinch at the withering glare that stood before him
outfitted in dripping clothing and sopping wet trainers.

“That was very rude,” the withering glare informed him. “Can I borrow a towel?”

“Y-yes,” Neville stammered, stepping aside to let her in. “Sorry, we were…” With no way to
finish that statement, he trailed off.

His sideways movement revealed Pansy, who had been mostly hidden by Neville’s tall frame
until that moment. The girl’s eyes landed on her and widened as they took in her shiny black
hair, flowing black robes, and glossy painted black fingernails (a mental breakdown was no
excuse for a poor manicure, in Pansy’s opinion).

“You look like a witch,” the girl said with significant interest.

“It’s laundry day.” This was true. Although, since neither of them could work out the Muggle
washer, Veta had been forced to intervene.

“There’s a ouija board on the floor,” the girl pointed out.

Pansy and Neville looked at each other. “It’s a…hobby?” she ventured.

The girl’s gaze shifted behind them to the table in the centre of the room. Pansy saw the
moment she spotted the crystal ball and desperately regretted not tossing it out when she had
the chance.

“You are a witch!”

“No—”

“Yes, you are! Can you teach me magic?” Her eyes were enormous saucers in her pale face.

“Oh, Merlin,” Pansy said, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “I mean…ah, fuck.”
She pushed the door shut again.

---

Gemma’s thoughts swirled madly as she stared at the closed door in front of her. Witches
were possibly real, and there was possibly one standing on the other side of the door from
her. She raced through an imagined scenario in which she joined a coven, learned to ride a
broomstick, and was saved from a nasty exorcism in the nick of time.

Overhead, the excess magic she’d been repressing all week burned off and the dumping rain
downshifted to a drizzle before finally stopping altogether. The setting sun returned in all its
orange glory.

Weak with relief and the overuse of accidental magic, she waited for the door to open on her
new life.

---

“We have to Obliviate her!”

“We can’t just use magic on a random Muggle child, Pansy! The Ministry will investigate.
Although perhaps they should come Obliviate her for us—”

“No!” She shuddered. “Everyone knows those Ministry workers are terrible gossips. I can’t
let anyone find out I’m here.”

Neville thought hard, scraping together every bit of knowledge he possessed on Muggles. It
wasn’t a lot. Still…

“Muggles have witches,” he said, feeling a sudden bolt of inspiration. “They dress up like
them sometimes. They think witches wear pointy hats and black robes and fly around on
broomsticks.”

Pansy gestured significantly at her outfit. “We do all of those things, Neville. That’s the entire
problem.”

“I mean, it’s alright if she thinks you’re a witch.”

“They’ll send the whole investigatorial squad if we breach the Statute of Secrecy. Harry
fucking Potter will be at our door—”

“It’s alright if she thinks you’re a witch,” Neville clarified. “The Muggle idea of a witch. She
just can’t find out for sure.”

Pansy imagined herself arguing this fine distinction before the Wizengamot. Then she
imagined The Boy Who Lived and Went On to Become an Office Administrator finding out
that she was holed up in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with…

But no. She wasn’t ashamed of the Neville part of the situation.
“Fine. It’s stopped raining, anyway. We’ll just send her away quickly.”

She fetched a towel, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door.

---

“I can’t teach you to do magic,” the witch, for she was obviously a witch, told Gemma.

“But I—”

“It’s very hard to learn. Takes a lot of study.” The witch looked down her fine, straight nose
at Gemma as if judging her unequal to the task.

“Yes, but—”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of summoning a demon.”

The man’s forehead creased as he looked at the woman. “What? Pansy, I don’t think we
should tell her—”

“Wait! I—”

A towel was shoved into Gemma’s hands without ceremony and the door shut once again.
This time, it did not reopen.

---

“A demon, Pansy? Really?”

“I’m sorry! I panicked.”

Neville shook his head fondly at her. “Are demons even real?”

“Definitely not. It doesn’t matter, anyway. We’ll never see her again.”

---

Ginny Potter (née Weasley) was enjoying a rare peaceful morning with her husband in their
four-poster bed. Unfortunately, Harry was doggedly attempting to ruin her plans for a spot of
marital bliss before the toddler awoke.

“They’re living together, Gin! You should have seen her face when I found out. I might as
well have walked in on them in the midst of it!”

Ginny was in flagrante delicto herself, having just pulled her nightdress over her head. “Ooh,
do you think you could? I have some questions vis-à-vis his anatomy I'd like answered.”

His nose scrunched in an accurate impression of their son when presented with green
vegetables. “I wonder how it started. She was still denying it as of last month, wasn’t she?”

“She probably sat on his face as a prank and the whole thing escalated from there.”
Sometimes inspiration came from the most unlikely of sources. Ginny flipped a leg over his
chest to sit above him and began scooting her body up along his. He failed to take the hint,
too busy working through several horrifying implications of a Granger-Malfoy sexual
relationship.

“As annoying as they were before,” he said, “this is bound to be a thousand times worse. The
fighting won’t stop, you know. It’ll just turn disgusting. Instead of hate-flirting in the
Ministry Atrium, they’ll be hate-shagging in broom cupboards.”

It occurred to Ginny that she and Harry had never had sex in any part of the Ministry, which
seemed a vast oversight.

“First of all, darling, I question your investigative abilities if you truly think those two hate
each other. And secondly, I should think you’d be happy for them to shut up about each other
for a while. Mouths otherwise occupied, you know.”

She lifted her hips to demonstrate what occupation a mouth might engage in.

He gazed up at the ceiling, not seeming to notice. (Ginny generously allowed that he wasn’t
wearing his glasses.) “I suppose I should’ve seen this coming.”

She decided she might have better luck if she put herself into his line of vision, so she leaned
directly over him to accommodate for his near-sightedness.

“There are other things you might get to see coming, if you’d only pay attention.”

Harry patted her left breast consolingly. “Sorry, darling. Picturing Malfoy getting it on with
one of my best friends is putting a damper on things.”

“Yes, it's quite dampening,” Ginny agreed, glancing down at the evidence she’d left against
the soft grey of her husband’s t-shirt.

[Over the years, Ginny had given considerable thought to what Draco Malfoy would be like
in the sack, which was a perfectly normal thing to speculate about when your good friend
was engaged in a half-decade-long foreplay that you had to hear about all the time. There was
probably a lot of biting and spanking, she’d concluded, and he seemed like the type of man
who’d be capable of dirty talk without it sounding cringy. She hoped now that the inevitable
had occurred, Hermione could pass on a few suggestions. Harry didn’t need to know where
they’d come from.]

“And she had the audacity to claim it was work-related!” Harry was still talking. “I ought to
make them complete a Relationship Disclosure Form.” He rested his hands absentmindedly
on her bare arse instead of doing anything more interesting with them.

Ginny began to grow annoyed.

“Perhaps you ought to direct her to fill out a workman’s comp claim since she apparently
impaled herself on his cock during the performance of her duties.”
Harry grimaced dramatically. “Don’t talk about his cock, please, if you’d ever like to see
mine in action again.”

“Your tongue is more relevant to the discussion at hand, actually.” She gave a suggestive
wiggle.

“Is it? I thought we were discussing—”

Ginny adored her husband, but he could be rather dim at times. Best not to be subtle, she’d
learned.

Twenty-three minutes later, while Harry took nappy duty, Ginny shook the languorous weight
from her thoroughly-satisfied limbs (really, he was quite competent when given sufficient
direction) and rose to pen a quick note to her friend.

Hermione,

Congratulations on all the sex you’re apparently having, although Harry says I’m not to
mention it or the man in question because it horrifies him beyond reason. Actually, if you
could stop sharing details with him, I’d be much obliged. It’s having an inverse effect on our
own sex life. (I approve, for the record, and also I want the graphic details, as I’ve spent
years wondering and my imagination is only so good.)

Love,
Ginny

“Darling,” she called to Harry. “Is there a Ministry broom cupboard near your office?”

---

“What are these?” Draco peered over the tray of animal-shaped chicken nuggets. He gently
lifted a blobby one for closer inspection. “This isn’t food.”

“That is a whale, Master Draco,” Wally informed him stoically. “Mistress Lilith requested it.”

Draco drew back in alarm. “We can’t eat endangered animals. I’m certain Granger’ll object
to that.”

“It’s just chicken,” Lilith explained as she entered the kitchen. “Sort of mashed up and made
to look like a whale.”

Draco carefully returned the animal to its tray. “Is there anything else? Not to put too fine a
point on it, but I don’t think reconstituted whale-shaped-chicken will agree with me.”

“Certainly, Master Draco. These ones are shaped like elephants.” The elf pointed helpfully at
a differently-shaped blob.

“I’m ordering food,” he announced, as Wally helped himself to one of the giraffes.
“She said you weren’t to order any more takeaway Indian.” Lilith did a remarkable
impression of Hermione, complete with crossed arms and pinched lips.

“Would you rather eat mystery bits and get me in trouble with Granger, or have curry for
dinner? Besides, she’s working late. She doesn’t need to know.” Draco was already scribbling
an order to be delivered by owl.

Lilith considered. “I won’t tell her if you do a quiz with me.”

“Another one? What more could there be to discover about myself, now that I know I'm a
cool winter?”

In the absence of reality television to entertain herself with, Lilith had coerced Draco into
doing all the quizzes in the back pages of her dogeared teen magazines. Yesterday he’d
completed Am I Fun? and learned that he was Super Chill. Lilith had been pleased to find
that her fun level was Off the Charts.

“Please?” She made it a multi-syllable affair. “Wally can help too.”

He accepted her conditions and she raced for her magazine while his owl departed to hunt
them something more edible.

Three minutes later, Lilith spread the September 2009 edition of Mizz out between them and
Draco realised he’d fallen for an obvious trap. Purple block letters spelled out: Is it Love or
Just a Crush? Answer These Six Questions to Find Out!

“Nevermind. Tell Granger about the curry. In fact, tell her I fed you elephant. She’ll hate
that.”

“You promised!”

“I think he’s in love,” said Wally, who had clambered onto a chair to peer down at the quiz
over Draco’s shoulder.

“We haven’t started yet, Wally,” said Lilith patiently.

“And have you met Granger? Horrible, dreadful woman.” Draco looked at Lilith, realised he
probably should stop disparaging the only other parental figure in her life, and offered the
softest possible amendment. “Although she’s somewhat tolerable in small doses, I suppose.”

Lilith made a mental note to give herself partial credit for the first step of her nine-point plan
(get them to say nice things to each other). “Number one,” she read aloud. “You laugh at all
their jokes, even when they’re not funny.”

Wally chortled as if in demonstration.

“This is an irrelevant question because Granger’s never funny.”

“Then why are you always smiling and laughing when she’s around?” Lilith bent over the
magazine to pen a neat yes under question number one.
“Sometimes smiling at her annoys her.” That sounded stupid, so he tried again. “I’m laughing
at her, not with her.”

“I hope you know how stupid that sounds. Number two: You’re jealous of anyone else who
talks to them.”

“I am never jealous,” Draco said haughtily. “In fact, one of her closest friends is a particularly
moronic ex and I haven’t batted an eyelash over it. And the thing with Benjamin wasn’t
jealousy, it’s only that he’s irritating. Like a gnat. No one gets jealous over a gnat.”

“Who’s Benjamin?”

“This pratish Junior Unspeakable at the Ministry. He’s positively in love with her. It’s
disgusting and wildly inappropriate.”

Lilith examined his scowl and wrote yes.

Draco’s voice took on a squeaky quality as he protested. “Not at all! She’s dated loads of
people since we’ve worked together. I’ve never once been bothered by it.”

It was true. He was almost certain. Though…he had taken note of it. In fact, he could
probably list her erstwhile suitors in chronological order with a greater degree of accuracy
than Hermione herself. But it was perfectly normal to take a casual interest in the personal
life of your longtime coworker. And if the pranks had escalated in intensity during the
periods in which she was seeing someone, well, that was purely coincidental and couldn’t be
proven anyway.

Wally nudged him conspiratorially. “Should I kill them for you? A spot of poison in their
soup?”

He frowned at the gleeful glint in the house-elf’s eye. “Thank you, Wally, but that won’t be
necessary. I’m not that sort of Malfoy.” When Wally looked crestfallen, Draco decided he’d
better revisit the topic of job references later.

“Number three: Your friends are tired of hearing about them.”

This point wasn’t worth defending. “Yes,” he sighed. “They’ve made that quite clear.”

Lilith kindly did not comment as she wrote his answer.

“Okay! Number four: You find yourself looking for excuses to touch them.”

Without even giving him a chance to rebut, she wrote YES and then highlighted it with
aggressive underlining that nearly tore the page. Draco felt his cheeks grow warm and
decided not to attempt to dispute it.

Wally clapped him heartily on the back.

“Number five: You find yourself unable to be interested in anyone else.”

“No, I—” Draco paused, thought about this, and then his stomach rotated three hundred and
sixty degrees within his body.

His last relationship, (which could only be called that because Draco didn’t know the word
“situationship”), ended five years ago. And Pansy had dumped him because – he visibly
cringed to remember it – she’d said he was obviously in love with Hermione Granger and
therefore wasn’t ever going to marry Pansy.

Draco had responded that he wasn’t going to marry anyone because he didn’t really have
those sorts of feelings.

And it was true, because feelings, for Draco, were a finite resource.

All of his were unavailable to Pansy or to any other woman. They were otherwise occupied,
having been disguised beneath a thin veneer of hatred and concentrated in the direction of an
irritating witch wearing entirely too little clothing in the upper floor of his flat.

Wally leaned in to whisper loudly in Draco’s ear. “When’s the wedding? I need to start on the
cake.”

“Soon, I hope,” said Lilith, writing down an answer that Draco decided he didn’t want to look
at.

“Coincidence,” he choked out. “Utterly unrelated.”

“Last question!” Lilith patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “You’re doing fantastic.”

“How does the scoring system work?” he asked, without much hope. “Maybe this next one is
heavily weighted.”

“Yes, why not. Answer honestly and I’ll make it count for a hundred points. Ready? It’s
number six: They’re all you think about.”

Draco, who hadn’t had a Hermione-free thought in years, failed to mount a reasonable
defence.

Lilith pretended to count up the yesses. “One hundred and five points, then. I’ll have to
check, but – yes, that’s firmly in the love category.”

“We hate each other,” he protested weakly, thankful that at least Clotilde wasn’t there to offer
an opinion.

“I’m afraid not, Master Draco,” said Wally, in the sombre tone of a newscaster reporting on a
national tragedy. “It says right here if you have more than four points—”

The sudden arrival of three owls spared Draco from fully achieving self-actualization.

They jostled for position at the window. The largest, his own eagle owl, winged the others out
of the way to swoop in bearing dinner. She was followed closely by his mother’s spotted owl,
a thin scroll in its taloned grip. The third, a balding, scrappy creature that should’ve been
retired years ago, was buffeted around by the others and failed to regain the height necessary
to enter. It chucked its note through the open window and made an ungainly retreat.

Lilith unpacked food containers while he unspooled his mother’s missive.

Draco – do you have a child? Please show me the respect of not lying to me about it, at least.

It seemed word had gone around. She needn’t be so dramatic about it, Draco thought. It was
easily explained away as work-related.

The second note was retrieved from under an armchair with a flick of his wand. It landed and
unfolded itself on his palm.

“Oh, this is Granger’s.”

He decided reading her post was likely to result in a nasty revenge, and had just begun to fold
it back up when his eyes snagged on the fifth word of the first line. (The word was sex.
Before you object, think long and hard about whether you would have possessed the self-
control to resist. Draco, being only a man, didn’t.)

When he finished invading Hermione’s privacy, he firmly pushed the container of vindaloo
from himself. Food was entirely off the table at this point. He felt violently ill.

Not only because Hermione was apparently having an exorbitant amount of spectacular sex
with a handsome stranger who was probably with her now (the mind tended to fill in details
in these cases), but also because he was apparently definitively wrong about not being the
jealous sort.

How humiliating.

“Everything alright?” Lilith eyed him curiously.

Wally strained to catch a glimpse of the letter, the dregs of Draco’s mango lassi disappearing
noisily through a paper straw.

Draco lit it on fire.

---

On the occasion of Lucius Malfoy’s twenty-fourth birthday, his new wife Narcissa gifted him
a portrait that she’d had commissioned by a direct descendent of Rembrandt Harmenszoon
van Rijn. The man was a Squib, but at twenty-four, Lucius’ brain hadn’t yet finished
developing, so it was more capable of overlooking this minor detail. Unfortunately, Gijsbert
van Rijn was also prone to overlooking minor details, such as Lucius’ left ear, which he’d
accidentally left off.

The real Lucius laughed at his deficient likeness and kissed his wife sweetly. The portrait
Lucius developed a side part and a prejudice toward Squibs.
There were other, better paintings throughout the years, including a few that depicted Draco
still in his short trousers and one with a pregnant Narcissa who constantly complained of
having to pee. However, all the more recent iterations of Lucius refused to leave off
scowling, so Narcissa had them put in storage.

She liked to remember her husband as the dashing gentleman of twenty-four who looked at
her the way she’d seen Draco look at Hermione in that bookshop. She didn’t much like to
think about the flinty, disapproving versions that came later. Even if the later ones had all
their cartilage.

Also, the young one was more fun to talk to.

“Your son has really cocked things up this time,” she told him.

Lucius smiled at her fondly. “I love that filthy mouth of yours, Cissa. What’s he done? Insult
a hostess by leaving a party early? A bit of casual flirting with one of the maids?” He
waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Narcissa wasn’t in the mood to be teased by her long-dead husband. “I wish he had. Casual
flirtation doesn’t result in bastard Malfoys, or you’d have fathered a thousand before we
married.”

Lucius’ painted eyes widened. “I’m to be a grandfather? Really?”

“Didn’t you hear the out-of-wedlock part?” She briefly considered fishing out the thirty-five-
year-old version of Lucius in the jade frame. At least he would have reacted appropriately.

Young Lucius waved his Baroque-style cane dismissively. “There’s nothing a hasty wedding
can’t fix, so long as things haven’t progressed too far to be believable. Stick her in a loose
wedding dress and call it a day.”

“The child is eleven, Lucius! He’s been keeping her hidden for eleven years.”

He levelled her with a two-dimensional look of disbelief. “Eleven! Are you quite certain? I
didn’t think it was possible to keep a secret from you for a week, let alone half the length of
my life.”

“Yes, of course I’m certain!” Narcissa pulled a note from her pocket and read Draco’s
response aloud. “Who told you? I would have said something, except I thought you might
overreact. Don’t go gossiping about it, Mother. It’s meant to be a secret.”

The cane slipped from Lucius’ hand and clattered to rest near the gold frame of his portrait.
“But why is it a secret? The child's not a Squib?” he asked hoarsely.

“Oh, no, she's quite gifted,” Narcissa replied, thinking about demons and the sheer skill
required to summon them, assuming they were even real. “Exceptionally powerful, I’m
reliably informed.”

She’d decided not to bring up Pansy or the prophecy. Even the youngest version of Lucius
could be reasonably expected to accept only so much distasteful news at once.
He sank back on his painted seat in relief. (Another chief complaint of his: why hadn’t that
Gijsbert fellow painted him a chaise lounge instead? Or a cushion, at least? This squat
wooden thing was hideous on the lower back.)

“Then I can’t understand why he wouldn’t tell you.”

She hesitated. “I believe he’s hidden it because he thought we’d object to the mother. You
found her…somewhat lacking when you were alive.”

He shot bolt upright in his chair, hand flying to the left side of his head. “The mother’s not
—”

“No, Lucius, no one’s a Squib!”

“Hm. But she’s…otherwise unfit?” His mouth fought not to curl in disgust, which she
appreciated.

Narcissa wouldn’t have bothered explaining it to the twenty-eight-year-old Lucius under a

dropcloth in the attic, let alone the one with sallow skin and fear in his eyes completed just a
few years before his death. But this version of her husband possessed a still-developing
prefrontal cortex the others did not.

“I honestly don’t care what she is, Lucius. I’ve never seen him the way he was with her – so
content. He was the most ill-at-ease child, you know; we used to say he always looked like he
was walking around with a stone in his shoe. But with Hermione Granger…Anyway, that’s
beside the point. Our idiot son has named the child a Malfoy, so she’s the official heir.
There’s no undoing it, even if we wished to.”

Lucius pondered this while the neurons in his brain formed new synapses. “Well,” he finally
said, “there’s nothing for it. As long as she’s not a—”

“She’s not.”

“Then it could be worse. But we can’t have stray heirs running around, destroying our
reputation in polite society. Malfoys marry. They don’t reproduce willy-nilly. You’re sure no
one knows about her?”

“I’m certain. I would have heard about it years ago otherwise.” Her brow furrowed as she
contemplated the ironies of fate. “He must have quite the spellwork in place to keep it a
secret. It was a complete accident I found out.”

“Good. Now, you must force him to wed the mother before this gets out.” He paused,
thinking. “After you invent a new background for her, of course. A halfblood’ll do in a
pinch.”

Narcissa searched for the upside to informing her husband that his future daughter-in-law was
the most famously Muggle-born witch who ever lived, but couldn’t find it.

“You know I haven’t had any luck in pushing him into matrimony, although now I realise it’s
because he’s been in love with someone else the whole time. But I suspect Hermione’s the
one holding back. I'm sure she has no interest in becoming a Malfoy.”

He frowned. “Now you’re just speaking nonsense. Who wouldn’t want to be a Malfoy?”

Thankfully, this seemed rhetorical.

“I wish you were here,” she sighed. “I haven’t the forearm strength to strangle him. He’s
quite tall.”

The flattering description of his progeny made him smile with pride. “I’m sure you’ll think of
something much more devious. What’s the plan? Bribes? Threats? Blood magic? Cursed
objects?”

The thought of trying to bribe or threaten Hermione Granger nearly made her laugh. “I
thought I might start with an apology. Then escalate from there, as needed.”

He pursed his lips unhappily. “I don’t like that. It’s beneath us. Try buying her a mansion.”

“If that would have worked, I’m certain Draco would have tried it already. You should’ve
seen the way he looked at her.”

“A romantic soul. I wonder where he got that from.” He winked. “What’s her name, our
grandchild?”

“Oh, it’s horrid; he’s gone entirely off-book. Lilith, they’ve called her.”

He harrumphed at the break in protocol. “That’s not any constellation I’m aware of.”

“No, indeed. Still, she was – well, she was wonderful. Oh, Lucius. I’ve missed out on so
much, and it’s entirely my fault he wouldn’t share her with me.” This was the most difficult
part to admit, and she wondered that she’d managed to get the words out.

Her husband’s cool grey eyes softened in understanding. “Not entirely yours, my love. It was
those fools in the attic.”

“I miss you,” she told him. “I wish you’d stayed this way forever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I
need to go clean up our son’s mess before anyone finds out about it.” She pressed a soft hand
to the rippling brush strokes of his chest.

“Cissa.” He smiled that bookshop smile at her. “You’ve still got it, you know. Even if you are
a granny now.”

“Incorrigible flirt. I know exactly where he gets it.”

---

“She’s not in,” Kingsley informed Narcissa coolly, when she arrived in his office after
finding Hermione’s empty. He resolved to remind his secretary that even imposing women
tossing about their intimidating last names needed to make an appointment.
 “Where is she?” she demanded.

“With your son, I imagine.”

Narcissa blanched. “What do you know about Hermione Granger and my son?”

“I know far more than I ever wanted to, I assure you. I can hardly stand to be in a room with
them. Bloody unprofessional, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

Kingsley was still sour over the loss of his desk. This new one had a sticky drawer.

She toppled uninvited into a chair. “It’s public knowledge, then?”

It was distinctly humiliating to learn that she knew less about her own child than the Minister
for Magic, not to mention calamitous for her plans for a hasty, hushed marriage.

“He was on Muggle television last week in his skivvies, if that’s what you mean.”

“Er…” Narcissa was fairly confident this wasn’t what she’d meant.

“Actually, if you can get them to behave appropriately in the office, you’d be doing me a
favour. I’m tired of having to replace broken furniture.”

She pressed a hand to her forehead. What were they doing to the furniture?

“And for Merlin's sake, tell him to keep his clothes on at the Ministry. I don't care what they
get up to at home, but this is no place for it. I worry what sort of example they're setting for
that child of theirs.”

Narcissa went home, asked an elf to bring her a cool cloth for her face, and had a lie-in that
lasted the rest of the day.

Chapter End Notes

I do want my Things Without Remedy readers (if there are any left who haven't rage-
quit this fic yet) to know that every comment left on that fic about Draco's obliviousness
made me smile as I was writing this one. "You haven't seen oblivious yet!" I laughed to
myself, as I typed the words "No, I swear, I really do hate her!" for the twentieth time.

And now miscommunication has reared its ugly head! Will Draco: A, step aside like a
gentleman and let the mystery lover have her; B, have a calm and collected conversation
that clears the whole thing up; or C, poorly express his feelings through ill-conceived
pranks? Place your bets below.

NEXT WEEK: Another unambiguous prophecy enters the mix. More important letters
are misdelivered. Everyone suddenly gets very horny.
 You're Gonna Suffer, But You're Gonna Be Happy About It
Chapter Notes

I don't know. I just have a really strong feeling you'll like this one. Excited to find out if
I'm right.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Draco would’ve expected Hermione to throw all the excellent sex she was having in his face
in a bout of spite.

“I don’t care at all about your well-defined obliques,” she might’ve said. “Benjamin’s are
just as pronounced, and he’s never one-point-five centimetres from where I need him to be!”

The mystery lover was always named Benjamin in Draco’s mind, even though he knew it had
to be someone else. Junior Unspeakable Benjamin Davies Preston, whose youthful
inexperience presented as the jittering nerves of someone who’d had three too many cups of
coffee, probably couldn’t pronounce the word clitoris, let alone locate it on a diagram.

So, it puzzled and concerned him when she didn’t taunt him with the information (or, thank
fuck, bring the man into Draco’s guest room, at which point he’d be forced to either duel him
or engage in retaliatory sex with a blonde stranger on the other side of the wall in an
escalation he was not confident he had the stomach for).

Only on the fifth consecutive night of watching her prance about the upper floor of his flat in
nightwear that contained less yardage than a tea towel did he finally understand that she’d
already made her move.

He’d been meant to find out.

He’d been meant to know what she was doing with some French casanova an inch taller than
himself with muscular forearms and absolutely no unsavoury past (really, his imagination
was outdoing itself). And he’d been meant to know exactly what she looked like while she
was doing it.

Draco had been faffing about with office furniture while she was psychologically invading
his mind.

It took him all of thirty seconds to formulate his revenge. Perhaps if he’d spent longer on the
plan, it would’ve been less stupid.

If that witch thought she could permanently implant herself into his psyche, he decided, he
was going to make sure a miniature, shirtless Draco smirked at her from the inside of her
eyelids every time the man who was not Benjamin successfully triangulated her erogenous
zones.

He flung open her door without knocking.

Hermione didn’t dignify him with a glance from where she sat on the bed, notebook balanced
on her bent knees. “I’m buying a sneakoscope.”

“You’d have better luck keeping me out with that monster of yours. Where is he, anyway?”

“Sleeping in Lilith’s room. They’ve bonded; it’s very cute.”

Shutting the door behind him, he spread himself across the foot of her bed.

“We should consider keeping them separated. Since Crookshanks probably knows how to
open the gates of hell, and all.”

One of her bare feet was very close to his hand. He snaked a hand around her ankle to slide it
toward him across the coverlet.

“What are you doing here?” Her unfocused eyes remained determinately on her notebook.

The heel of her foot came to rest on his bare chest, and he wrapped his hands around it,
pressing two thumbs firmly into the soft arch.

“Came to say goodnight.”

She flipped a page and continued pretending to read. “Goodnight, then. I'll kick you if you
tickle me.”

He moved his thumbs up to the ball of her foot, stroking along the pad with steady pressure.
A few minutes passed while she blinked down at her notebook and breathed a little faster
than her current activity level dictated.

“Hermione.”

“Hmm?”

“That page is empty.” He leveraged his possession of her foot to spread her knees apart as he
sat up to kneel between them. The notebook was pulled easily from her unprotesting fingers,
confirmed to be a ruse, and discarded on the bedside table.

With nothing left to look at but him, she finally did. Heat bloomed across her cheeks as her
eyes darted down his torso. “Don’t you own any shirts?”

Draco rested his hands on her bare knees, pushing them infinitesimally further apart. “I was
under the impression you liked looking at me.”

She swallowed audibly before responding. “This is inappropriate. We’re coworkers.”

“No, we’re not,” he reminded her, as his fingers ghosted up the insides of her thighs. “I don’t
work for your Ministry.”

Her knees fell further apart, this time of her own doing.

“Right…still…I think you should stop touching me.”

Her hands, he noticed, seemed to be working very hard not to touch him back. They were
bunched around fistfuls of sheets. A genuine smile tugged at his lips as fake-seduction
rocketed to the top of his mental list of all-time favourite pranks.

“Your wand’s right there.” They both looked to the bedside table where it rested. “Make me
stop whenever you want.”

He paused, hands wrapped around her upper thighs, holding them open for him with
suggestive intent. When she didn’t make a grab for the wand, he bent his head and pressed
his lips to the inside of her left knee.

Her eyes snapped back to him, wand forgotten. “You’re – this is—”

Whatever she’d been failing to say in that breathless, accusatory tone was cut off as he pulled
her down the pillows. She looked up at him from her new horizontal position and inhaled
sharply. When the breath wasn’t used to cast a Killing Curse, he continued.

“You started it, walking around here looking like that. Besides, I think you like it.”

She flinched guiltily.

Good. She should feel guilty. She was practically cheating on Imaginary Benjamin. He
wanted to make her cheat on him further.

[He wanted to bury his face between her breasts and the rest of himself between the tight, hot
centre of her thighs. He wanted to sink into her like a warm bath. He wanted to chart every
inch of her skin with his mouth, and he wanted her to fill up his ears and his soul with the
sound of his name from those soft, plush lips. But that was only because his body kept
inconveniently forgetting this was fake.]

His hands slid back up her legs and barely paused before slipping under the hem of her
shorts. When his thumbs arrived at the very last bit of skin that could credibly be considered
thigh, he stopped. An intoxicating, radiating warmth entered his body through his fingers,
hovering so near its source, and raced up his arms to his brain where it snuffed out his
executive function like a candle.

Hormones were steering the ship now.

“Hermione.” It was a pained croak.

Her mouth formed words several times before she managed to create sound. “Stop – stop
calling me that.”
“I’ll call you anything you want,” he breathed.

That absurd silk camisole had shifted, presenting him with an exposed strip of stomach.
Draco sacrificed the coveted position of his right hand to caress his palm against her navel,
fingers sneaking just under her shirt, in a move that was certain to result in a sharp kick to the
groin but would definitely be worth it.

When the assault didn’t come, he smoothed his hand across her ribcage to brush the
underside of her breast with the very tips of his fingers (over her shirt; he wasn’t insane).

“I want—” She stared up at him as if confunded. “I want you to leave.”

Sometimes victory felt a great deal like loss.

“Alright.” He tugged her shirt back down into place. “I’m just on the other side of the wall if
you need me.”

She blinked half a dozen times in rapid succession. “What on earth would I need you for?”

The hand still on her upper thigh squeezed lightly. His thumb rubbed an illustrative circle
probably eight centimetres from where he’d like it to be, but still miles closer than he had
ever dreamt of being. Her mouth dropped open.

“Goodnight, then.”

He withdrew from her warmth, then slid backwards off the bed and left, shutting the door
softly behind him.

Over the course of their working relationship, he’d learned not to give her time to regroup.
Therefore, his next attack came early the next morning. She didn’t see it coming, because she
was refusing to look at him.

Draco caught her alone in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a thermos. He wrapped an arm
around her waist from behind, which was a strategic move to prevent her from fleeing as well
as an excellent excuse to feel her stiffen and then relax beneath his hand.

“Stop touching me,” she said, without conviction. They both looked at her wand, which lay
in easy grabbing distance on the counter. It remained ungrabbed.

He chuckled and brushed her hair away from her face. “You smell delicious,” he informed
her, then buried his face in her neck to demonstrate his appreciation.

There might have been a graze of tongue, or even of teeth. If so, it had been entirely
incidental, and only because his body was operating entirely off its own agenda at that point.

“Hermione.” It was a low, seductive voice that he hadn’t been trying to make.

“What?” she gasped.

Belatedly, it occurred to him that he would have a difficult time passing off the undeniable
existence of his erection as a prank.

He tried to step away, but the message must have got confused on the way to his limbs
because instead, he found himself running a hand up the curve of her hip, hiking up the hem
of her dress to the tops of her thighs. Whatever he was thinking with now, it wasn’t his brain.

Her own thoughts were evidently taking a backseat as well, because she was still pouring
coffee into a thermos that was long past the point of full.

“You’re spilling everywhere,” he said, accidentally making it a sultry double entendre instead
of the matter-of-fact statement he’d been attempting. The hand against her belly twitched
with the desire to dip between her thighs to check whether the other meaning was accurate.

The hot coffee mercifully intervened. It reached the edge of the counter and soaked her white
shift dress, startling them both out of their dazed arousal. Cursing, she grabbed her wand to
vanish the mess.

He made himself release her and exit the kitchen before she noticed that he’d utterly lost
control over his faculties.

The next day was their regularly scheduled meeting, so they had work to do.

She suggested they take the meeting in his office at the Muggle Ministry.

He suggested they couldn’t leave Lilith at home with Wally, who was not a fit caretaker.

She suggested they take it from the living room with an eleven-year-old chaperone.

He suggested his sofa, still heavily chlorinated from her swimming pool stunt, gave him
headaches if he sat on it too long.

She suggested they take it from opposite sides of the wall upstairs.

He suggested she not be a baby about it, and that they were perfectly capable of behaving
professionally in her bed together.

She suggested he not make everything sound like innuendo.

He suggested he couldn’t hear her from all the way over there, so he’d just have to move
closer to sit behind her, and he might as well pull her flush against him so he could read her
notebook over her shoulder while the ghost of his breath against her collarbone raised
gooseflesh all along her bare arms.

It was not their most productive meeting.

Hermione forgot to write anything down, and he accidentally agreed to let the English
National Quidditch Team have the use of Wembley Stadium for their upcoming match
against Brazil.
On Thursday, after sending Wally home with the remainder of the baked ham he’d
inexplicably served under a thick coating of tahini, he checked in on the sleeping Lilith
before heading upstairs to find Hermione’s door cracked. Expecting a trap, he cautiously
pushed it open.

In her usual spot on the bed, cross-legged with a book in her lap, sat Hermione in one of his t-
shirts.

“How did you get in my room?”

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “The same way you keep getting into mine. I wanted to see if
you owned clothing. Turns out, you do.”

“Give it back, thief.”

The trap was sprung, and Draco was proven to be an idiot. Hermione dropped her book with
a bright smile, pushed to her knees, and pulled the shirt over her head in one smooth motion.
She tossed the shirt at his feet and reclined against the pillows, wearing a smug expression,
indecently white bra and knickers, and nothing else.

“This is inappropriate,” he bit out. “We’re coworkers.”

Hermione dared him with her eyes to come in and called his bluff with a twist of her lips. His
untrustworthy body made a strong argument in favour of doing something stupid. His cock
waved a white flag of defeat within his joggers. He couldn’t have said how he made it out of
the room.

The next day, he recovered lost ground with an impromptu scalp massage, which taught him
the long-wondered answers to two questions: how it would feel to sink his fingers into the
previously forbidden depths of her curls, and how she sounded when she moaned.

By the end of the week, he estimated he had an eighty percent chance of popping into
Hermione’s head at precisely the right moment to ruin her next orgasm with Imaginary
Benjamin.

But it hadn’t been the victory he’d anticipated; not at all.

For one thing, he thought he might be developing a repetitive stress injury in his left wrist
from indulging in self-gratification approximately five hundred times in the space of five
days. And despite his diligent efforts, he was still walking around half-hard all the time,
which was inconvenient, distracting, and uncomfortable.

For another, Draco had a one hundred percent chance of never wanting to have sex with a
blonde stranger ever again.

---

Once in a while, a study makes its way into the newspapers with a headline like Beer Makes
People Happy, According to Science. This is meant to make you buy the newspaper (or click
on it, if you’re a Muggle) so you can read the names of the researchers who’ve wasted
taxpayer funds and a year of their lives on something that any bloke at their local could’ve
told them. And then you go about your day with a spring in your step because you’ve got
more sense than somebody called Patrick Webley, Ph.D.

Here's another example: can you believe that a recent study found that the average Brit says
sorry eight times a day (narrowly beating out the Canadians, which everyone’s very sorry
about)? Yes, you probably can. That’s exactly the point.

The brilliant minds behind this shocking piece of investigative research put it down to the
cultural practice of apologising when you really mean something very different.

“Sorry” could mean “Excuse me, are you too idiotic to see that you’ve walked directly into
me?”

“Sorry?” could mean “Surely you are not so boorish and ill-mannered as to have said what
you just said.”

“Sorry” (to a door) could mean “I’ve just walked into a door and I hope no one saw me
apologise to it.”

You are probably nodding along, thinking yes, yes, I’ve done all of those today.

Narcissa Malfoy had not.

Narcissa did not apologise when someone bumped into her on the street, because people
generally had the good sense to get out of her way. If someone was acting ill-mannered or
boorish in her vicinity (her son, usually), she found that a cutting glare accomplished her
meaning more effectively than an apology for something she hadn’t done.

She had never walked into a door, and the suggestion that she had would’ve resulted in your
permanent removal from the Malfoy New Year’s Eve Party guest list.

All this to say that Narcissa Malfoy possessed an underdeveloped and outright un-British
capacity for apology.

So, she wasn’t quite sure how to go about apologising for her involvement in a plot to
overthrow the government, install an evil dictator propped up by racist, classist policies of
exclusion, and murder a child and all of his friends (this includes the intended recipient of
said apology).

“Sorry” didn’t seem to suit.

She settled on inviting Hermione over for tea.

The elves were overjoyed. They trotted out the nice silverware, pressed the already wrinkle-
free table linens, and agonised over the menu while trying very hard not to laugh at their
extremely nervous employer, who had taken up the habit of tacking “sorry” onto the end of
each sentence as a form of practice.
Downstairs in the kitchens, the atmosphere was downright festive. Narcissa was going to
make amends with war hero and elf celebrity Hermione Granger, who was then going to
marry Draco. They took to skipping about the manor instead of Apparating, which was
slower but more fun.

The invitation went out.

The response was received. It was short.

Fuck off, Malfoy.

Hermione, who’d thought Draco had been trying to trick her into turning up unannounced at
his mother’s house as a rebuttal to her much cleverer trouser-related prank the previous week,
would have been mortified to learn that the invitation had been real.

---

Although she hadn’t thought it possible, Gemma’s home life had actually become
considerably worse since her adoptive parents had mostly forgotten about her.

They remembered on occasion, sometimes popping into awareness in the middle of asking
her for the umpteenth time what she was doing in their house.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Gemma. I didn’t see you there,” Mrs Price would say, and then get partway
through making her a sandwich before forgetting again. Gemma ate a lot of plain ham on
wheat.

She was alone. Last Saturday, she had been alone, too. And yet the entire observable universe
could have wedged itself cosily in the difference between the two.

Last Saturday, before around five in the evening, she’d been an aberration. A mutation, the
kind evolution liked to self-correct with an embarrassed, “yikes, didn’t mean for that to
happen.” (Evolution, given the Catholic nature of her upbringing, was likely not the
appropriate metaphor. Let’s call it a great big divine whoopsie.)

But now she was the sort of alone you felt in your soul when you were standing at the back of
a room full of people you didn’t know. Because at roughly five in the evening on the previous
Saturday, she’d had half a second to realise that she wasn’t really alone before the other
mutations had shut their door in her face.

Gemma had returned the next day and spent a solid hour banging on said door with no result.

[Following the awkward incident in which Pansy had panicked and invented the existence of
demons, she and Neville had hastened to put up a number of wards, including one that
silenced all the knocking. They hadn’t even known she was there.]

And as she trudged home down the lane, she thought about how being rejected by others like
yourself was somehow worse than being all alone in the big wide universe.
If Lilith (who was, of course, the real Gemma) was there, she’d prod her in the ribs until she
forgot what she was upset about. But a chasm of secrets, geographical distance, and
technological inaccessibility on Lilith’s part stood between them, and chasms are mostly
insurmountable when you’re eleven.

There was nothing for it, Gemma decided. She was going to have to run away.

---

Much like the orphans of the Our Lady of Perpetual Mourning Children's Home, Iago hadn’t
been asked what type of family he’d like to be adopted into. If he had, and had been granted
the capacity for human speech, he would’ve asked for Lilith.

“She’s going to think you’re adorable,” said the man who’d bought him, and she had.

It was the first thing she'd said, followed shortly by, “I’m going to call you Iago.” To his ears,
which were sensitive enough to accurately locate a mouse beneath a foot of snow, it was an
excellent name. (He probably would’ve felt differently if he’d been familiar with the source
material, but thankfully Lilith didn’t own a DVD of Aladdin nor the television to play it on.)

He perched gently on her shoulder, careful not to let his talons dig in, as she opened every
cupboard, drawer, and unlocked door in the flat to let him investigate all of the interesting
sights and smells of his new home. Using his far superior senses, he located a bag of crisps
stashed nearly to the ceiling and retrieved it with a flutter of wings. They split the bag, Lilith
laughing as his beak shattered crisps into hundreds of tiny crumbs across the floor.

“Can you take a letter for me?” she asked him one day. “It’s for my friend. I want to see if
she’s alright.”

He hooted that he would’ve taken it to Alaska if she needed him to.

From his perch on the back of her chair, he watched her write the letter, fold it into neat
thirds, and address it across the front to Gemma Thompson-Stewart.

“Is that enough?” she asked him. “I don’t have her address.”

Blinking owlishly (which was the only way he knew how), he gave his dappled feathers a
proud ruffle. Iago had been put through Eeylops Owl Emporium Standard Training
Curriculum, as they all were, but it had hardly been necessary for an owl with his pedigree.
He knew how to carry a letter to its intended recipient the same way he knew how to spot
someone's escaped pet hamster at a hundred metres in the dead of night. Some things didn't
need to be taught.

He hopped forward to pluck the letter from her hand.

Then he hopped forward once more and dropped it in the lap of the girl who was really
Gemma Thompson-Stewart.

---
In Wiltshire, Narcissa consoled her devastated house-elves and attempted to gather allies.

Dear Lilith, I am your grandmother. If we work together, I’m confident we can trick your
parents into marriage. She started over. My idiot son—

Half an hour later, as the reserves of parchment in the manor grew low, she produced a letter
that she hoped would neither terrify the girl nor risk exposure if it fell into the wrong hands.
The wrong hands were that of Hermione, who obviously and understandably hated her.

Please forgive the secrecy, but I hope you will understand why I wish to keep this letter away
from prying eyes. We met unexpectedly last Saturday. I believe I can help you after all. If you
are willing, meet me next Saturday at noon in the same location. You must tell no one and
destroy this letter after reading.

Right, so it was not exactly subtle, but she could only hope that her granddaughter (a Malfoy,
and so therefore also a Slytherin) had an innate capacity for stealth and trickery, even if she
had mostly been raised by a Granger.

“I can’t risk addressing this,” she informed her owl. “But take it to the girl named Lilith.
Don’t give it to anyone but her. Can you do that?”

Callisto was not overly fond of her owner, who had never once carried her around Malfoy
Manor to let her investigate all the interesting sights and smells, nor had she ever deigned to
split a bag of crisps. Still, she was no less pedigreed than Iago, so she blinked owlishly at
Narcissa (which was the only way she knew how) and accepted the letter with great dignity.

With a mighty flap of her wings, she departed for Stoke-on-Trent.

---

Gemma decided to go out the window.

Mr Price had been growing progressively twitchier in her presence, so she’d been keeping to
her room as much as possible. It seemed his addled mind had attempted to make sense of her
occasional presence by deciding that his house was haunted. Mr Price, being a sensible man
who didn’t have patience for the paranormal under normal circumstances, was having a
difficult time coming to terms with his new reality. She didn’t really want to encounter him
on the way out the front door.

Besides, a window escape was more melodramatic, which suited her mood.

Some eighty years ago, a foolish gardener had planted an oak far too close to the house. It
was going to be a problem someday, and would have to come down eventually. When that
happened, it would doubtless make the local news (the people of Stoke not having anything
more interesting to talk about) and there might even be a candlelight vigil held in the Prices’
front garden on the eve of its chopping.

For now, it was an extremely convenient escape route from the second story of the house.
Gemma tossed the reusable grocery tote stolen from Mrs Price that contained all her worldly
belongings onto the closest branch. It snagged and teetered but did not fall. She judged this to
be a good enough indicator that the tree wouldn’t drop her, either.

It didn’t. Rough bark flaked away under her fingertips as she made a jump for it, but the
branches buoyed her gently and held firm.

It was a good tree and would be missed.

She untangled her bag from a cluster of twigs and threaded her arms through the handles.
Then, keeping her knees locked securely around the branch, she pushed herself forward to the
centre of the tree, where things were not swaying quite so severely. Progress was slow, and
her hands were beginning to grow sore, but eventually she found a foothold on a lower
branch.

There were two large yellow eyes waiting for her.

“Oh!” Gemma’s foot slipped in surprise. The tree caught her in a seated position and tangled
a spray of leaves in her hair for extra security.

The owl watched, unimpressed, and fluttered its wings a little to show off how easily balance
could be maintained if you weren't a homo sapien.

“You don’t have rabies, do you?” Gemma half expected an answer. This wasn’t a normal owl,
surely. For one thing, it was the middle of the day.

Callisto considered biting the girl just to give her something to worry about for the next few
weeks. Instead, because she was exceptionally well-trained, she extended her foot to offer the
attached letter. The moment it was removed, she departed, delivering a strong whack of
feathery wing to the girl’s forehead as she went.

The letter, which had been written on something that did not appear to be normal printer
paper with something that did not appear to be a normal ink pen, unfolded itself in Gemma’s
hands.

The reusable grocery bag slipped from her grasp as she read. Although it was beginning to
become annoyed with the girl’s carelessness, the tree caught it for her.

“Thanks,” said Gemma, a rare smile spreading across her face. It seemed the witch she'd met
last Saturday had changed her mind about helping her. “Can you help me go back up? I’ll be
staying for a bit.”

---

In a small cottage on the outskirts of Stoke, three lanes and one dirt path away from where
Gemma was counting down the minutes until next Saturday, Pansy Parkinson was packing
her things to leave.

“It’s been weeks, Neville!”

Neville knew precisely how long it had been. He’d been counting up the minutes. “I know.”
“Nothing has happened! Nothing at all!” A flurry of clothes flew haphazardly into her trunk,
took up too much volume, and didn’t allow the lid to close.

He picked up a missed shoe and cradled it in his hands for a moment before passing it to her.
“What if the thing you’re supposed to do here just hasn’t happened yet?”

“I don’t even know that I’m supposed to do something here!”

“But what if they start up again when you leave?”

“I’ll check myself into St Mungo’s.” Pansy tried again to close her trunk, first with magic and
then with all the force her arms possessed.

“You’re not mad, Pansy.”

She sat down on the lid and motioned for Neville to flip the latches. “I’m obviously not sane,
either. Besides, don’t you want to get back to your plants?”

They looked around the cottage, which was teeming with wide, broad leaves and trails of
green vines and fresh spiky shoots pushing up out of their makeshift planters. Every single
plant had been introduced by Neville under the premise of just one more.

He knelt on the floor in front of her. “Pansy, if you want to go home, I understand. But that
doesn’t mean you have to do this on your own. I can—”

Two words in and Neville still hadn’t decided how that sentence would end. There was the
safe yet devastating option of I can write you, or the soul-baring one of I can go with you.
Outside of his offer to remain in Stoke and an incident with a snake many years back, Neville
hadn’t had much practice in doing the brave, hard thing. Therefore, the disappointing option
was making its way up the back of his throat when he noticed a sudden blankness creep
across Pansy’s face.

“Pansy?”

She didn’t respond. She also wasn’t blinking, which was slightly unnerving given how wide
her eyes had gone. Normal bodily function should have dictated that they were quite dry by
now.

“Are you alright?” He rested a tentative hand on her knee, fully expecting her to jolt upright
with a pointed glare that suggested he remove it immediately.

She didn’t, which would have been nice, except she seemed to have forgotten he was there.
Neville felt that touching a woman while she was dissociating was probably not very
respectful behaviour. He removed the hand.

And then she spoke.

He did not breathe a sigh of relief. He did not let his shoulders droop with a sudden release of
tension, thankful that the momentary strangeness had passed.
He did more or less the opposite of those things, because that deep, otherworldly voice had
no business coming out of Pansy Parkinson.

“THE SNAKE AND THE LION SHALL HELP THE CHILD IN HER MISSION.”

---

Hermione’s office on Level 2 of the Ministry of Magic was too warm, and had been for days.

“I don’t know why it’s so hot in here,” she complained for the fifth time that afternoon. “Are
you hot?”

Lilith shrugged and announced her intention to go on a self-guided tour of Level 6.

“Alright,” said Hermione, separating the collar of her shirt from her damp neck with a finger.
The matching blazer had been abandoned nearly as soon as she put it on that morning. “Don’t
touch anything, though. The last thing I need is for you to pick up a thimble and portkey to
Argentina.”

It was the wrong thing to say to Lilith, who resolved to keep an eye peeled for thimbles.

“If anyone gives you any trouble—”

“Yes, I know, just threaten them with your name. I can’t believe how well that works.” Lilith
grinned at Hermione proudly.

“It’s awe, not fear. I’m entirely non-threatening. Try using Draco’s name and you’ll see the
difference,” Hermione told her, and then immediately wished she could take it back. At the
mere mention of him, a fresh sheen of moisture rose to the surface of her skin, and even
though she was the sort of woman who managed to look dewy and glowing when she
sweated, it was still unpleasant.

She pressed her knees firmly together beneath her desk.

Once Lilith was out of sight, Hermione permitted herself a brief, frustrated moan into her
hands. She had to be quick, though, because if anyone walked by and saw her moaning over
Draco Malfoy, they might get entirely the wrong idea. [They would get entirely the right
idea.]

Hermione had genuinely believed, as recently as a couple of weeks ago, that she was immune
to his flirtation. Five years of bi-monthly microdoses of sexual tension ought to have built up
her resistance to a level even a nun would envy. But now she knew those had been placebos,
and the real thing was more than capable of scrambling her brain. It was also, apparently,
highly addictive.

It still might’ve been alright if everyone hadn’t insisted on asking her about it. At nine-forty
five that morning, when she failed to complain about him for the sixteenth consecutive day,
Kingsley had asked her how things were going with Draco. What’s worse, the question had
been accompanied by a significant stare at her right hand, which was clicking her Muggle
pen at Morse code speeds.
“I absolutely still hate him, if that’s what you’re asking,” she snapped nonsensically, as a
droplet of sweat rolled between her breasts.

Kingsley looked as though he was reconsidering her employment on the basis that she
seemed to be in the midst of a messy breakup with her intelligence, but said nothing. Ginny
was not so easily diverted when she arrived in Hermione’s office later that day to accuse her
of having sex with Draco Malfoy and attempting to dodge her owl about it.

She caught Hermione at a bad moment (staring into the middle distance, stress-eating her
way through two pumpkin pasties and a family-size bag of Tayto Skips, lost in a daydream in
which Draco was delivering another truly excellent foot massage). Therefore, the denial was
not quite as vehement or convincing as she would’ve liked to make it.

“Your owl is well past retirement age. I’m not surprised your letter never made it. And I’m
not having sex with Draco!” She reflexively vanished the mess (including the last handful of
Skips, which she immediately regretted) and pasted on what she hoped was an innocent look.

Ginny knew the expression well, having seen it on James’ face countless times as he insisted,
porridge drying into a crusty shell in his hair, that he’d already taken his bath.

“Oral sex, then,” Ginny concluded, nodding in satisfaction.

“No sex of any kind.”

“Not even in a Ministry broom cupboard?”

“What? No. Not anywhere.”

This was a terrible disappointment to Ginny, and not just because it meant Draco and
Hermione’s Great Annoying Foreplay wasn’t yet over. “But I heard—”

Not wishing to learn what the Ministry gossips had to say about the recent escalation in
public flirtation, Hermione cut her off. “Despite what you’ve heard, he’s not at all interested
in me that way.”

With waning patience, Ginny reminded Hermione what she’d told her no fewer than a
hundred times already. “He’s been obsessed with you since the day you started working
together, and probably years before. It’s been frankly disgusting to witness.”

Usually, Hermione found the accusation easier to brush off. “No,” she said unevenly. “I’m
certain he’s been faking it.”

“Seems like it'd be easy to tell if he was faking it.” Ginny scrunched her nose as she
contemplated this, then wrote it off as an anatomical impossibility.

“He’s an incredible actor.”

“Hmm, no, I really don’t think—”

“Honestly, Gin, the whole thing is only a prank to get back at me for walking around in
lingerie.”

“You’ve been walking around in lingerie and you think he’s been faking it?” The “you great
bloody idiot” subtext was left off out of respect for their lengthy friendship.

“It’s hot in here. Are you hot?” Hermione had located a paper napkin in her desk and was
shoving it unceremoniously beneath the wiring of her bra.

“Malfoy is making you hot, you great bloody idiot!” Ginny hadn’t been able to keep it in that
time.

“But it’s not real!” Hermione felt incapable of giving up this point. “He’s been flirting with
me for years to annoy me! He's never meant anything by it before.”

Ginny looked at her shrewdly. “It’s real for you, though, isn’t it? You want to have sex with
him.”

Hermione might’ve said, “Absolutely not, we hate each other,” but those words sounded less
convincing each time she spoke them, and Ginny’s hand was very near her wand.

She might’ve said, “It’s just a hormonal imbalance,” but that would’ve been tantamount to
admitting it, and she couldn’t think of anything more humiliating.

Hermione covered her cheeks with her palms to hide their magenta tinge. “I can’t.” It was the
best she could do under the circumstances.

“You can, and you should, and you would both be much easier to be around if you ever did. I
recommend sitting on his face to start.”

“Ginny!” Hermione gasped. “I absolutely will not—”

“And then you can tell me about it. I have questions, Hermione. Detailed ones.”

“There aren’t going to be any answers, because I’m not going to have sex with Draco
Malfoy! Or sit on any part of him!”

It was one offensively transparent denial too many for someone whose fiery disposition
matched her hair colour. Taking in a deep breath that did nothing to lessen her irritation,
Ginny did something she tried not to resort to with James, because his brain was not really
developed enough to comprehend it.

She laid down an ultimatum.

“I don’t want to see you again until you’re ready to admit that you have feelings for him,” she
said sternly. Seeing Hermione’s mouth shoot open, she hastened to clarify. “Feelings that are
not hatred.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut petulantly.

"If I have to hear that you're mortal enemies one more time, I’ll scream. Even if you’re not
sleeping with him, something is going on. I'm not an idiot.”

Having nothing to say other than a lie that would make her break out in hives or get yelled at
further, Hermione remained silent.

Deeply annoyed, Ginny left, but by then the words “sex with Draco Malfoy” had been
repeated often enough that they were permanently lodged in Hermione’s brain like an
extremely specific and inappropriate pop song. Her overactive imagination then lovingly
illustrated them in great detail.

But even if Hermione had the imaginative capacity of something very dull, such as Neville’s
long-dead pet toad or Gregory Goyle, she had enough reference material by then to come up
with a reasonably accurate depiction of what sex with Draco would be like.

The line had been crossed somewhere in the middle of last week and was now being dragged
recklessly behind them as they found new ways to torment each other, and by extension,
themselves. Hermione now knew how it felt to have his hands snake down to grip her
backside. She knew that raking her nails across his scalp could produce a perfectly licentious
sigh, complete with fluttering eyelids. She knew that the next time she found herself lying on
her back beneath him, she might reach up just as he reached down, and the sudden movement
might topple them both over the edge of a cliff.

He’d probably expect her to fight him every step of the way, to raise her flag on a new
battleground of lips and tongues and slick bodies racing each other toward a finish. But that
wasn’t at all how it played out in her fantasies (which she greatly preferred to think of as
intrusive thoughts).

She wanted to give in, to lay down her arms. She wanted to stop fighting, for once, while
senseless hours ticked by, undisturbed by thoughts like we shouldn’t and we hate each other.
She wanted to let him gather her up and wring her out until every last ounce of frustration
and denial and unfulfilled longing drained away and she felt, for the first time in five years,
completely sated.

But then, if she let her intrusive thoughts play out the scene to its inevitable conclusion, he
would look at her with a cruel smirk and genuine loathing and reveal the whole thing to be
one evil, twisted prank.

Sex with Draco Malfoy would put a crack in her armour and a blade in his hands and the
knowledge in his mind of exactly where and how to strike.

Sex with Draco Malfoy would make her lose.

The corridor outside her office sounded empty. She risked one more quiet, frustrated moan
against her forearms.

---
A flash of sparks alerted Junior Unspeakable Benjamin Davies Preston’s attention to the
logbook.

His face cracked into a wide grin. Finally.

He barely paused to jot down a transcription before he was off, racing for the lifts.

---

Hermione had no sooner let out a third embarrassing noise when a sweaty face appeared in
her doorway. From the look of shock that crossed Benjamin’s features, this one had carried.

“Merlin,” she said into her hands, and then withdrew them in case he mistook it for further
moaning. “Hello. It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” She nodded at his red cheekbones and mussed
hair.

“I was running,” he explained.

Hermione flushed and tried to discreetly wipe at the trickle of sweat that had found its way
beneath the band of her bra. Tracking the movement, Benjamin’s gaze dipped down to her
chest before springing back up again, laced with mortification. Hermione hardly noticed.
She’d just come up on her five-year anniversary of being relentlessly flirted with by Draco
Malfoy, who was a good deal better at it.

“Is there an emergency?” she asked, hoping he would leave so she could cast a half-dozen
cooling charms without having to answer pesky questions like why.

He crossed to her desk, holding the scrap of parchment before him like an offering. “There
was another prophecy,” he told her proudly, as if he had been the Seer responsible. “I kept an
eye out for mentions of a child, like I promised. It came through just now.”

Benjamin had been hoping for another bright smile, or at least that intoxicating gift of her
undivided attention. To receive neither was a massive disappointment. She accepted the paper
from his hand without even so much as a brush of fingers. (She was trying not to let him
discover how clammy her hands were.)

“He’s going to hate being called a snake,” she said, reading the words without an ounce of
the giddy anticipation she typically felt at the prospect of annoying him. “Will you stay for a
moment while I tell him?”

Reluctance to leave her presence outweighed reluctance to see Draco again. Benjamin settled
into a chair and smiled widely, hoping it would prompt her to return the gesture. It did not,
because Hermione was too busy wondering whether it was terribly immoral to trick
Benjamin into acting as a chaperone for two grown adults.

“Are you sending another Howler?” he asked hopefully.

She closed her eyes. “Not today.”

In the privacy of her mind, she allowed herself one brief delusion totally unencumbered by
reality. Only Slughorn’s strongest veritaserum could have forced her to admit whose face
smirked behind her eyelids as the otter burst from the tip of her wand.

---

“Can we talk about something else?” Draco moaned, although he would’ve classified it as a
groan, believing the hard consonant somehow made the whole thing less humiliating. Still,
the net result was that his mouth had just produced a sound that would’ve been right at home
in the hollow of Hermione’s collarbone.

“You’re the one moaning over her.” As Draco’s closest friend, Theo Nott had long ago
decided it was his duty to be the least sympathetic. “Also, it’s your fault we’ve been on the
subject for the last half hour. I didn’t wake up this morning with an urgent desire to learn
about Imaginary Benjamin’s refractory period, you know.”

“I’m only telling you because you’re to be Lilith’s temporary, work-related godfather if I
expire from unresolved sexual tension. Do you think that’s possible?”

Theo shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, seeing as how I like to resolve mine. You ought to try it.”

Draco sprawled across the sofa, a bad habit he’d developed on Hermione’s. “It just seems so
real.”

”Depulso. We’re still on this topic, I see.”

Draco recovered from the repelling charm and confined himself to a more equitable portion
of sofa space. “She hates me, of course, and I know the whole thing is fake, but—”

“She does not hate you, which I’ve explained a million—”

“—I’m having the damnedest time remembering it’s all a prank.”

Theo’s wand, still in hand, pointed threateningly at Draco. “Tell the truth. Is it real for you?”

Draco glanced down, uncertain how he was meant to fake his body’s natural response to
Hermione Granger.

“Not that, you tosser. Are you still claiming to hate her, or have we finally moved on?”

Draco considered the advantages of denying it: that he might not go completely mad; that he
might not be forced to confront the fact that five years of his life had been an elaborate lie;
that he might be able to maintain some shred of dignity when she inevitably won the war.

The advantages of just admitting the truth included that he might avoid being blasted across
the room by Theo, who looked as though five years of hearing Draco deny the obvious was
finally beginning to get old.

“Erm,” he said, aiming to land somewhere in the middle.

Theo pointed at the fireplace. “Just go. You can come back when you’re ready to admit it.”

“I can’t go home! She’ll be back from work soon, you’ve no idea how hard—”

“I have a perfectly good understanding of how hard things have become because you’ve just
told me in entirely too much detail. Might I remind you, it’s your fault you’re finally coming
face-to-face with your feelings. You could’ve ignored that letter and let this Imaginary
Benjamin fellow have her. At least then you would’ve been able to maintain the delusion that
you’re not clearly, desperately, embarrassingly in love with her.”

In the animal kingdom, there’s a phenomenon known as an extinction burst. (You will
probably not have heard of it if you went to Hogwarts, the school not offering much in the
way of STEM education.) It’s a term used to describe the increase in intensity of a behaviour
before that behaviour extinguishes altogether. It’s why, someday soon, Spurgeon will have
one massive, volcanic eruption of spit-up and then never do it again.

It also explains what happened next.

With as much dignified outrage as a man who’d just glimpsed the depths of his own idiocy
could muster, he spluttered, “I don’t have any feelings for her whatsoever – I hate her!”

And with that unconvincing burst, denial, which was already critically endangered, finally
went extinct within Draco’s mind.

“But I’ll lose, Theo,” he said, much more pathetically.

Thinking that perhaps he missed his calling as a Mind Healer, Theo pushed for a second
emotional breakthrough. “What does winning even look like? How do you imagine this
ending?”

In July of 2007, Draco would have sat up straight, smoothed back his hair, and responded in
an entirely serious voice, “It ends when one of us dies.” In early July of 2012 (so, a month
ago), he would have smirked, steepled his fingers ominously, and said, “It ends when she
forfeits.”

Now, he was pretty sure it was already over.

Draco closed his eyes and contemplated what a loser he was.

“You have a guest,” Theo announced, when it became clear he wasn’t going to be able to
solve all Draco’s hang ups in one sitting. “I think it’s Hermione.”

Draco flew off the sofa so fast his kneecaps made a noise they shouldn’t have. Beside him,
Theo sighed into his hand.

Hermione’s patronus was in the room. “Can you come to my office, please? I need you.”

They looked at each other as the otter dissolved into blue eddies of light.

“I can tell by your face you’re going to do something stupid,” Theo informed him.
“My face isn’t capable of looking stupid. You think I should stay away from her?”

“I think you should locate a Ministry broom cupboard and finally resolve the tension.”

Draco’s body had a small, anticipatory reaction to the suggestion. He reminded his body that
he was in charge, and he wasn’t going to just hand her a victory without trying for a draw, at
the very least. His body reminded him that it could make things very embarrassing for him if
it so chose.

“Please leave,” interrupted Theo. “This is difficult to watch.”

---

Benjamin’s first meeting with Hermione and Draco in her office was one of the strangest and
most uncomfortable of his short professional career.

He had an inkling that this second meeting might be worse. She hadn’t sent Draco a Howler
this time, for one, and she was wearing a crisp white trouser suit insead of the sky blue he’d
so strongly objected to for whatever reason. If she was no longer trying to make him angry,
Benjamin reasoned, their strange flirtation must have progressed and he was probably about
to witness something he’d wish he hadn’t.

Had Professor Trelawney been present, she’d have taken great pride in the way Benjamin
steeped these minor details in his thoughts like tea leaves, arranged them into the shape he
wanted, and divined a meaning that would’ve made Nostradamus seem like a blind optimist.

Unlike Professor Trelawney, however, Benjamin had got his interpretation precisely right.

From the moment Draco strode through the green flames, somehow managing to look
dashing despite the indignity of unfolding his tall frame out of the small, Ministry-issued
fireplace, Benjamin could see that this was going to go very poorly, indeed.

Draco seemed angry again, for no reason Benjamin could discern. Even more unsettling, the
anger appeared to be directed at him. Despite his best spine-stiffening efforts, he shrank a
little as Draco scrutinised his face, still flushed from his sprint from Level 9.

After a beat, the glare swung like a pendulum to Hermione, where it took in her equally
flushed face. (Benjamin’s mind applied the adjectives dewy, luminous, glowing, and radiant.)
The pendulum made its way back a final time to Benjamin. Slowly this time, like a predator.

“What is wrong with you?” Hermione asked, when the tension in Draco’s stance grew too
pronounced to be politely ignored.

The question, which seemed rhetorical to Benjamin’s ear, had a profound effect on the other
man. He achieved a previously unthought-of paleness as he looked back to Hermione with
the expression of someone who’d just seen a skull appear within the dregs of his teacup.

Later, Benjamin would replay the encounter in his mind, looking for new meaning in what
happened next. On his fourth rewind, he would find it. It was a small movement of
 Hermione’s hands, hardly noticeable at the time. She’d reached up just as Draco reached
down.

But right then, all Benjamin saw was a man toppling over the edge of a cliff as Draco pulled
Hermione out of her chair, bent his head down, and kissed her.

Chapter End Notes

Ahhhhhhhhh!

God, they’re complete menaces. Truly the villains of their own story. I did some
therapeutic gif-making while writing this. (Sorry kindle readers, you're missing the glory
of my gifs.)

Deepest, sincerest apologies to the very real authors of the “Beer Makes People Happy”
study, which is actually titled:

Identification of the Beer Component Hordenine as Food-Derived Dopamine D2

Receptor Agonist by Virtual Screening a 3D Compound Database

Thank you for your contribution to science. I’m sorry I made fun of it. And I’m also
sorry to the Brits, about the sorry thing. I’m sure none of you have ever apologized to a
door.

Goodness, you'd think I'm Canadian with all this apologizing.

NEXT WEEK: Imaginary Benjamin persists in being fictional. Two wildly different
missions are launched. Hermione is a very brave martyr who deserves a medal for her
bravery and martyrdom. And yes, that kiss.
 Exceptional Actors; Profound Idiots
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

If there was a correct way to behave when two people, one of whom you had an inconvenient
crush on, began snogging on the other side of a desk from you in an office that was suddenly
much too small, Benjamin suspected it involved looking away.

He couldn’t, though.

Eyes fixed in horrified fascination, he watched as Hermione’s hands travelled up to Draco’s

shoulders—

Is she going to push him away? Benjamin wondered with unearned optimism. Punch him? I
hope she punches him.

—and twined themselves in the short hairs just above his collar.

Oh.

Permission apparently granted, Draco’s own hands wrapped around Hermione’s body in a
grip that would have looked painful, except that she now appeared to be attempting to weld
herself along the length of his body.

Surely they’re nearly done, Benjamin thought.

The kiss deepened, and Hermione made a soft noise that pierced Benjamin somewhere in the
centre of his chest.

He coughed. They seemed to not have heard, which was a little ridiculous given that Draco
had clearly made note of the moaning sound.

When the force of the kiss tilted Hermione backwards into Draco's waiting arms, it became
clear that neither of them was about to hex the other, and that Benjamin was intruding.

He stood to leave, rubbing a palm against the aching hollow spot that had formed just
between his ribs. Although they wouldn’t have noticed anyway, he shut the door quietly on
his way out.

---

Hermione’s brain had shut off unexpectedly around the time Draco reached down to pull her
to a standing position, and was now performing a systems check as it slowly powered back
up.

It located her arms around his neck, clinging as if she might otherwise fall over. There was no
danger of that, because she’d been lifted to a seated position on her desk, knees parted around
his hips. He held her in place against his much larger body with strong hands wrapped around
her upper thighs.

His tongue was in her mouth. (Her brain needed a few more seconds to process that point.
She decided she might as well continue kissing him while it did.)

Eventually, Benjamin was remembered, ineffective chaperone that he was.

She pried herself off Draco’s lips to note with relief that the room was empty, door shut.

The movement put her ear in the vicinity of his mouth, so she found herself gasping as her
earlobe was sucked between his parted lips and lightly bit. His tongue then swept her ear and
she found it necessary to grip him a little tighter just in case she fainted. He moved down her
throat with damp, hot kisses, as though he was not particular about which part of her body he
was tasting, so long as it was bare flesh.

Desire lit up her body like a Christmas tree.

Draco’s fingers sought to make more of her bare flesh accessible to him as they slipped under
the hem of her blouse and slid up along her spine. One of them found the clasp of her bra,
hesitated consideringly, and then moved around to the front.

They roamed the swell of her breasts, not seeming to mind that she was still a little sweaty.
"Hermione," he said, in a warm, sultry breath against her throat. “Don’t pretend you don’t
want this.”

A thumb slipped beneath the cup of her bra to sweep her nipple. The sensation was registered
between her thighs.

“Draco!”

His name came out urgent and needy, in a tone that implied yes, don’t stop instead of how
she’d meant it, which was get your mouth off me right this instant. Her meaning was further
contradicted by her hands, which were fighting to untuck his shirt in search of that chest she'd
seen a handful of times in real life, and in fantasies, many hundreds more.

Any clarification she might’ve made was swallowed as his lips returned to devour hers.

She tried hard to marshall her thoughts without much success. Just as she had the words we
can’t do this gathered in the correct order on her tongue, he murmured against her mouth in a
seductive voice that ought to have been illegal.

“Will you let me have you right here on your desk? Take off these fucking ridiculous clothes,
you’ve no idea how much I—”

He didn’t finish, because then they were kissing again, his tongue urgently sweeping hers
while she clung pathetically to the lapel of his jacket, which he was still wearing for some
unfathomable reason.
Some distant part of her brain flashed a warning light. It was overridden by a much louder
part that directed her attention to the indisputable presence of his hard erection pressing into
her stomach.

She tightened her legs around him and rolled her hips against his.

"Fuck, Hermione," he breathed against her lips.

She wanted to beg him to do so, yes right here on this desk. She wanted to float the notion of
straddling that extremely talented mouth of his. She wanted to ask him to take her heart and
her face between his hands and promise her this didn't have to end, ever. She wanted to tell
him to stop all of this immediately.

She opened her mouth to voice any one of those sentiments.

But then his hand searched for the button of her trousers, and several embarrassing sounds
were the only thing that left her lips.

“Tell me this is real for you,” Draco said, pulling back to study her with undisguised
intensity. “I want to hear you say it.” His fingers dipped lazily beneath the now-undone
waistband of her trousers, brushing the very top of her knickers. The hand still on her breast
rolled a nipple between two fingers.

“I—” Her brain attempted to get her attention by making her sound like a moron. “I—”

“Hermione. Say it. Tell me it’s real.”

His fingers traced a tantalising path down the front of her knickers, and it occurred to her that
if he moved any lower, she wouldn’t have to answer because her body would do it for her.

Yes, you idiot, the small, annoying part of her brain informed her with great satisfaction.
That’s his entire plan.

She jolted back with horror, dislodging the hand one millisecond before it discovered
undeniable evidence of her very real arousal that she couldn’t possibly have faked.

“Of course it isn’t real,” she snapped between hard breaths. “Nice try, Malfoy. Did you think
it was real?”

It was a win by technicality alone. A rejection delivered an instant before he obtained

information he no doubt would’ve tortured her with for eternity.

She tried to console herself with the tiny victory as he retreated by degrees, starting by
withdrawing one hand from between her thighs and the other from beneath her bra, and then
vacating the space between her spread legs, and finally by closing off the shell-shocked
expression he’d accidentally left unguarded.

As consolation prizes went, it was quite poor. It did nothing to alleviate the heavy emptiness
of her hands, which no longer gripped his neck; her thighs, which no longer held his hips
close to hers; or her stomach, which twisted around on itself nauseatingly.
“I’m perfectly aware it’s not real, Granger. There's no need to lose your head over it.” He
gave something that didn't quite pass for a smirk, because he was breathing too heavily to
earnestly commit.

She had the near-hysterical thought that her hair might’ve been suffocating him, and that she
hoped it would finish the job next time.

“I am absolutely not interested in you. I could never in a million years be interested in you,”
she told him, but mostly herself, because there couldn’t be a next time.

He straightened his tie. A lock of his hair stood up straight in the front, and she remembered
that one of her hands had been tugging wantonly at a fistful of it only moments ago.

“Right. Because—”

“We hate each other.”

He frowned. “Right. In that case—”

“I’m moving out.”

“Good,” he snapped. “I’ll just explain to Shacklebolt how your ridiculous lingerie and
overactive libido caused the apocalypse, because you were unable to provide a stable living
environment for two more weeks until she goes to Hogwarts.”

For the first time in a very long time, she felt genuinely angry with him. The swell of emotion
only served to remind her that whatever hatred she thought she’d felt over the past several
years had apparently been an illusion. Her chest contracted painfully.

“This is entirely your fault! If you were capable of keeping your hands to yourself, none of
this would have happened!”

“Stop overreacting, Granger. You just said it isn’t real.”

“It isn't!”

“So then nothing happened.”

His face was a blank mask now, and she realised with a sinking sensation that the pained,
hungry look from moments ago had all been an act.

“But – you kissed me,” she said, suddenly desperate for him to acknowledge it, even if it did
undermine her goal of seeming equally unaffected.

His gaze dropped to her mouth before fixing itself to a spot on the wall over her left shoulder.

“It didn’t mean anything. There’s no need to get worked up over it.”

I hate him, she thought, setting her clothing to rights with shaking hands. I hate him I hate
him I hate him.
But Hermione was not that good of a liar, and she did not believe herself at all.

---

If Disapparation was possible within the Ministry, Benjamin would have spun on the spot and
reappeared in the dark, empty Hall of Prophecy where he could be alone with his humiliation
for a few hours until the initial sting wore off.

Because it wasn’t, he trudged to the lifts and hoped he wouldn’t see anyone.

Luck was truly not on his side that day. A girl around the age of a first-year Hogwarts student
stepped off the lift as soon as the doors dinged open.

“Hi,” she greeted him pleasantly. Her hands were held open in front of her, a scrap of cloth
draped over her palms. In a place of honour across the top lay a shiny silver thimble.

“Hello,” he replied automatically, looking at the thimble. “What’s that?”

“It’s a portkey to Jamaica. They didn’t have Argentina.”

“Oh.”

“I was going to see if Kingsley wanted to help me prank Draco and Hermione.”

Benjamin refocused his attention on the child. She looked pleasant enough (some might have
said cherubic), but her casual use of Draco and Hermione’s names as well as her evident glee
at the thought of sending them unwittingly to Jamaica made him pause.

“How old are you?” he asked, suspicion uncoiling within him.

“Eleven,” she replied cheerfully. “I’ll be twelve in October.”

He collided with the wall behind him in a hasty retreat. The world-destroying, demon-
summoning child was standing right in front of him, and she had dimples.

“You can’t send them to Jamaica,” he said, panic making his voice rise. The words untrained,
unaided floated in his mind. This child definitely didn’t need to be left to her own devices.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not going to hurt them. The people on Level 6 told me it just makes
your stomach feel bad for a minute. Besides, I’m on a secret mission.”

[THE SNAKE AND THE LION SHALL HELP THE CHILD IN HER MISSION, the prophecy
had stated. Benjamin, a badger, was thankful to be excluded.]

“And what mission is that?” He tried to make his voice steady, as if they were discussing a
casual game of quidditch instead of the potential end of the world.

She grinned. “I’m going to make them realise they're in love and get married.”

This was a new low, even for Fate. Benjamin let his head drop back onto the wall behind him.
“Are you alright?” the young Voldemort was asking.

No, he was not alright, because the woman he’d been harbouring secret feelings for
apparently had to marry his nemesis in order to stop the world from ending.

And even worse, he had to go break the news to the happy couple, because otherwise how
could they help with her secret mission?

He pushed off the wall unsteadily. “I need to talk to them for a moment. Can you give us a
few?”

She shrugged and headed for Kingsley’s office, the thimble held gingerly before her.

---

In what was quickly approaching a habit, Draco found himself in a foul mood in Hermione’s
office.

He’d very nearly uttered something that held the general shape of a confession, although the
exact words couldn’t have been predicted before they’d left his mouth.

An admission that he didn't hate her after all seemed likely. A desperate entreaty to save him
from fast-approaching insanity by either killing him or taking him to bed seemed within the
realm of possibility.

But it wasn’t until she coldly informed him that she could never be interested in him that way
that he understood how close he'd come to opening his mouth and letting his entire soul pour
out, the contents of which were apparently her.

And now he felt completely joyless in her presence for the first time he could remember.

Worse still, that annoying gnat Benjamin had returned for a second helping of Draco’s
humiliation.

The younger man took in Hermione’s closed-off expression and general disarray for a
moment and decided (rather unfairly, Draco thought) to blame someone other than the
woman at fault.

“What did you do?” Benjamin stared at Draco, aghast.

Draco performed a perfunctory sneer. “Oh, wonderful, it’s you again. Well, you’ve just
missed the part where we decided that nothing happened after all, so she’s all yours, if you
think you’ll survive the attempt. Although I don’t appreciate the implication that I would do
anything to her.”

Benjamin looked as though he couldn’t conceive of a world in which someone could kiss
Hermione Granger and then immediately pretend it hadn’t happened. “You are an absolute
moron,” he said, in a moment of exceptional bravery.

“Yes, I’m well aware,” snapped Draco.

“Draco—” Hermione began pleadingly.

“Nothing’s changed, Granger, so don’t start calling me that.”

He couldn’t understand why she looked as though she wanted to cry. He was the injured party
here, after all.

Benjamin coughed nervously. “Actually, it has. You, erm, have to get married.”

“How horrifically pureblooded of you. Did my mother put you up to this? This is a new tactic
for her,” Draco sneered, misery eating away at his nerves like battery acid. “Kindly inform
her that snogging does not equate to an engagement. Otherwise I’d be married to Tracey
Davis and Granger here would have a baker’s dozen red-headed miscreants running about.”

She had the gall to look affronted. “Tracey Davis? You can’t be serious. And I would’ve
been married to Viktor Krum, actually.”

“Somehow I always manage to forget that,” Draco said sourly. “Thank you for the reminder.”

“You brought up Tracey Davis!”

“Jealous, Granger?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed.

“Of course not!” he repeated, illogically infuriated that the nervous peck he’d bestowed upon
Tracey Davis’ upper lip at the age of thirteen hadn’t driven Hermione mad with envy. “I’m
the one that has to spend all my waking hours thinking about what you’re getting up to with
him.”

They both looked in the direction of his finger, which was aimed at Benjamin. Benjamin cast
a hopeful glance around the otherwise empty room.

“What?” Hermione sounded on the verge of hysteria. “What about him?”

Benjamin recoiled. “We haven’t been getting up to anything, I swear—”

“Fine, not him, but the other bloke, whoever he is. Imaginary Benjamin.”

She looked completely lost. Draco reminded himself sternly that she really was an incredible
actress. She’d been faking all those moans, after all.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But why should you care, anyway?” she asked
furiously.

Draco began to feel as though his heart was suddenly too large for his chest. Or perhaps his
ribcage had shrunk and was compressing the vital organ. Either way, something didn’t fit
right anymore. Each heartbeat throbbed painfully.
“I don’t!” he said, suddenly horribly afraid that the ache wouldn’t go away, ever, even after
he escaped the agony of her presence. Even if he never saw her again. “I don’t care at all!”

“You have to get married,” Benjamin insisted. “I’ve just met the child, the one from the
prophecies—”

“Lilith,” Hermione filled in, although she only appeared to be half-listening, eyes still fixed
furiously on Draco.

“Fitting name, I suppose. Anyway, she told me her mission—”

“Hang on, prophecies?” Draco interrupted, glad of the distraction from his phantom heart
pain. “There was more than one?”

Hermione tossed a slip of paper in his direction. “Yes, this is what I called you here to tell
you about before you decided it was a hilarious prank to nearly rip my clothes off and then
pretend nothing happened.”

Benjamin emitted an audible gulping sound but was ignored.

Draco frowned as he read the scrap, which he’d had to snatch off the floor. “We both agreed
it wasn’t real. And I can’t say I appreciate this Seer’s use of the word snake. It feels
pejorative.”

“It seems completely accurate to me!”

Benjamin began to sound desperate. “Look, I don’t know what’s happening, but—”

“Nothing is happening,” Hermione responded acerbically. “He’s made it very clear.”

“Hermione—”

“She wants you to fall in love and get married!” Benjamin nearly shouted. “She said it's her
mission.”

Silence reigned for a blessed few moments while they absorbed the implication of this
pronouncement.

“Earth has had a good run, I suppose,” Draco finally said.

Hermione drew back, eyebrows cinched tightly together. “Is the thought so repulsive to you
that you’d rather the world end than even consider it?”

Draco gripped a frustrated handful of hair, which was already in disarray from an activity he
didn’t want to think about. “Don’t act as though you’re considering it! You hate me, as we’ve
only just finished discussing.”

“Of course I’m not considering it! But you were offensively quick to dismiss the idea. And
besides, as you like to point out, you hate me even more.”
Draco opened his mouth, failed to produce sound, and closed it again.

“I think we should tell Minister Shacklebolt,” Benjamin suggested. (He no longer had much
faith that these two people were capable of subverting the apocalypse. They had, after all, just
admitted as much.)

Hermione stiffened. “Absolutely not! Do you know what they’ll do to her? She’s just a
child!”

“Then…then…you have to get married! Prophecies come true! That's the entire point of
them!” Benjamin spread his hands to indicate that they could take it up with the universe, not
him. “Believe me, if there were any other way, I’d be the first to suggest it.”

“Yes, I’m sure this is very difficult for you,” Draco told him snidely. “Your crush is well-
documented.”

“Is it?” Benjamin looked faint.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin. It is.” Hermione wrinkled her nose sympathetically. “More to the
point, we don’t even know for sure that Lilith is the subject of this one. Maybe we’re not the
lion and snake in question.”

“You think there’s a different Gryffindor-Slytherin combo with a child on a mission? Seems
exceptionally unlikely that we’d be the wrong ones, given there’s already been one prophecy
about her.”

[The odds that they’d got it right were decent: precisely fifty percent. Unfortunately, they
were still betting on the losing half.]

“But this is so stupid!” Hermione objected. “Why on earth would this prevent the demons or
whatever is meant to happen?”

It was an excellent, unanswerable question that should have clued them into the fact that
they’d got it all wrong. Instead, they forged ahead with stupidity.

“I think it’s just about keeping her happy. Happy people don’t summon demons.” Benjamin
sincerely hoped this was true.

“This is easily solved, then,” Draco announced. “We’ll just fake it. Granger’s excellent at
that.”

Hermione looked at him, face pale almost to the point of biological impossibility. “I hate
you,” she told him, her voice cracking over the words.

A small, invisible Bellatrix had risen from the dead and was performing a highly targeted
Cruciatus Curse at the space beneath his left ribcage.

“Yes,” he fairly spat. “I know you do.”

---
Pansy cycled through emotions so quickly it made Neville’s head spin.

Her first reaction upon learning of her newest prophecy was to burst into tears – “they’re
happy tears, Neville, stop fussing” – and collapse onto the floor, where she laughed herself
silly while repeating the phrase “I’m not mad” until she began to sound quite mad.

Neville sat cross-legged beside her, heart thudding with joy and relief.

Then she wiped the happy tears from her flushed cheeks, sat up, and announced in a smug
voice that she was a much better Seer than Trelawney.

“Now that was a perfectly coherent prophecy. There’s literally no other way that could be
taken! THE SNAKE AND THE LION are obviously us. And we just met the child last
Saturday! Who else could it be?”

Neville agreed that the idea of the prophecy referring to anyone else was positively
laughable. They laughed together at the thought, and then Pansy’s hand reached across to
squeeze his knee.

“Thank you for being here, Neville.”

They smiled at each other, and Neville told himself not to wonder whether she’d mistakenly
forgotten to remove her hand and instead just enjoy the moment. The moment began to last a
lot longer than he expected. He wondered if there was anything he might do to extend it
further. Should he say something? Move closer? Touch her knee?

But apparently, Neville was capable of ruining a moment by even just thinking too hard about
it because she soon snatched her hand back with a frown.

“Hang on, why am I having prophecies about a Muggle child? Was that girl not a Muggle?”

Neville thought about the child and the ominous feeling he’d had in her presence. Still, it
wasn’t as though you could tell who was a Muggle just by looking at them. “If she’s a witch,
why would she ask you to teach her magic? She must go to Hogwarts, or she’ll be starting
soon, at least.”

“But what sort of mission could a Muggle child even have? Don’t they just, y’know, go to
school? Grow up? Get boring Muggle jobs?”

Neville shrugged. It didn’t sound too different from his own life, give or take a few hundred
plants. “I suppose we ought to double-check. Think she’ll come back?”

“I hope so. Come on, help me remove the wards.”

---

The following Saturday, Narcissa looked with feigned interest at the shelf of arithmancy
books before her and decided she was going to help guide Lilith toward the Light by teaching
her the importance of punctuality.
She’d arrived precisely at noon and had been wandering aimlessly through the aisles for half
an hour as she waited for her granddaughter to turn up. The shop assistant had come by four
times already, apparently greatly distressed by the implication that Flourish and Blotts might
lack something Narcissa Malfoy wanted.

“I’d like a cup of tea,” she finally said, knowing full well the shop didn’t offer any. The bell
on the door tinkled as the assistant scurried off down Diagon Alley in search of her beverage.

Malfoys were punctual. It must be that Granger half, she decided. She’d have to do
something about it once the marriage was out of the way.

She selected a book at random, flipped it open, and pretended to read.

---

A knock sounded on the cottage door at precisely noon on Saturday.

Pansy and Neville would’ve appreciated Gemma’s punctuality, except that they were not
expecting her.

In fact, at that very moment, Pansy was up to her elbows in potting soil, listening with
genuine interest while Neville explained how mandrakes were actually distant relatives to the
Muggle But Fascinating ficus family, a member of which was currently being repotted on
their dining table.

They both froze at the sound, then jumped into action.

Neville snatched up her wand and buried it with his beneath the sofa cushion.

“Wait!”

He turned back and she held out her soiled hands for inspection. He retrieved his wand,
performed a quick scourgify, and shoved it back out of sight.

Pansy smoothed down her dress and hair as if a suitor was at the door instead of an eleven-
year-old girl. Neville noticed and nudged her arm gently with his own.

“Hey, Pans. Ten galleons says she’s a witch.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re on.”

The door opened to reveal the possibly-Muggle girl from the previous Saturday.

“Hi,” the girl said, when no one spoke.

“Hello,” chimed Neville and Pansy.

They listened for a moment to the song of a solitary cricket on a nearby rhododendron.

“We can…help you with your…mission?” Pansy hedged.

“My mission?” Her brow furrowed. “Oh. Yes. That’s what I – yes.” The girl looked relieved.

Neville reflected that it might be the first time in his life when he wasn’t the source of the
awkwardness in the room. “Why don’t you come in,” he offered smoothly.

She did, mumbling a thanks.

“Tea?”

She accepted. A moment later, Neville realised he would certainly be the source of the
awkwardness now that he had to go back and tell her they were out of tea, since there was no
hope of learning to operate the incomprehensible Muggle kettle in the next thirty seconds.

“What’s your name?” Pansy inquired as he returned empty-handed.

“Gemma Thompson-Stewart,” the girl said, casting an interested gaze around the cottage.
Neville realised she was probably looking for the crystal ball, or, perhaps, a bubbling black
cauldron.

“I’m Pansy Parkinson,” Pansy supplied. “And this is my friend Neville Longbottom.”

Gemma just nodded, and Neville correctly intuited that she was not the type of child who
enjoyed conversing with boring old adults.

“Why don’t you tell us what your mission is,” he said, before Pansy could reach the same
conclusion and become offended by the insinuation about her age.

Gemma frowned in thought. “Can you teach me to summon a demon?”

Pansy flashed a smile at him. Demons aren’t real, which she'd know if she were a witch, the
smile said. Point for Muggle.

“Certainly not,” Neville said firmly, ignoring Pansy. “That can’t possibly be your mission.”

“Fine. Can you teach me to do any magic at all?” Gemma was beginning to look
disappointed with her new teachers.

“Can you do magic now?” Neville asked, attempting a casual, disinterested affectation that
didn’t work at all.

“Yes, of course,” Gemma said. “Although I can’t really control it. It isn’t working at all
today.”

Neville beamed. Accidental magic. Point for witch.

“I made my guardians forget about fish. And they don’t remember I exist half the time,
either,” she went on.

Neville’s smile vanished. Point for lying Muggle with a poor home life.
“I pushed a boy down some stairs by accident once without using my hands.”

Point for clumsy Muggle? Or slightly violent magical person? They exchanged a confused
glance.

“And I flipped our Fiesta and nearly totalled it,” she finished.

They silently debated the ownership of that point, but got stuck on the Muggle terminology
and gave up.

Pansy decided to go for a decisive victory, so she asked the only questions that really
mattered anyway.

“How old are you, and where are you going to school next term?”

“Eleven. I’ll be twelve in October. And,” Gemma made a face, “Catholic school.”

Pansy’s own face split in a triumphant grin. Definitively Muggle.

“It would be my honour to teach you magic,” she told the girl. “We’ll start at the library. You
need books.”

Finally, the universe had given her something interesting to do in Stoke, even if teaching fake
magic to a Muggle child was a completely bizarre and perplexing task. She might even throw
on one of the caftans for fun.

---

“We’re closing soon,” the shop assistant said with significant trepidation. Narcissa Malfoy’s
mood had become markedly worse over the course of the afternoon she’d spent wandering
around Flourish and Blotts looking at nothing in particular.

Narcissa barely spared her a glance. She was busy formulating revenge plots against
Hermione Granger, who was clearly keeping her granddaughter from her. All of the plots
involved forced marriage to her son, who deserved it for ignoring her letters and having a
child with a woman who didn’t want to become a Malfoy. Who on earth wouldn’t want to
become a Malfoy?

“I’d like to use your Floo,” she told the shop assistant, who still hovered nearby in a plume of
apprehension.

“Oh, it’s for employees—” She broke off as the full, plotting force of Narcissa’s gaze landed
on her. “Right this way.” She led Narcissa to a back room and showed her to the fireplace.

Narcissa accepted a handful of Floo powder and stepped delicately into the grate.

“Zabini Manor,” she called out, and disappeared.

---
The British science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke once famously wrote that “any
sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

This, of course, only holds true if you don’t know anything about how technology works. In
1973, when the words were written down, Arthur C. Clarke had probably been sitting in
someone’s living room, watching a single white pixel bounce back and forth across the dark
screen of his grandchildren’s new video game console. He had probably been thinking
something crotchety, like these children and their newfangled toys, and then gone and written
a sweeping generalisation that only proved how poorly he understood computers, which is
embarrassing for a science fiction writer.

Neville and Pansy didn’t know to be embarrassed either as they stood before the automatic
glass door of City Central Library, heads turning to watch it slide open and shut like a
riveting game of Pong.

“What are you doing?” called Gemma, when they missed their third opportunity to enter. She
was already inside, basking in the air conditioning.

Neville, correctly deciding it was some sort of Muggle invention that could sense their
presence, incorrectly decided they’d better take it at a bit of a run.

He grabbed Pansy’s hand and pulled her forward. Despite the door’s best effort, their
shoulders made contact. Gemma and the other library patrons stared.

Things did not get any better at the counter.

“I’d like everything you have on magic.” Gemma made sure to look serious when she said it
so that the librarian wouldn’t mistake her request for hyperbole.

The woman behind the desk squinted at them in accusation. “What’s got you so interested in
magic, then?”

Pansy had a cuticle that required urgent investigation. Neville studied the fading blue carpet
beneath his feet.

“School project,” replied Gemma.

“Don’t lie to me, girl. It’s summer. You don’t have school.” The librarian felt around for her
glasses, which were hanging from a purple beaded chain around her neck, and pushed them
onto the bridge of her nose before peering over them. “Children shouldn’t be reading about
such things.”

Pansy understood that sometimes, people with small amounts of power like to wield it over
others with even less, like children, or a strange couple who couldn’t even work out how to
use a sliding glass door. The librarian had greatly miscalculated the power differential
between herself and Pansy, however.

She didn’t raise her voice. It wasn’t necessary.

“You will give us every book you possess on witchcraft, wizardry, the history of magic,
transfiguration, charms, arithmancy, and wand lore. Potions, too, if she wants it.”

The librarian needed only a moment to recalibrate her place in the hierarchy. Pansy had that
effect on people.

“Please,” added Neville, nearly ruining it.

“Now!” snapped Pansy, in an attempt to recover the lost momentum.

“If you don’t mind,” said Neville.

“Do it.”

He pinched his lips together, but it slipped out anyway. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“I don’t want arithmetics,” said Gemma.

“I’m very sorry, I don’t think we have much on any of those topics. I’ll see what I can find.”
The librarian’s tone had taken a sharp left turn, and she was now attempting to take personal
responsibility for the poor selection of Stoke-on-Trent’s only public library. She did
something rapidly with her fingers on a Muggle piece of technology that made a satisfying
clacking noise.

“You’re quite good at that,” Neville told Pansy. “Being terrifying.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders relaxed in a slump. “I wasn’t thinking – am I terrible, do you think?”

“You’re not terrible, Pansy. Only slightly out of practice at being good.”

Pansy received a very lopsided grin, then, and accepted it like the gift that it was. The
fierceness, which had only ever been a temporary disguise anyway, slipped from her face as
she smiled back openly.

“Are you two, like, a couple?” Gemma gave them her signature scathing look of revulsion.

The smiles were instantly swapped out for twin looks of mortification.

“Will fiction do? We haven’t any reference books or the like.” The librarian’s fingers
twitched in a minute sign of the cross, indetectable to the adults, who wouldn’t have known
what it meant anyway.

“No!” said Pansy, responding to Gemma.

“Yes,” said Neville, responding much more politely to the librarian.

He realised his error and flushed scarlet. “Yes. I mean, no. No, that is, we’re not. Not a
couple. Yes to the books. No to the—” He narrowly avoided saying the word coupling by
shutting his mouth just in time.
“Gross,” muttered Gemma, shuddering.

The librarian possessed just enough sense not to agree. “I’ll just go get these for you,” she
said, clutching a handwritten list and vanishing from view through the stacks with
significantly more speed than she had ever done any part of her job.

“So was that mind control?” Gemma wanted to know. “With the librarian?”

“Oh.” Pansy looked hesitantly at Neville, who shrugged. “Of course it was.”

It was hardly a lie, and easier to explain than the truth, anyway. Her upbringing under the
tutelage of Prunella Parkinson had taught her more about the Dark Arts of cold glares and
dictatorial tones than anything she’d learned that disastrous seventh year at Hogwarts, when
actual Dark Arts had appeared on the curriculum.

“Doesn’t it hurt her? Wait! You’re not doing it on me, are you?” Gemma was deeply
concerned about losing her mental faculties the way Mr Price had done.

Pansy, who could’ve Imperiused Gemma to do cartwheels around the library for hours if
she’d been so inclined (and had wanted to go to prison for it), shook her head solemnly. “It
doesn’t work on other witches,” she said. “And no, it doesn't hurt them, not if you do it
right.”

The librarian returned with a stack of titles. “Do you have a library card?” she asked Gemma,
deciding not to engage further with the woman, whose shiny black bob gave her a
canonically witch-like appearance. (Except not the warty kind. The terrifyingly beautiful sort,
which was scarier.)

“No, I don’t have one,” replied Gemma.

“I can’t give you any books without a card,” she sniffed, once again making a grave error in
judgement with respect to who had the upper hand in the conversation.

Pansy might have spent thirty-two years practising how to effectively boss people around, but
Gemma had recently learned about mind control and was eager for an opportunity to practise.
She narrowed her eyes and thought hard at the unsuspecting woman.

“I don’t need one.”

The librarian, who had a bad left knee that creaked sometimes when she sat, was very lucky
that it hadn’t occurred to Gemma to make her execute any cartwheels. “No, of course you
don’t need one. Here you are.” She pushed the stack of books across the counter.

“I can’t believe how well that works!” she whispered to Neville and Pansy on their way out.
“So easy, too! I bet she would’ve done anything I told her to.” She strode ahead of the others
into fluorescent sunshine and dank humidity.

“Hmm. I’m concerned about the direction she’s headed,” Neville said, as they watched her
depart.
“Are you? I think that’s the street we came from.”

“Morally, Pansy.”

“Oh, right. Yes, I wouldn't have encouraged her with the mind control thing if I'd known how
good she'd be at ordering people about. My mother would've been very proud. Incidentally,
that's how I know it was a mistake.”

“I’ve been thinking about what we’re really meant to be doing here," he said. “The magic
thing is clearly just nonsense. I think she’s lonely, and she doesn’t seem to have anyone. We
ought to talk to her. Set her on the right path.”

“I'm not certain I’m qualified to help anyone, Neville. Out of practice at being good, you
know.”

“I don't think there's anything you can't do." He offered another one of those smiles which
made her feel like the lucky recipient of a very rare, precious gift. “Besides, I’ve been living
in a greenhouse for a decade. I’m out of practice at everything.”

“We’re the very definition of unfit,” she sighed. “Still, you’re right. I think we’ve got to try.”

Try they did. They caught up to Gemma on the street corner, turned her around to face them,
and delivered a poorly reasoned moral argument, the thesis of which boiled down to “it’s
wrong because it’s wrong.”

“—other people are people too,” Neville finished lamely.

“But you did it first.” Gemma pointed out.

Pansy winced. “I shouldn’t have. That was wrong of me—”

“And you said it didn’t hurt her, right?”

Pansy grew uneasy at this. She had always thought that if she had children of her own, she’d
aim to raise them with slightly different tactics than Prunella had done so that they wouldn’t
have to go through the humiliating process of deconstructing their entire belief system once
they reached adulthood (or else remain well-bred monsters forever). One hour into being a
role model and she’d already turned Gemma into a disturbingly effective manipulator. And,
thought Pansy, one who believed she was doing real magic, which would probably require a
very different type of deconstruction later.

“Look, Gemma. I was once a very bad sort of witch. The evil kind. It’s not as much fun as
you might imagine, because the other side generally wins, and then you have to watch
everyone you know die or go to prison.”

Neville nudged her gently with his elbow.

“Right. Anyway, as an evil witch, I thought other people didn’t matter as much as I did. But
in fact, the opposite is true. Neville’s worth ten of me, for example, because he's naturally
good and kind and helps people. And besides, if you’re evil, the universe likes to punish you
for it by giving you a mental breakdown and sending you to Stoke-on-Trent and—”

“Pansy.” He put a light hand on her shoulder. “You’re not evil. You didn’t do anything to
deserve this.”

“But I’m already in Stoke-on-Trent,” Gemma pointed out.

“There are worse places, I’m sure.”

The adults fell silent as they tried to think of an example. Other than Azkaban, which they
couldn’t talk about without a serious breach of the Statute of Secrecy, they failed to come up
with anything.

“The point is,” Pansy concluded, “horrible people die alone in Stoke-on-Trent. Is that what
you want?”

Gemma had been the recipient of a great number of moral lectures in the children’s home.
None had been nearly so effective.

“No, I suppose it isn’t,” she shuddered, thinking about that word alone and all it implied.
Although, the loneliness hadn’t felt quite so acute in the last hour or so. “So…no mind
control?”

“No mind control,” Neville agreed firmly.

“Alright.” She thought she had a reasonably good chance of not doing it accidentally again,
now that she had done it on purpose and knew how. “But am I really meant to learn
something from these?”

She held up for inspection a stack of books, which included The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The
Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and Matilda.

Neville and Pansy looked blankly at the titles. “Why, of course. Those are required reading
for young witches,” Pansy lied confidently.

---

When Hermione was six years old, her across-the-street best friend Elizabeth Milton moved
with her parents to Surrey, which might as well have been to Mars for a child from
Hampstead who didn’t know how to Apparate yet.

On moving day, she stood outside in her bare feet and waved until the removal van rounded
the corner, then waited for another ten minutes in case Elizabeth’s parents had a change of
heart, or, perhaps, a sudden mechanical failure.

Then she came back inside and refused to sleep for a week.

The paediatrician couldn’t find anything wrong. “She’s sad,” he said simply. “Get her to play
with her other friends. She’ll snap out of it soon enough.”
The Grangers sheepishly admitted that their daughter didn’t have any other friends. They’d
been hard at work arranging playdates with the other families in the neighbourhood, but
nothing seemed to stick. Should they try something else? Have a word with the other children
on Hermione’s behalf, perhaps?

The paediatrician listened kindly, then discreetly wrote down the words “only child” in his
notepad.

“No,” he informed them. “You shouldn’t try to make friends for her. It’ll only make everyone
think she’s weird and she’ll be even more of an outcast than she already is. She’ll make
friends when she makes friends, or she’ll be alone in life forever. It’s up to her, really.”

(It was the eighties, and bedside manner hadn’t yet been invented.)

The Grangers looked at their daughter, who was already by that time displaying early
indications of weirdness, and despaired.

But, to everyone’s surprise and relief (Hermione’s most of all), she had made friends.
Although, it had taken five years and a troll to do so.

Hermione couldn’t remember what Elizabeth Milton looked like, but she remembered the
feeling of standing in her bare feet on hot pavement as the van disappeared around a bend.

That's why, that day in the girls’ bathroom, with troll snot streaming from Harry’s wand, she
decided she would be the best at being a best friend and do whatever it took to keep them in
her life from that point forward.

It had been difficult. Lots of sacrifice was involved. She’d awarded herself several mental
prizes for her bravery over the years.

But never again would Hermione stand helplessly by as someone she cared about rounded a
corner out of sight. Even when it meant she had to go to (actual, literal) war for one of her
friends. Even after a frustratingly mutual breakup with another. Even when friendship meant
she had to stay up all night prodding information into their remarkably resistant brains
because they’d never pass their O.W.L.s otherwise.

She considered what she might be willing to sacrifice in order to keep Draco in her life, and
decided the same answer applied:

Everything. More or less.

She knocked softly on his door.

There was a pause, followed by a rustle of fabric and several hesitant footsteps. The door
opened marginally to reveal a paler-than-usual face frowning down at her.

“You look awful,” she said, defaulting to rudeness to cover the stabbing pain of
unreciprocated emotion. The door began to close. “No, wait! I’m sorry.” She stopped it with a
hand.
“What do you want, Granger?” There was none of the usual gleam in his eye. He just looked
tired.

“I’m here to offer a solution.” (I’m here to offer a horrible sacrifice, you cretin, her brain
amended with significant self-pity. She decided another award for her bravery was in order.)

“I don’t think my nerves can withstand another moratorium,” he told her curtly.

“No, the opposite," she sighed, wondering if all martyrs felt quite so devastated over their
choices. "A game. A war. Whichever you like. It’ll make it easier for us both. Less…
objectionable.”

He waited, hand clearly itching to snap the door shut in her face.

Lifting her chin bravely, she issued the challenge. “I’ll be better at it. Fake dating, that is. I’ll
be so good at it you’ll think – you’ll think I’m in love with you by the time October rolls
around. I'll win.”

There it was. A gauntlet had been thrown. An extraordinarily painful one that felt as though it
had been ripped from her chest.

Can we go back to normal? the gauntlet asked. Can we go back to our games and our pranks
and our stupid arguments? Can you go back to hating me the way you’ve always done,
passively and without any heat to it? Can you pretend none of this ever happened and I'll
pretend I'm only pretending to like you? Can you look at me like you used to, even though it
wasn't real, so that I don't want to cry every time I see you? Can you please not disappear
from my sight behind a wall of anger?

It was an awful lot of subtext. For once, she hoped it went unnoticed.

He surveyed her coldly, then accepted with a lip curl of derision.

“You’re on,” he said lightly. “I’m a much better actor than you. Prepare to be wooed.”

The amused gleam was back in his eye. A decisive, soul-crushing victory.

“Not if I do it first,” she said without enthusiasm. “And I know this will be difficult for you,
but we should probably not…actually date anyone else for now. For appearances.”

He studied her critically. “Yes, that will be dreadfully difficult, I imagine. But very well, I'll
abstain if you will. What do I get when I win?”

“When?”

“Yes, win, obviously.”

She sighed, wondering why on earth she didn’t hate him. It seemed the easier thing. “The
world won’t end. Isn’t that a sufficient prize?”
He shrugged as though he couldn't decide what mattered less: her, or the end of the world.
“Fine. We’ll start Friday. But we need to find someone to watch her. I don’t trust Wally.”

“Watch Lilith? What on earth for?”

“For our fake date, of course.”

She was going to have a plaque made up to hang on her office wall when this was over. The
'Exceptionally Brave Witch Whose Entire Heart Has Been Sacrificed for the Good of
Humanity' Prize, Awarded to Hermione J. Granger.

“Well, Ginny can’t do it. She’s not talking to me.”

He gave a ghost of a smirk and her heart did a little flip in response like the absolute fool that
it was. “There’s always my mother…”

“Fine! I’ll ask Ginny. I deserve a second award for this, though. You’ve no idea what I’m
sacrificing.”

"I'm sorry?"

"No,” she said, sounding as morose as she felt. “But I will be."

Deciding that she’d earned a brief, piteous wallow for being so brave, she trudged back to her
own room, set a timer with her wand for five minutes, and let herself sob into the guest
pillows that still smelled like him.

---

Draco closed the door on Hermione’s retreating back and wondered at what point he would
need to visit a Healer; even if his symptoms were psychosomatic, it surely couldn’t be normal
to just walk about with a great aching hole in the centre of one’s chest.

And now he had to pretend to pretend to like her so that she wouldn’t find out that he really
did. He asked himself how he’d ever managed to stop hating such an infuriating woman, then
concluded with a significant twinge to the empty space behind his ribcage that he probably
hadn't hated her since that first day in her office five years ago.

Try as he might, he couldn’t sleep for the rest of the week.

---

From her seat on a pink and yellow striped armchair in Grimmauld Place, Hermione pulled
James’ sticky hands away from her face.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Ginny handed her a handkerchief to wipe the jam residue from her chin. “And which one is
that? The child you’ve fake adopted with positively no forethought? Or fake moving in with
Malfoy and fake flirting all over the place in a pathetic attempt to fake win a fake war?”
“All of the above, really,” Hermione admitted in a small voice that sounded wholly unlike
herself. “I suppose you know why I'm here.”

“I thought it would take longer, actually,” Ginny replied. “I was prepared to not see you for a
month, at least.” She might have to reconsider her hard stance against using ultimatums on
James, seeing as how they worked so well on Hermione.

“Well, I didn't really have a choice. I need you to watch Lilith tomorrow.”

“Alright, then. Let’s hear it." She inclined her head.

Hermione took a steadying breath and squeezed James’ round belly for comfort. He wriggled
in protest and gripped a handful of curls, which glued themselves to his palm so effectively
she wondered if he’d just performed a sticking charm as his first bit of magic.

“You were right,” she said miserably, prying her hair out of his grip.

“Hm. I think I would like to hear it in greater detail,” said Ginny. “It won’t completely erase
the suffering of listening to you whinge about him these five long years, but it’d be a start.”

Hermione closed her eyes in defeat, and then kept them shut. Less of a chance of bursting
into humiliating tears, she reasoned.

“Certain recent events have forced me to reconcile the fact that I might not be as feelingless
as I once believed, where Malfoy is concerned.” She sniffled a bit.

“No, I’m afraid that’s no good. You’ve got to say it like a normal person.”

“Fine,” Hermione conceded, eyes still held firmly shut. “You were right. I don’t hate him. I
definitely want to have sex with him. I think I—" She buried her face against James' soft
head and mumbled the rest into the silken hair there. "I think I really like him, Ginny.”

Ginny slumped dramatically against the sofa cushions. “You’ve no idea the catharsis I’m
experiencing just now. So why do you look so miserable? Now that you’ve admitted you
fancy each other, nothing is stopping you.”

“We don’t fancy each other! He loathes me.”

“Oh, Godric’s balls.” Hermione opened her eyes to find Ginny had slid nearly off the sofa,
this time out of frustration.

“It was awful, Ginny. He kissed me, and I nearly – well, I nearly suggested we locate one of
those broom cupboards you were going on about, or do the – the sitting thing. But the whole
thing turned out to be a prank. You should’ve seen the look he gave me. I don’t think he’s
ever looked at me with such disgust.”

“This is unbelievable. You are unbelievable.”

“Anyway, I have to go on a fake date with him tomorrow. For work-related reasons, and no, I
can’t tell you any more than that.”
 Ginny made an anguished noise from beneath the sofa. “A work-related fake date? And
whose idea was this fake date?”

“Well, his, but—”

“Please kill me,” Ginny entreated from the floor.

Harry chose this unfortunate moment to arrive through the Floo. “What have you done to my
wife?” he demanded.

“Hermione and Malfoy,” came Ginny’s voice, although it was a bit muffled by the rug.
“They’re too stupid to have sex.”

Harry scooped James out of Hermione’s arms and covered his ears protectively. “You’ll
traumatise our son!”

“It’s not a real date!” Hermione cried. “And I’ve only told you because I need you to watch
Lilith while we do it.”

Harry gaped at her.

“No, Harry! While we go on our fake, work-related date. We’re not having sex!”

“Because you’re too unbelievably stupid!” Ginny lifted her head to be heard. “Get your mad
elf to do it. I’m not babysitting under false pretences.”

“No, I need you to watch her in case she does any dangerous magic. We’re keeping a close
eye out for it.”

Harry whisked his son away to safety in another room and shut the door firmly behind him.

“Have a lovely time taking your real feelings on your fake date, Hermione,” Ginny called
from her new home beneath the sofa as Hermione retreated through the fireplace. “This
couldn’t possibly backfire!”

Chapter End Notes

Yes, yes, I know. Here:

Special shoutout to my beta alexandra_emerson, because by this point I'm pretty sure
she mostly just wanted to throttle everyone, me most of all.

It was also around this time I started mentally referring to Draco and Hermione as my
"star-crossed morons." And I did not mean that affectionately.

There is good stuff on the horizon, though. I feel reasonably confident there's never been
a first date in all of Dramione fandom (HP fandom? Fandom at large??) like the one in
next week's chapter, and that's all I will say about that.

NEXT WEEK: Narcissa conscripts new recruits. A pinky promise is broken. A

Frenchman gets an eyeful.
 Real War, Sort Of
Chapter Notes

God I love this chapter. I hope you do too.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

If any Seer had thought to turn their third eye in the direction of the Black residence in 1955,
Narcissa’s birth might have been foretold thusly:

A CHILD WHO IS POSITIVELY NOT A MUGGLE WILL BE BORN WITH AVERAGE

MAGICAL POWER AND ABOVE-AVERAGE SOCIAL CAPITAL.

SHE WILL BE TRAINED AND AIDED TO BE QUITE SNOBBISH, AND WILL

THEREFORE TURN TOWARD THE DARK FOR A WHILE BEFORE EVENTUALLY
SETTLING ON A SORT OF MEDIUM GREY.

SHE WILL BE TERRIBLE AT ASKING FOR HELP. FURTHERMORE, ANY STRAIN IN HER
RELATIONSHIP WITH HER SON IS ENTIRELY HER OWN DOING AND SHE OUGHT TO
LOOK INWARD FOR A SOLUTION INSTEAD OF INCESSANTLY MEDDLING.

It’s really only the ASKING FOR HELP part that we are concerned with at present.

Narcissa had been dancing around it for half an hour without accomplishing anything other
than testing the limits of small talk and annoying her hosts. Already she could see Daphne’s
eyes flicking to the hall, no doubt hoping her infants would wake from their naps and spare
her from the agony of an unannounced social visit.

“I’m sorry, I—” she finally blurted during a pause in the small talk, but the rest of the words
got lodged in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said again, finding a meaningless apology somehow
easier than what she'd actually come there to say.

Had Narcissa Malfoy just uttered the word sorry? Twice? The Zabinis shot worried glances at
each other. Something apocalyptic was occurring in their sitting room.

“Is something the matter, Mrs Malfoy?” Daphne asked delicately.

Narcissa stuck her nose in the air to give herself courage. “It’s Draco.”

The Zabinis exchanged another look. This one said, Shit. She’s found out about him and
Hermione Granger and that child.

“I’ve found out about him and Hermione Granger. And – and the child. I assume you already
know?”
Blaise contemplated denying it, considering it the sacred duty of friends to hide things from
mothers, but there was a vast difference between lying in the abstract and lying to Narcissa
Malfoy's face.

“He asked us not to tell you,” he said, fidgeting.

Narcissa took a deep, steadying breath, and wondered whether she might be able to ask for
help without ever uttering the h word.

“Then you understand why I’m here,” she said.

The Zabinis did not. Their exchanged glances said something like ????

“I have no choice but to intervene,” Narcissa went on, willing them to fill in the blanks.

Blaise: Merlin, she's a meddler. It's no wonder he never tells her anything.

Daphne: Don't be rude, she's a guest.

“I know that you’ll think I’m meddling. But it’s for his own good. This cannot be allowed to
continue,” Narcissa said.

Daphne: Never mind, this is blood purity nonsense. Get rid of her.

Blaise: Can't we fake an emergency? She’s terrifying.

“I assure you, this isn’t some blood purity nonsense.”

Both: She can read minds?

“Your faces are shockingly transparent,” Narcissa informed them. “It’s distracting.”

Daphne reddened while Blaise offered a smooth apology that did not quite mask his
discomfort.

Narcissa waved them off. “I understand; I was married for many years. That’s actually why
I’m here.”

“Is it?” Daphne asked hesitantly.

“Yes.” She took another deep breath. “My son and Hermione Granger. They must get
married, and I need your help to make it happen.”

The word help had slipped out without her noticing in a moment of genuine character growth
for Narcissa. She hated it.

Meanwhile, Blaise looked as though he’d just been presented with a very large Christmas
present, the contents of which were every single thing he’d ever dreamt of wanting.

“You…I’m sorry. You want them to get married?” he asked, half-expecting the gift to be
snatched back.
“Well, they’re in love, aren’t they?” Narcissa snapped. “Besides, it’s undignified, the way
they’ve been carrying on. Malfoys marry.”

A very large, unsettling smile spread across Blaise's face. “Theo,” he said, nearly choking on
his glee. “Don’t say another word until Theo is here.”

Then he fairly sprinted to the Floo, the words best day of my life trailing faintly in his wake.

---

This is how Draco looked for his fake date with Hermione: as if a prisoner headed to his
execution was given a temporary reprieve in order to attend a fancy dinner party.

Draco had a silky white square of fabric tucked into the breast pocket of his black suit jacket.
He had a fresh haircut and a recent shave. He had a swagger in his step as he walked the short
distance between their rooms. He had the grin of a sinner as she opened her door. He had
despair in his heart and dead, hopeless eyes.

This is how Hermione looked for her fake date with Draco: as if Miss Universe had thought,
“Today, I think I’ll put in a little extra effort to look nice.”

She’d done something magical with her hair to make the curls shiny and defined. (NB: it was
the type of magic women can do, not the type of magic witches can do.) Her strappy dress
was short and her strappy heels were high. Both were a vibrant red, the sort of shade that’s
hard to pull off, but she was doing it with aplomb.

Draco stared as if he’d never seen the colour before. She supposed he hadn’t, at least not on
her, and at least not in several years.

“Terrible colour,” he finally announced.

“I beg your pardon?” It was an excellent colour on her, and that wasn’t ego talking. It was a
quantifiable fact.

“Not that. White. Why’d we pick white? It’s a horrible non-colour. Doesn’t do anything for
you at all. You should’ve been wearing this—” He gestured up and down her body. “I mean,
literally, this exact thing. Every day. We would’ve had a lot more meetings.”

“I don’t feel wooed just yet,” she told him. “You’re not making a lot of sense. I think I’m
attracted to intellect.”

“That explains a certain breakup.”

“Is this how you behave on all your first dates? It explains a lack of second dates.”

Draco sniffed. “I can’t say I’m feeling wooed yet either.”

“That's only because you haven’t seen the back yet.” She brushed past him into the hallway,
leaving him to do what he'd done many, many times before, yet never with so much express
permission.
She wasn't wrong. There was a lot of skin and curves to ogle, and he would have felt quite
wooed if he wasn't already so preoccupied with feeling sorry for himself.

Downstairs, in Lilith’s presence, the game started in earnest. It was by far the easiest they’d
ever played. The rules went as follows:

If Draco wanted to place his hand on the small of her back as they walked, he did. If he
wanted to pay her a sincere compliment that wasn’t couched in an insult, he did. If he wanted
to flirt outrageously, he did.

(There was nothing new about that last rule. It was only the romantic pitter-patter of his own
heart when he did it that was any different.)

If Hermione wanted to stand closer to him than was strictly necessary, she did. If she wanted
to laugh at his jokes rather than glare in disapproval, she did. If she wanted to respond
girlishly to his outrageous flirting instead of in her usual shrewish way, she did.

They were very evenly matched and quickly grew impressed with the other’s acting skills.

“Ready to head to Ginny and Harry’s?” Hermione asked Lilith, scooping up her clutch from
the kitchen table.

After a brief survey with a critical eye, Lilith nodded once in approval. “Alright. You’re
going to have an excellent time, I just know it. A few reminders before we go—”

Hermione paused in the act of lipstick reapplication. “I’m sorry, what’s happening?”

“Draco, you have to pull her chair out for her. It’s very romantic.”

He marshalled his thoughts away from Hermione’s lips with Herculean effort. “That seems
doable.”

“You should hold her hand.” A pause, then: “Are you even listening?”

He’d caught sight of a freckle on Hermione’s clavicle and was busy wondering whether he’d
seen it before. “That seems doable,” he repeated, more vacantly this time.

“Make sure you ask her questions about herself. Don’t just go on about yourself all night.”

“I don’t do that!”

Lilith shrugged noncommittally. “You’re planning to pay, right?”

“I am a Malfoy—” he began, suddenly keen to defend whatever honour he still possessed.

Hermione cut him off with a dismissive eye roll. “She doesn’t know what that means, which,
let's face it, is a good thing.”

Lilith turned to Hermione. “That reminds me. You have to be nice. Men don’t fancy women
who are mean to them.”
Draco didn’t get to enjoy Hermione’s spluttered protest because he was, at that moment,
attempting to plumb the depths of his psyche to uncover why he apparently did fancy a
woman who was hardly ever nice to him. It was probably something to do with his mother,
he realised, and backed hastily away from the edge of that thought before he caught too clear
a glimpse at it.

Ginny and Harry were waiting in their sitting room when they arrived, Ginny with a knowing
smirk and Harry with a dumbfounded expression that perfectly suited his face, in Draco’s
opinion. He clearly hadn’t expected their fake date to look quite so convincing.

“Good to see you again, Lilith,” Harry greeted her, then went back to staring openmouthed at
the arm Draco had just wrapped around Hermione’s waist.

“This is an unexpected fringe benefit,” Draco mused.

Hermione pulled away to kiss Ginny’s cheek in greeting. “Don’t mention anything about this
being fake to Lilith,” she whispered in her ear. “That's really important.”

“This is a completely real date.”

“Well done. Exactly like that.”

Ginny looked at her with pity.

“So, where are you going?” Harry asked.

[Harry, who was understandably struggling with the basic facts of the situation, had fallen
back on his Auror training to assess the security risk of this so-called date. He knew from his
wife that they were both being willfully ignorant about each other’s feelings as well as their
own, and that there was something work-related going on, which in sum meant that
Hermione was involved in something reckless and absurd and was probably experiencing
emotional turmoil. He concluded there was a good chance of two attempted murders
happening over hors d'oeuvres and had been considering sending an undercover team of
Aurors to whatever five-star restaurant Draco had undoubtedly picked out.]

“It’s a surprise,” Lilith said proudly. “Isn’t that romantic?”

“Just don’t go abroad,” Harry replied glumly.

[International portkeys for a team of Aurors required significant paperwork when you were
not Hermione Granger.]

Draco gave a brittle smile as he pulled an international portkey from his pocket. “Ready?” he
asked Hermione.

She hugged Lilith impulsively, feeling, well, like a mother leaving her child with the
babysitter for the first time. To cover the unexpected swell of emotion, she quickly stepped
away and wrapped her arm around Draco’s, which prompted a different, but rather more
expected, swell of emotion. She quashed it hastily.
“We’ll be back later tonight,” she told the Potters.

“You don’t have to!” Ginny offered brightly. “Could be tomorrow. Could be next week. Take
all the time you—”

Hermione snatched the silver thimble off the cloth on Draco’s palm and the portkey whisked
them away.

---

Theo laughed until he cried.

Then he laughed until the triplets woke and began crying.

No one laughed after that, for fear of Daphne.

She counted up the available laps (three), found the number equal to the number of squalling
children in her nursery, and distributed one to each of the intruders in her sitting room. (That
currently included her husband, because she needed someone to blame for all the noise and
she couldn’t very well blame a guest. That would be rude.)

Then she left them to deal with fussy babies while she went to lie down.

Theo looked down at his assigned infant – Spurgeon – and discreetly swapped him for the
one on Narcissa’s knee.

“I've heard all about this child from his grandmother,” Narcissa informed him stonily, and
traded Spurgeon for Clotilde. She nearly had to pry the girl from her father’s reluctant grasp.

Blaise sighed and conjured a towel. “I think I speak for us both when I say that we are fully
supportive of your mission.”

“That said,” Theo added, “we’ve been at this longer than you have. Whatever you have
planned, it won’t be as easy as you’re expecting.”

Narcissa frowned. She hadn’t thought beyond the “ask for help” hurdle. “But if they’re in
love—”

“Your son is dense, Mrs Malfoy. Positively thick.”

She bristled. “He most certainly is not.”

Theo looked at her with the practised sympathy of a Muggle doctor delivering a terminal
diagnosis. “When it comes to Hermione Granger, I’m afraid he is. You remember Vincent
Crabbe?”

Narcissa gave a brief nod to indicate that she, unfortunately, did.

He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Well, there you go.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, beginning to regret the whole venture.

“Are you familiar with the war?” Theo asked.

Her mouth fell (politely) open.

“Not that war,” Blaise hastened to explain. “Their war.”

“They have a war?”

He nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. It’s been going on for years. Nothing can convince him
she doesn’t hate him.”

“He’s only recently realised that he doesn't hate her,” Theo said proudly. “That breakthrough
was all my doing.”

“But I've seen them together!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, it’s disgusting, isn’t it?”

As if on cue, Spurgeon spit up all over his father, managing to miss the towel entirely.

Narcissa looked down at her own lap infant and silently thanked her for keeping all fluids
inside her body.

“Dray,” replied Clotilde, looking up at Narcissa.

“What is a dray?”

“An idiot,” Theo answered. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.”

“But – but what about Lilith? Aren’t they…co-parenting?”

Blaise and Theo exchanged a meaningful look, the meaning of which was utterly lost on her.

“Something like that,” Blaise said slowly. “That’s why they’re living together until she leaves
for Hogwarts, anyway. But he’s very secretive about it. I was specifically instructed not to tell
you.”

“I've been told it's none of my business,” Theo shrugged. “Granger seemed to want it kept
hush-hush. Have you talked to him about any of this?”

Narcissa shifted uncomfortably. It was one thing to ask her son’s friends to help her meddle.
It was another to admit her failings as a parent.

“Not explicitly,” she said with great reluctance. “He has been…difficult to get in contact
with.”

Another inscrutable look passed between the men.

“I’d recommend you do not,” Blaise told her. “He’ll think – well, he’ll think what he already
thinks, which is that you’re meddling in his life in an attempt to get him married off.” He
winced preemptively. “He wouldn't be wrong, would he? I'm afraid knowing he has your
approval might push him in the opposite direction. And he definitely doesn’t want to hear
whatever you have to say about Lilith.”

Theo caught a glimpse of the apoplectic rage building below the surface of Narcissa’s placid
exterior. “It’s not your fault he’s dense,” he reassured her.

Blaise nodded, catching on. “No, he certainly didn’t get it from you.”

“That’s not to imply he got it from you-know-who—”

Narcissa stiffened, and Theo fell about correcting his error. “I mean you-know-who, not You-
Know-Who!”

“What the fuck, Theo?” Blaise’s eyes bulged.

“I was only trying to avoid saying Lucius' name—”

“Merlin, I think he got it from you—”

“He didn’t get it from anyone!” Theo insisted. “He’s just stupid!”

“How’s that meant to make her feel better?”

Narcissa’s white-knuckled grip tightened around the fabric of her skirt. Clotilde lay a
soothing, chubby hand on her arm.

“What do you recommend?” she interrupted coldly. “Since I can’t speak with him directly
and he’s apparently too dense to listen to either of you. Not that I anticipate your approach
will be successful, given the facts.” Given the fact that your combined intelligence is lower
than that of the resurrected corpse of Vincent Crabbe, her look told them.

“We need reinforcements,” Blaise said. “We need to get to her.”

“I tried to speak with her. She sent me a very rude note,” Narcissa sniffed.

“Yes, she’s wonderful, isn’t she?” Theo nodded appreciatively. “She’s been torturing Draco
for years. I love her.”

Blaise snorted indelicately. “You’ve barely met her—”

“Well, I’m a fan. That boggart prank…”

“Her friends. We need to involve her friends.” He stared significantly at Theo.

“Oh, no, you can’t ask me to ask him.”

“What’s happening?” Narcissa was having a difficult time following the conversation, partly
because she was busy wondering whether it was too late to force her son to make new
friends. These ones seemed defective.

“Theo has a…backdoor connection to the Weasleys," Blaise told her, with a subtle wink to
Theo. "He can get us in touch with Ginny.”

Theo delivered a not-at-all-subtle kick to Blaise’s shin.

“You know the Weasleys?” she asked.

“Oh, yes." Blaise paused for dramatic effect. "He knows them. One of them, anyway.”

Theo glared into his friend's smiling face. “We haven’t known each other in ages.”

“It’ll be like riding a bike, or whatever that Muggle expression is. Jump back in the saddle. I
know you miss it.”

“You are foul.”

“Tell Charlie I said hello.”

---

Hermione was face-to-face with a horse. It stared at her through glassy eyes, which were
made of glass. The horse appeared to be made of plastic.

She hadn't allowed herself to spend much time speculating about the surprise location of their
date, judging it better for her mental health if she just dissociated a little every time it came
up.

Still, she had a general impression of what Draco Malfoy considered a romantic excursion.
She'd heard about them from time to time over the years, and had even seen a few across the
pages of Witch Weekly: Draco and a faceless blonde in Paris, Draco and a different faceless
blonde in Santorini, Draco and a third faceless blonde eating sushi in an overpriced
restaurant. (Or were they the same woman? She didn't know or care. It was none of her
business. Why are you asking if she noticed? Leave her alone; she has work to do.)

Anyway, as she met her reflection in the glassy eye of a fake horse, she realised she'd been
preparing for the top of the Eiffel Tower, or perhaps something predictable like an old,
beautiful library she'd already been to.

She tilted her head back to survey the horse in greater detail. Its plasticky nature was not the
most surprising thing about it, because the horse was also kitted in full battle armour. So was
the plastic knight atop it. So were the other dozen plastic horses and knights lined up in
formation along the length of the room, which, judging from the frescoes painted along the
walls and the indulgent ceiling height, appeared to be part of a nineteenth-century Italian
villa.

She turned to Draco. “Where are we?”

“Museo Stibbert,” he replied smoothly. “We're in Tuscany.”

"I've never heard of it," she said disapprovingly.

"It's the world's largest private collection of ancient armour and weaponry." He tucked his
hands into his pockets and grinned at her as if he were granting an oft-expressed wish to see
the world's largest private collection of ancient armour, which he was not.

"Ah," she said, remembering Lilith's admonishment to be nice.

"There are fifty thousand pieces in the collection. This is the Cavalcade Room. Persia's
around the corner. The Japanese warlords are that way." He pointed. "There's a whole
German battalion somewhere."

Hermione thought fifty thousand pieces seemed like an undercount. This one room alone
contained more examples of authentic sixteenth-century Muggle weaponry than she'd known
existed in the world. Florence was lucky it had sturdier soil than Pisa, she thought, or the
whole building would’ve sunk under the weight of all that metal.

“How nice,” she said blandly.

“You thought I would take you somewhere obvious like a library, didn't you? Or a terrible
cliché. The Eiffel Tower, maybe.” His smile was growing more wicked by the minute.

“Well, yes.”

“That’s boring,” he said dismissively. “When have you known me to be boring?”

Hermione looked around again. A mace was hung in pride of place on the wall.

“I did not think you would bring me somewhere to admire historical armour and weaponry,
however impressive.”

“We're not here to admire it.”

“We aren't?"

“Certainly not.”

He strode to a nearby wall where a suit of armour stood clutching the pommel of a two-
handed sword. Draco separated it from its owner and pointed the tip at her in challenge.

“Hermione, would you like to go to war with me? A real one, sort of.”

Her mouth fell open. “Put that back!” she hissed, surprised to learn that she apparently cared
a great deal about ancient armour and weaponry when Draco was threatening the integrity of
it. “This is a museum! That is a historical artefact!”

He waved a hand to brush off her objection, causing the tip of the two-handed sword to dip,
the heavy thing.
“I've had them spelled. Look.”

He swung the sword with impressive force at the unsuspecting knight. The metal clanged
horribly and released a spray of bright sparks, but neither breastplate nor sword was damaged
in the slightest.

Still, it was a critical blow. The mannequin within the armour, which had been holding it
upright for display purposes, magically vanished. The knight crumpled to the ground in a
jumble of authentic sixteenth-century sabatons, gauntlets, vambraces, and one polished steel
plackart.

“Oh look, I'm already winning.” He heaved a satisfied breath and wiped the hair back from
his forehead.

“When you say go to war with you…” she said slowly, catching on a beat late.

“I mean against, obviously. PIERTOTUM LOCOMOTOR!”

Throughout the villa, there was the sound of a hundred metal bodies rediscovering movement
after five or so centuries.

Precisely half of the sixteenth-century knights snapped to attention in a clamour. Half of the
horses shook out their plastic manes and dragged their hooves against the Persian rug in
anticipation. Half of the archers lining the far end of the room drew sixteenth-century arrows
across sixteenth-century bowstrings.

In another part of the house, half of the Islamic horsemen adjusted their golden, conical
helmets and readied their sabres. Half of the Germanic battalion selected a leader and held a
strategy meeting. Half of the Japanese warlords began slaughtering each other with katanas
(really, they should never have been put in a room together in the first place). Half of the
French foot soldiers brushed up on their lefts and their rights and began to advance in a slow
march across the stone floor, plate steel genouillères grating deafeningly.

Hermione stared at Draco in shock. “I'm not…I'm not dressed for war,” she said stupidly.
Draco had shrugged off his jacket and was in the process of commandeering one of his
nearby horses from its rider.

“There's plenty of things you can borrow,” he replied brightly from the horse's sixteenth-
century saddle as he slipped a helmet over his head. "Better hurry. Your blokes are sitting
ducks."

To demonstrate, he nodded at one of his brigands, who took up his spear and neatly stabbed
one of her still-inanimate knights through the gap in his visor. He crumpled instantly.

“That's cheating!"

“No. That's winning.” He snapped his helmet’s face shield down into place, then lifted it,
winked at her, and closed it once more.
Hermione didn't waste any more time. She tossed her clutch into a corner of the room, heels
flying after it, and cast her own spell. Her armies – the other half – came to life around her as
she dashed barefoot down the hall.

Her first act as a warlord was to conduct a brief but thorough survey of her forces and their
various strengths and weaknesses.

She began by separating the Turkish advance guard from the eighteenth-century French
seated knights, who were all too busy fussing with their wigs to provide adequate leadership.
By the time she'd got her surviving Japanese warlords pointed at the correct enemy, Draco's
Persian troops had managed to cut her off from her archers.

“To me!” she called, holding an arm out for a passing Mongol to sweep her onto the back of
his steed.

Atop the horse, her dress bunched indecently around her hips. One of Draco's French officers,
who'd stopped mid-spear-thrust to stare at her bare thighs despite not having real eyes, was
cut down with alacrity by her Samurai. She saluted him in thanks and he cut a sharp bow
before slicing his blade in a graceful arc at an incoming Spaniard.

Twenty minutes later, she’d secured the east wing.

There was a spot of trouble when Hermione, who was not particularly versed in conflicts of
the Holy Roman Empire, positioned her Ottomans too near her Hapsburgs, thus reigniting a
two-hundred-year blood feud. Despite her best efforts at negotiating peace through slightly
desperate pantomime, she was unable to reach an agreeable solution, and the Ottomans were
ultimately defeated in a tragic repeat of what happened five hundred years prior, more or less.

After a brief regroup for armour readjustment (and wig readjustment, if you were a certain
French officer), Hermione donned a chainmail shirt that fell to her knees, clambered back
atop her mount with the help of her Mongolian warrior, and motioned her troops forward.

They eventually cleared their way to the villa's massive ballroom. Hermione paused at the
door, thinking quickly, then sent a small phalanx of foot soldiers to wait in the centre of the
empty room. Then she hid the remainder of her calvary – not an easy task, since the Persian
riders wore bells – just out of sight.

Draco took the bait.

He sent in all but a few of his horsemen to surround her soldiers in a pincer formation. They
advanced, spears thrusting through gaps in her soldiers' shield wall. She could hear Draco
cackling like a madman as one by one, her men clattered lifelessly to the ground.

Then her seventeenth-century Germanic mercenaries barricaded the door. Really, they just
plopped down in front of it and let the weight of their armour do all the hard work, which was
not atypical of mercenaries.

A little balcony that overlooked the ballroom had once served as a stage for a string quartet,
as well as a convenient spot for a hasty tryst beneath ruffled petticoats. Now, it was a
convenient spot for Hermione’s archers to pick off Draco's men. They tried to storm the
ballroom door to escape the endless volley of arrows, but the horses' plastic hooves couldn't
find purchase on the polished dance floor, and the room soon fell silent.

Hermione had just begun to celebrate when his archers came up behind her archers and
stabbed them in their polystyrene necks with their arrows.

"Bugger. Alright, time for our last stand."

She catalogued the remainder of her forces.

Three mounted warriors of various ethnicities and epochs, one foot soldier whose shield
looked vaguely European, although she wasn't an expert, two Samurai, and one very lost and
frightened flag bearer. (The Germanic mercenaries had decided they weren't being fairly
compensated for their heroics and had wandered off.)

Meanwhile, Draco was in hiding.

He'd been forced to duck under one of his horses to avoid Hermione’s Japanese warlord,
who, to be fair, was absolutely terrifying. His Ottoman forces had caught sight of the
shameful manoeuvre, determined him to be an unfit leader, and opted to defect. That left him
with four archers and two Akali horsemen. There were also five French foot soldiers, but by
then word had spread throughout the camp of a shocking display of thigh, so they were too
busy looking for Hermione to be of much use.

Draco judged his odds of victory to be slim. He attempted a rousing, whispered speech from
their hiding spot in the Japanese armoury.

"Look, I know we're down a few good men, and the enemy is frightfully clever. Also, I’m
becoming increasingly aware that you Muggles did a lot more infighting than I previously
realised – I blame Muggle Studies, useless class, although of course I didn’t take it—”

He stopped. One of the Akali warriors was gripping his spear more tightly than was strictly
necessary as he stared at Draco. His plastic fingers were beginning to crack along their
seams.

“I’ll concede that my ancestors probably deserved whatever that’s about. But the point is, if
you want revenge against the British, there’s one on the other side of the villa that’s much
more terrible. In fact,” he added in a sudden rush of inspiration, “she’s a witch! Worse, a
woman. If we win, and she’s captured, I’ll let you do the honour of tossing her in the river.”

He judged it to be a good speech and nodded in satisfaction, waiting for their enthusiastic
response.

None of them understood English.

"That's alright," he sighed. "Let's just do our best, I suppose."

He directed his troops to follow the French foot soldiers, who were as good as bloodhounds
in their search for Hermione.
Then Draco proceeded to do his best, which involved cheating. All four of the archers floated
to the ceiling.

He was sure he had her then, because no one, not even Hermione, was expecting an aerial
assault. (And even if her soldiers’ empty plastic brainpans could have comprehended such a
thing, their armour didn’t support the notion of looking upward.) But as her horse went down,
she slipped her arms from around the now-empty body armour of its vanquished Mongolian
rider with an almost wistful expression and sprinted out of sight.

Draco mentally added “caused irrational jealousy toward a plastic mannequin” to his list
titled Reasons Hermione Deserves to Be Hated Even if I Can’t Seem to Manage It Properly,
and followed on foot.

As she skittered around a corner, Hermione was trying to remember if she’d ever had so
much fun. She was also, at the same moment, trying to remember that she shouldn’t say as
much to Draco, because then he might think she was having fun. She was trying to remember
why that was a bad thing.

His footsteps sounded on the stone floor not thirty paces behind her, and an electric thrill of
fear and anticipation danced over her skin.

Running away was one thing. Undignified, really. But being chased…now that, she found,
with a thrum of self-discovery, she enjoyed.

Hermione felt suddenly like a lusty milkmaid who was only running from her country knight
because she wanted to be pursued, caught up in strong arms, and tumbled to her back in the
tall grass. A spark ignited low in her belly at the thought of his body above hers, of him
holding her secure in a cage of his limbs, her skirts flying up around her armpits as he buried
his sword to the hilt within her. [If you’re looking for someone to blame for that thematic
metaphor, look no further than Hermione’s own titillated mind.]

She was out of plans. Maybe it would be better to be caught.

He could manage a soft landing, she was certain. Even if he vanished her chainmail hauberk,
there were surely a thousand others in the collection, and the disappearance of one priceless
antique was really no great loss. And then there was only her dress and knickers to contend
with, which was no barrier at all, really, not with magic and four hands between them. They
could do what lusty milkmaids and their country knights do, right there on the floor of the
villa, with just as little thought for the natural consequences of their actions…

Hermione wavered at the doorway of a room she hadn’t had the occasion to enter yet,
uncertain whether to lose with her wand drawn and dignity intact, or to lose staring up at the
ceiling, wishing it would still feel like a victory when it was over.

The second option was intolerable. She looked in the room, did a double-take at its contents,
and settled on option three: win.

In the hall, Draco rounded a corner to find her missing. He then began shouting in an
irritatingly smug voice that only reinforced her decision.
“It’s over, Hermione!” he called, his helmet giving the words a tinny, distant quality. “I’ve
promised to let them have a go at drowning you, although I suppose you’ll float, being a
witch and all. But I wouldn’t let you die, Granger; I have magic, too, you know—”

Draco appeared in the doorway, wand held loosely at his side. His eyes, just visible through
the slit in his visor, landed on the eleventh-century catapult within and had just enough time
to widen comically before she pulled the rope to release it.

The projectile – a three-billion-year-old boulder unearthed in the twentieth century (the

museum’s commitment to authenticity extended only so far) – hit him squarely in the chest. It
carried him five whole metres through the air before depositing him on his back in the hall.

The landing was less like the playful tumble of a lover upon soft grass and more like if a
murderous boulder had spent three billion years planning its assault and wasn’t passing up
what might be its only opportunity to cause serious damage.

Hermione winced. If he ended up in St Mungo’s, there was bound to be paperwork.

“Draco? Are you alright?”

When he didn’t respond, she grew more concerned. If she killed him, she’d have to talk to his
mother.

There was the protracted moan of a man trying to gain sympathy points from the object of his
affection. Draco’s helmet warped the sound into the throaty gurgle of a man who was
genuinely in the process of dying.

Hermione dropped to her knees beside him in a jangle of chainmail.

“Fuck. Are you – have I – ? Fuck.”

She pulled his helmet off to reveal a laughing face.

“I thought I’d killed you, you prat.” She sank back on her heels in relief.

“I always knew you would someday.”

Those eyes could gleam mischievously at her for an eternity and she’d never get bored of it,
Hermione thought.

“That’s not really my style,” she told him. “I’d get somebody else to do the dirty work.”

“One of those poor assistants, no doubt.”

He reached for her, chainmail vanishing as his fingers traced an unobstructed path up the
scarlet silk at her hip. Four hands between us, she thought abstractedly. Not to mention the
magic. Trousers are no challenge at all.

When Hermione found herself on her back beneath him, she didn’t so much as blink. She
hadn’t noticed the movement, true, and he shouldn’t be allowed to manhandle her without her
involvement, but by that point the position felt wholly inevitable, what with her country
knight fantasies playing on a loop in a dark corner of her mind.

It was exactly as she had thought. Their bodies aligned like stars.

“Hermione.” His thumb swept along her cheekbone. “You’re a fearsome opponent.”

“I won,” she breathed with accidental carnality.

His eyes darkened, and Hermione noted with detached surprise that the phrase was more than
just an earmark of lurid romance novels. (How? Further study was warranted. Perhaps when
he wasn’t looming over her, stirring up her insides, making her want—)

“Yes, you won,” he replied, impossibly dark eyes fastened on her face. “What will you have
as your prize?”

The bawdy medieval couple in the back room of her mind looked up from their activities to
waggle their eyebrows suggestively.

“It was really more of a tie,” she hedged, conceding a win for the first time in their lengthy
history in an effort to not let something honest slip out, such as “I want you and only you,
possibly forever; I haven’t decided yet,” or “I’ve got someplace you can stick your sword.”

“So I get a prize? That’s exciting.”

He leaned in, and his eyes were really more like black holes – almost no grey at all, and with
a planet-destroying gravitational pull.

“What do you want?” she asked, aware that she teetered on the edge of something dangerous.

“If this were a real date—”

“It isn’t.” The words were more reflex at this point than anything else.

“Right, but if it were, I’d want to kiss you right now.”

Her thoughts settled as if he’d thrown a weighted blanket over top, soothing them into
oblivion.

“Authenticity is important,” she said numbly.

“I agree. It’s got to feel real.” The hand that wasn’t busy propping his weight above her body
smoothed the hair back from her face with heart-wrenching care.

“Just the one, though. I’m not a milkmaid.”

His soft laughter heated her lips. “No, Athena, you’re no milkmaid.”

“And keep your sword to yourself.”

His brow wrinkled. “I don’t have a sword.”

Black holes winked out of existence as her eyelids fluttered shut.

Wrong, she thought, and pulled him down.

---

When did a kiss end?

It was not a philosophical question. More of a logistical one.

If he never stopped kissing her, Draco reasoned, he could stretch just the one for an eternity.

His soul was full; he had no need of food. He could breathe just fine through his nose.
Sleeping was a problem for later. They never needed to stop – never, ever…

He gathered her closer in his arms just as she broke away from his lips with a gasp. “Stop!”

Draco rolled to his back on the floor beside her, staring blankly up at the ceiling while he
waited for his aching chest to finish heaving. It was lucky he didn’t have a sword at that
moment. He might’ve seriously considered falling on it.

---

“Hungry?” Draco asked, when they’d recovered from war, kissing, and resetting the museum
to its original state (minus one vanished hauberk). All three activities had worked up an
appetite of one kind or another.

“There’s more to this date?” Hermione steadied herself against the flank of an unmoving
horse as she slipped her shoes back on.

“I’ve seen how you get when you haven’t eaten. Why try to woo a hungry Granger when I
could simply feed her?”

She glared at him, which didn’t help her case. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere interesting. I thought we might get drunk on cheap wine while someone’s nonna
makes us pasta.”

“When in Rome?”

“Or thereabouts.”

The trattoria he took her to was nondescript in every way. You wouldn’t have been able to
pick it out from the other dozen, identical trattorias in a three-street radius. It had low,
curving ceilings and wooden tables and hanging brass lights that cast the room in a warm
amber glow. It had food that was no better or worse than the food at every one of its
competitors. It had cheap wine (that isn’t a comment on the quality, as all wine in Italy is
cheap) and it had service that wasn’t even worth remarking on.

It had Hermione, smiling at him over the rim of her wine glass.
Draco thought it ought to be made a national landmark.

“What’ll you miss the most?” he asked abruptly. “When the world ends?”

Her smile faltered, which was the point. He couldn’t go on pretending that he was only
pretending to like her if she insisted on being so insufferably beautiful and charming all the
time.

“The world’s not going to end, you pessimist. And if it does, we’ll be dead and won’t miss
anything.”

“Yes, but I’m meant to be asking you questions, and I’ve just realised I know everything
about you already.”

Her nose wrinkled (charmingly, he noted sourly) as she considered this. “That can’t be true.”

“It is. I’ve made it a point to know. It’s the foundation for a successful prank.”

“It has been quite a lot of meetings over five years, hasn’t it?” She poured a refill, tipping the
bottle over to let the last few drops fall into Draco’s wine glass. “There is one thing I don’t
know about you.”

“Oh?”

She smiled innocently. “How’d you get your job?”

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, already back to being charmed. “If we survive this, I’ll tell you.”

“Really? That’s what I’ll miss then, if we die. You?”

He thought. “This.”

“Wine?”

“Yes, sure.” He drained his glass. “Favourite prank?”

“Ooh.” Her eyes lit up. “Boggart, most definitely. I revisit it daily. Who would have thought –
M.M.!”

Draco scowled. “She’s stern. It’s not my fault I find unsmiling older women intimidating.”

“Something to do with your mother, probably.”

He shuddered. “Let’s not diagnose me. We haven’t the time.”

“Your favourite prank, then.”

Draco’s mind filled with the image of Hermione lying amongst the pillows of his guest bed,
pulse fluttering beneath his roaming fingers.

“I love them all equally. Couldn’t pick a favourite child.”

She ran a hand along the edge of the table. “Speaking of…”

“I don’t know what we’ll do,” he sighed. “We can’t just send her back.”

“How’d you know I was going to say that?”

“Because I know you. And I know you don’t want to dump her back there any more than I
do. But she’s not—”

“She’s not really ours,” she finished. “No, not really.”

Ours was a heavy word. It sat conspicuously on the table between them. By mutual
agreement, they ordered more wine and goaded each other into lighter topics while the
evening grew late.

Eventually, when they were sufficiently drunk and giggly (only Hermione; Draco did not
giggle, thank you), the unremarkable waitstaff decided it was time for them to leave because
they were closing.

Draco paid with a flourish and made her wait to stand until he’d pulled her chair out for her.
(He’d forgotten to do it on the way into the restaurant, and didn’t want to have to admit his
failure of manners to Lilith.)

He held her hand as they stepped out into night air, although it was more for balance purposes
than anything else.

“We fought a war tonight. Real war.” Hermione wavered unsteadily on the uneven street.

“Yes. Well, sort of.”

“Did you see me on my horse? How’d I look?”

“Chummy.”

“Chummy?”

“With that Mongolian fellow.”

A look of astonishment crossed her face, followed quickly by wheezing laughter. “You were
jealous of the mannequin!”

“I was not,” he grumbled. The laughter was more of a cackle now. She had to grip his arm to
keep from falling over, and his fingers helpfully found their way around her waist.

A group of passing Italians eyed them, unamused. “Ubriaca fradicia,” one of them muttered.

“Allora,” Hermione responded seriously, wiping tears from her eyes.

Draco let out a small snort that was in no way a giggle.

“Let’s go before we wind up in Italian prison. You won’t be able to talk your way out of that
one, not even with that solid grasp of the local language.”

They clasped hands again and unsuccessfully tried not to fall over when they landed back in
Draco’s flat. Luckily, there was a soft surface nearby.

“Draco Malfoy! Why are we in your bedroom?”

Draco clambered to his feet and tried to remember why he’d thought this would be a good
location for the return portkey. “Authenticity?”

“You’re disgusting,” she informed him, flopping herself lengthwise across his bed, although
she was too short to accomplish her goal of taking up all the space. “There’s a guest room
nearby you can sleep in.”

“No, wake up, Granger. We've got to go get her.”

Hermione’s eyes were already closed. “It’s late. They’ll be asleep.”

“Maybe not. Can we? We only have a couple of weeks left with her.” He tugged lightly on
one of her limp arms.

“Mmmm,” she groaned. “But I’ve already taken my shoes off.”

“I’ll carry you.”

Hermione opened one eye to survey him. “Fine,” she said, “but only because this is
impossibly cute, and because I want to see Harry’s face when he finds you stumbling about
his house well past midnight.”

“I do not stumble,” he protested, and scooped her into his arms to demonstrate.

Once they’d stumbled through the Floo together (Hermione’s head collided with the fireplace
on more than one occasion, but she didn’t make a fuss about it), they arrived at a Grimmauld
Place that was dark, silent, and filled with lightly dozing portraits.

“We should go home,” she stage-whispered as she slid out of his grip to stand beside him.
“I’ve just remembered he’s an Auror. He might attack.”

“With a fistful of expense forms and an expelliarmus, no doubt.” He mock-shuddered but

kept his voice down. “Morning’s not that far off. There.” He pointed to a pair of armchairs
positioned side-by-side across the room.

Hermione, understanding, transfigured them into recliners and claimed one, tucking her legs
beneath a blanket. He joined her on the other. They were silent for a few moments.

“Granger?”

She shifted. “Mmm?”

 “How’d I do?”

Soft laughter filtered over. “No fair, asking now. You’re trying to get the truth out of me.”

“I already know how to get the truth out of you.” Reaching across, he located her hand
beneath the blanket and felt along her fingers until he found her pinky, which he linked with
his own. “There. No lying, on pain of Muggle death.”

Hermione sighed in defeat. “Truthfully, it was wonderful. I haven't had so much fun in ages.
Your real dates are very lucky.”

“And did it work?” he asked. “Are you wooed?”

The silent house leaned in to catch her answer, or maybe it was only Draco.

“I’m sorry,” she finally whispered. “I’m not.”

The simple pinky promise had no magical power whatsoever. It was not binding like an
Unbreakable Vow, which was only breakable if you were feeling suicidal, or compelling like
veritaserum, which would pull the truth from your lips no matter how desperately you tried to
keep it in. It was just a silly gesture made primarily by children and ultimately meant nothing.

It cracked her heart in half to break it.

---

“Well, would you look at that,” Ginny murmured.

They were already all looking. Harry removed his glasses to rub at his eyes, hoping he was in
need of a new prescription, or perhaps hallucinating. Lilith beamed. Even James looked with
interest at the two adults in his sitting room, who slept, hands clasped above the blanket as
they gently snored in unison.

Chapter End Notes

The digs at the stereotypical Paris-slash-library first date are not directed at any other fic
which might use those tropes but at this one, and my first draft of this chapter which
contained Draco’s harried efforts to pull off The Most Romantic Date of All Time.

My narrator laughed at me and Draco for trying, and kept laughing all the way into the
final draft, which you have just read.

Plus, the Stibbert Museum is so cool and you should check it out if you’re ever in
Florence!
 The Cavalcade Room

The Islamic Armor Room

 The Ballroom (the setting of Hermione’s ambush)

A certain French officer

Unfortunately, one thing the museum doesn’t have is a catapult. But I decided I was
allowed that embellishment.
There are a couple of lines in this chapter inspired by my very favorite sentence in Good
Omens, which can induce a fit of the giggles if I think about it too hard:

This is how Newton Pulsifer looked as a man: if he went into a phone booth and
changed, he might manage to come out looking like Clark Kent.

NEXT WEEK: Madam Hooch retires. Pansy brews a potion of the metaphorical
variety. A tenth circle of Hell is discovered. Hermione packs up her belongings and then
some. And: Hogwarts: A History (the extremely specific, abridged version).
 A Gathering of G.I.T.S.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The advert, which appeared in all major newspapers (Muggle ones excluded), read as
follows:

WANTED: HEAD OF MAGICAL SPORTS EDUCATION

Below, a brief explanation was offered in a slightly smaller font:

Hogwarts Sch. of Witchcraft, etc. seeks to fill opening for fall & spring terms. Excellent
broom skills a must. Room & board incl. Inquire with Headmistress McGonagall.

After a week of disappointingly few applicants, someone brave had explained to the
headmistress that no one knew what a Head of Magical Sports Education actually was,
anyway. She looked down her nose icily at them but conceded that people these days needed
things spelled out for them. Not an ounce of common sense among the lot.

The following week, a new advert was placed in all major newspapers (Muggle ones
excluded). This one simply read:

WANTED: NEW MADAM HOOCH. THE OLD ONE RETIRED.

Ronald Weasley, understanding the revised advert, applied.

After a sweaty interview conducted by McGonagall herself during which she lobbed beaters
at him with her wand for an hour (Gryffindor wasn’t losing another Quidditch House Cup on
her watch, so she had to be sure her new flying instructor was up to snuff), he was given the
position.

His parents were relieved.

[Ron, who was at that time between jobs, had moved in with them for the summer. His
mother had been the one to clip the advert out of the paper, multiply it with her wand, and
casually plaster copies on every surface of the house where he might notice them.]

The summer seemed to tick by with obstinate sluggishness, so great was his excitement to
begin this new chapter of his life. The only spot of blight on the apple of opportunity, so to
speak, was that no one seemed to respect or even understand his new title. Every
conversation he’d had over the past few months went like this:

“I took a new job.”

“Nice! What’ll you be doing, then?”

“Yeah, thanks, I’m the new Head of Magical Sports Education over at Hogwarts.”
And then the person he was talking to would blink confusedly for a few moments until Ron,
sighing heavily, explained that he was the new Madam Hooch.

They’d be excited, then, and clap him on the back and tell him that Gryffindor better win the
Quidditch House Cup this year, even if he was supposed to be neutral as the referee.

“Well,” he’d say, “McGonagall says I’ve got to be unbiased.”

In fact, she’d given him a long and threatening speech about the importance of objectivity,
and even if she had undermined herself by touching the side of her nose meaningfully, he
took his new job seriously.

Finally, August trudged to a close and the week of his journey to Hogwarts arrived. One
afternoon, as he busied himself re-packing the trunk that his mother had already packed
weeks ago in eager anticipation, Molly appeared in his doorway to inform him that Hermione
Granger and Draco Malfoy were in their sitting room and had asked to see him.

Ron made a face.

He’d heard rumours of something strange brewing between those two (although you could
never believe half of what Ginny said). It didn’t bother him in practice, as he and Hermione
had moved past awkwardness and back to genuine friendship ages ago. Still, some things
were just not right, and one of those things was Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. If it
was true, and they were dating, Draco was certain to be a thousand times more nasty than
usual. Ron was the ex-boyfriend, after all. Draco was practically duty-bound to be a jealous
prick about it.

He entered his mother’s sitting room reluctantly.

Two smiling faces awaited him. One of those was a child. Draco wasn’t smiling, but neither
was he glowering as predicted. He nodded politely as Ron entered.

Ron felt a little disappointed. It had been a real relationship, his and Hermione’s, and was
certainly worth getting jealous over, even if it had ended a full decade ago.

“Hiya, Hermione. Malfoy.” Ron narrowed his eyes imperceptibly at the other man before
looking at the young girl standing between them. “And who’s this?”

“I’m Lilith,” the girl said, and stuck out her hand precociously for a firm handshake.

“She’s one of your new students,” Hermione explained. “Lilith, this is Ron. Or I suppose you
should call him…” she paused. “Master Weasley? That doesn’t sound right. Professor?
You’re not a professor, are you?”

“What is your new position, Weasley? I never heard.” Draco’s question sounded genuine, and
Ron cast him a suspicious look.

“He’s the new Madam Hooch,” Molly offered from the doorway.

“Mum, please. It’s Quidditch Master Weasley.”

[He hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss honorifics with McGonagall during the interview,
but he was hoping that meant he got to make up his own.]

“Ooh, Quidditch!” Lilith’s eyes lit up in excitement. “Can anyone ride on a broom? Can
Muggles?”

There was a brief debate which resulted in a firm maybe, we’re not sure. Why did she want to
know?

“Only wondering,” she replied, and sealed her lips together.

“Anyway,” Hermione said. “As the new Madam Hooch—”

“Quidditch Master Weasley.”

“Right, yes. I wanted you to meet her so that you can keep an eye on her for us. Make sure
she stays out of trouble. And Lilith, if you need anything at all while you’re at Hogwarts, you
go to Ron, er, Mister Weasley. We’re very good friends, and he’ll take good care of you.”

“It’s Quidd—” he began, but caught sight of a familiar gleam in Hermione’s eye and shut his
mouth. It was the scary one, the one that said stop talking and just agree with me. She’d
sharpened and refined it since he’d seen it last.

“Right. Of course. Good to meet you, Lilith.”

“Draco and I will pop in occasionally to check on things. You have rooms in the castle, right?
I’m going to have a Floo installed for us to use.”

The creepy gleam was there again. Ron fought through it.

“You can’t install a Floo at Hogwarts, Hermione! No one can…wait, check on things?...but…
who…”

Draco’s own scary look had entered the fray, and Ron was neatly overpowered.

“Granger has more power than God, who is in this case McGonagall,” Draco said coolly.
“She can do whatever she pleases. And you should really stop asking questions.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Stop being so dramatic, the two of you. McGonagall won’t mind
at all. I’ll have a chat with her about it.”

Everyone in the room, excluding Lilith, who hadn’t met the headmistress yet, had the
distinctly unusual sensation of experiencing fear on behalf of Minerva McGonagall. It was a
new emotion that hadn’t been invented until that moment.

Hermione kissed Ron on the cheek (he looked for Draco’s reaction, but there wasn’t one),
waved to Molly, and then she and Lilith exited together through the Floo.

Draco hung back, turning to face Ron as the green flames cleared.
Oh, here we go, thought Ron. Finally.

But when Draco spoke, it wasn’t about Hermione.

“Take care of her,” he said. “I mean it, Weasley.”

A different Draco Malfoy now stood in the sitting room. He was nearly unrecognisable as the
man who’d looked softly at Hermione and Lilith only moments ago. This was the one you
could imagine had survived two years in Azkaban, which couldn’t have been easy, and had
probably turned him slightly insane. It was Former Death Eater Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius,
Slytherin bully, tall, broad, icy cold Draco Malfoy. Ron wondered briefly whether he had any
prison tattoos hiding beneath that dark suit. (He did not.)

Molly Weasley sidled out of the doorway to safety.

“Who is that girl?” Ron asked. He did not quite accomplish his goal of sounding unafraid.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s important. Don’t let anything happen to her.”

“Alright, then, I won't. I didn’t need to be threatened, y’know. I would have looked out for
her anyway.”

“If I threatened you, Weasley, you’d know it.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Draco reluctantly waited as Ron straightened his back with great effort.

“Is it true? What Ginny says about you and Hermione?”

As he watched, scary former Death Eater Draco Malfoy dissolved, leaving behind a maudlin,
moody version who wouldn't meet Ron's eyes. Draco didn't even have the capacity to be
jealous, Ron realised. Jealousy requires hope, and this man didn’t have any.

“No,” the pathetic, hopeless Draco Malfoy said. “None of it’s real.”

He should have laughed in pathetic, hopeless Draco Malfoy’s face, or perhaps run for a
camera to capture the memory. He should have felt vindicated, and crowed about it to
everyone he knew, and took an advert out in the Daily Prophet to memorialise the occasion.

But Ron wasn’t a fifteen-year-old boy anymore. In fact, he wasn't even Ron. He was
Quidditch Master Weasley.

And besides, he needed to practise being neutral and objective toward Slytherins, because it
certainly wasn’t going to come naturally.

“I dated her. I could – I don't know, give you advice?”

Pathetic, hopeless Draco looked at him incredulously. “Is there anything you know about her
that I don’t?”
The answer should have been an obvious yes, and yet Ron didn’t know what they were doing
with a child, or how Hermione could get a private Floo installed at Hogwarts. Or how and
when she’d turned scary former Death Eater Draco into the sad, lovesick version standing
before him.

“I know you’ve got to be honest with her. That’s all.”

Draco let out one very unhumorous laugh as he scooped up a handful of Floo powder.

Then he stepped into the flames and exited again into the warm, wonderful, exhilarating lie
waiting for him on the other side.

---

Pansy had missed her calling, she was quite sure.

It wasn’t, as it turned out, to rot away in the little house on the south end of her parent’s
property, dodging uncomfortable questions about her relationship status until she eventually
took up ceramics or flower arranging, thus cementing her spinster status.

It also wasn’t to rot away in Stoke-on-Trent, in a much smaller and more cheaply-furnished
rental cottage with a man she barely knew. (Well, that wasn’t very fair. She’d about got the
shape of him by now.)

It was teaching. Teaching was her calling, and more specifically, creating nonsense lesson
plans to teach fake magic to an ill-tempered pre-teen for some divine purpose she couldn't
possibly fathom.

That is not to say her skills would have translated to a more curriculum-based approach.

At Hogwarts, for example, she probably couldn’t invent such lessons as Meditation Hour,
during which Gemma was encouraged to think broadly about the universe and her place in it
while Neville closed his eyes and took a nap.

Nor does the typical potions class involve throwing bits of grass clippings together with a
scavenged crow feather and some twine into a pot on the stove that Gemma had to show her
how to turn on. The resulting “potions” were left to cool and then fed to the houseplants, as
they were mostly just water.

If Gemma seemed put out by the quality of her lessons, it was offset by what appeared to be a
bone-deep relief to be somewhere other than her own home. She wasn’t pleasant company,
precisely, but Pansy put her poor social graces down to a lack of practice and added
Comportment for Witches to the curriculum, which Neville had to excuse himself from
because he couldn’t stop laughing.

Pansy, for her part, hadn’t smiled so much in years. Even if Neville only ever blushed and
looked away, and even if Gemma could barely conceal her eye roll (even after multiple
Comportment for Witches lessons), she couldn’t seem to stop herself from beaming at them.
Big, out-of-character grins that were beginning to feel less foreign on her face by the day.
How nice to have a purpose. How reassuring to know that she was more than just an
unimportant speck of life on a large, floating rock. She rose early just to stand in Neville’s
garden and look around in the sunshine.

And there was something else, too, brewing in the air like their fake potions on the stove. Its
ingredients were sidelong glances, knees that just brushed beneath the small kitchen table as
they shared meals, and the graze of fingers as cups of tea were passed into waiting hands
every morning.

It sat mostly unattended on a back burner but thickened by the day. Occasionally one of them
would give it a stir; Pansy’s neck prickling when she turned to find him studying her, or a
fractional linger in the hallway before they slipped into their own rooms at the end of the
night.

It steamed. It bubbled. It was probably faker than the water potion on the stove, Pansy told
herself.

After all, this was probably what friendship looked like, when your friends didn’t completely
suck. He was undoubtedly just as nice to all the beautiful, single witches he knew (he
could’ve spared her some anguish if only he’d thought to inform her he didn’t know any
other single, beautiful witches).

So despite two working eyes and a working understanding of men, who generally weren’t all
that difficult to understand, Pansy might have been able to convince herself that it was all in
her head, if not for one thing:

The accidental magic.

It began just days after their field trip to the Central City Library. Gemma was seated at the
kitchen table, and Pansy had just finished explaining why magic couldn’t be done inside the
house. (Stated reason: too dangerous. Real reason: it was illegal to perform magic in front of
a Muggle, and their wands were in hiding beneath the sofa cushion.)

Pansy turned to pick up a deck of tarot cards sitting on the counter behind her (fake
Divination Lessons were a crowd favourite). Anticipating her need, Neville palmed the cards
and stepped forward.

He moved. She did too. The minor collision was no one’s fault.

He was so tall, it couldn’t have been avoided, really. But Neville didn’t jump back in alarm,
did he? He didn’t pull away, or drop his gaze, or scurry awkwardly to another room. No, he
caught her around the waist, large hands holding her upright, and the corners of his eyes
creased in a smile.

They were so close, chest to chest, and it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.

Pansy felt her mouth fall open slightly. She breathed once.
And he was staring at her lips then, she knew it; she would’ve bet her considerable fortune on
it; she hadn’t been wrong, he did want her, he did, he did—

The teacups on the table, left there from that morning, exploded into tiny shards of porcelain.

Neville stiffened instantly.

“I’m sorry, I—” He dropped his hands and spun away to do all the right Gryffindor hero
things like checking on Gemma and sweeping up the sharp bits from the floor.

“Neville, what…”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, not looking at her. His voice came out choked.

“That was my fault,” Gemma said from the other side of the room. “I wasn’t trying to,
promise.”

They ignored her.

“I don’t understand,” Pansy said, bending to pick up a piece of handle that was spinning to a
stop in front of the Muggle refrigerator.

Neville’s back was to her. He twitched his head to the side, just enough for her to make out
his profile, and there was such shame in his expression that she wanted to wrap her arms
around his back and squeeze it right out of him.

But the set of his shoulders warned her not to, and once all the little pieces were cleaned up
(by hand; how tedious), he nodded to Gemma and disappeared outside into his garden.

She found him out there later that afternoon, once Gemma had left.

“What happened?” she asked, not bothering to work up to it.

Neville sat back on his heels between two rows of carrots.

For a moment he only looked down at the dirt crusted into the lines of his palms. When he
spoke, he addressed the turnips.

“You’ll laugh,” he said, with quiet certainty.

“Neville…” Her brows drew together. “I won’t. I never will.”

She approached him the way you might sidle up to a stray dog whose temperament you
weren’t quite sure of. Neville didn’t bite, though. It wasn’t in his nature.

“You know I’ve never been particularly good at magic,” he said haltingly. “At Hogwarts, I
was – I barely scraped by. I never mastered half the spells you probably know.”

Pansy opened her mouth to argue, and he must have sensed it even facing away from her,
because he rushed to cut her off.
“I know I’m not dumb. I have strengths, things I’m good at, and I don’t have to excel at
everything to be worthwhile or smart. But…Merlin, Pansy, it’s humiliating to not even be
able to control it like that.”

Their closeness. His hands on her waist. She’d been hoping he’d lose control, and, well, he
had.

It was tempting to kick up her heels and gloat about it. Pansy had been desired, she’d been
courted, and she’d been chatted up by men who used lines like, “Looks like my wand has
chosen you.”

She’d never inspired a man to explode a teacup before.

She picked her way through leafy greens to kneel beside him in the dirt.

“Don’t, Pans, you’ll get your dress dirty—”

“I don’t care about that! And I don’t care about a little accidental magic. It happens to
everyone.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

He pulled up a premature carrot in agitation, looked with dismay at the underwhelming

orange stump, and shoved it back into the ground.

“Neville, look at me.”

He did, finally, and her eyes settled on a streak of dirt along his jaw. She reached across to
wipe it clean, noting with detached surprise the chafe of stubble under her fingertips.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I simply don’t. Can you think of anything more humiliating than
sitting on a street corner in tears after your entire life falls apart? Because I can’t, and I’ve
done that. And you never once made me feel that it was anything to be embarrassed about. I
won’t let you go feeling sorry for yourself now. I’ve cornered the market on that.”

Neville swallowed, and, feeling the movement beneath her hand, she recalled that she was
still touching him and pulled away.

“But the Ministry. I’ve done magic in front of a Muggle. They’ll send someone.”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. “Can I
pick a carrot? That looked fun, just now.”

They were barely more than vibrant orange pencil erasers at this point, but he let her anyway.

For days, they held their breath, expecting a letter at the very least, or a visit from Harry
Potter at the very most. But by the end of the week, they were forced to conclude that the
general inefficiency of a parchment-based system of rule had worked in their favour, for
once.
No one was coming.

Fake magic lessons continued, and it happened two or three more times: a levitated sugar
bowl, a door that opened on its own before being slammed violently shut. They let Gemma
think she was the one doing it (which was generous of them, because indeed she was), and
Pansy would wink at Neville to remind him she didn’t think any less of him for it.

It was the stress of trying to keep it from happening that caused it to happen, she thought, and
in a way, she was right.

Accidental magic isn’t just what happens before you get your hands on a wand. It’s a lack of
control; an inability to connect with your source of power within yourself and get it to bend
to your will.

Getting your wand and going to Hogwarts can help, certainly. But so did Pansy’s Meditation
Hour. And after a few weeks of forcing Gemma to close her eyes and focus on her mind-body
connection (terminology Pansy learned from a masseuse she’d had once), the embarrassing
outbursts of accidental magic stopped altogether.

---

It was two o’clock in the afternoon on the Saturday before Lilith left for Hogwarts, and the
Potters’ sitting room hadn’t contained this many Slytherins since a member of the Black
family was in residence some forty years prior.

Harry couldn’t quite pretend to be happy about it.

Ginny smiled encouragingly at Theo as she ushered everyone to take a seat. “I think Charlie
was pleased to hear from you.” She hesitated. “Deep down.”

Theo made a big show of appearing nonchalant, which drew everyone’s attention to the
conversation.

“I didn’t ask,” he said.

“He’s not seeing anyone.”

“I don’t care.”

“No!” Blaise threw up a hand, too late.

If you have never been around any children whatsoever, you might be surprised to learn that
their maximum volume does not at all correspond to their size. Every infant comes pre-
equipped at birth with the necessary apparatus to puncture eardrums, shatter crystal, or induce
migraines, if sufficiently motivated. Everyone in this room had been around children, yet
they were still taken aback by the sheer decibels Clotilde achieved at Theo’s obvious lie.

“There, there. He misses Charlie very much. He’s sorry for whatever it was that he did
wrong,” Blaise soothed, wincing in pain.
At once, she fell silent and turned a pudgy, reproachful gaze on Theo.

“Is that true?” Ginny asked, with great interest.

Theo observed Clotilde’s mouth opening threateningly and opted to keep his own shut.

Blaise looked at Ginny speculatively. “We might be able to unite two hopelessly dense
couples. Up for the challenge, Weasley?”

“It’s Potter,” Harry grumbled.

“We know who you are,” Blaise told him. “There’s no need to introduce yourself.”

“You’re on,” Ginny replied. “Theo and Charlie should be easy. They’re both smart.”

Harry’s sense of honour and duty was triggered. “That’s unfair, Gin. Hermione’s the smartest
person I know!”

“And yet…” Ginny spread her hands to indicate the entire cohort of people in their sitting
room. “She’s out-stupided all of us. At least Theo has the capacity for growth.”

“We’re not here to talk about me,” insisted Theo.

“D’you know,” mused Blaise, “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say those
words? You’re growing already.”

Narcissa stood to leave. “Thank you for your…Well.” It hadn’t been helpful, so she didn’t see
the point in forcing herself to say that dreadful word. “I have a cursed ruby in my possession
that’ll stick two people together permanently. I believe I’ll try that. Good day.”

A look of intense pain crossed Harry’s face.

“I am Head Auror, Mrs Malfoy. You can’t go about threatening to curse people in front of me.
You’ve no idea how much paperwork I have to do, now that you’ve said that.”

Theo looked at him with amusement. “Interesting that you seem more concerned with the
administrative work than the stuck-together-permanently part.”

“They deserve it for this,” Harry muttered, nodding at the general situation.

“Please, Mrs Malfoy, sit down,” Ginny said calmly. “No one is sticking anyone permanently
together. They will kill each other.”

“Wouldn't be a complete loss. They’d probably shag first, at least,” Theo amended, then
remembered his audience. “Oh. Sorry, Mrs Malfoy.”

Narcissa and Harry suddenly discovered a new and unexpected commonality in their desire to
be anywhere else.
“Please, Ginny.” Harry hadn’t looked so miserable since fifth year, which had somehow been
the most miserable, despite briefly dying during what would have been his seventh. “Can we
get on with it?”

“Yes, alright. I call this meeting of – wait. Do we need a name?”

“The Granger-Malfoy Marriage Project,” Blaise offered.

“Hmm.” Ginny conjured a sheaf of parchment and scribbled the acronym across the top.
“G.M.M.P.? It’s alright.”

“No, I agree,” Theo said. “No panache. Here…”

They bent their heads together and dedicated their combined intellect to developing a suitable
group name that befitted the seriousness of the situation.

P.R.A.T.S. (Pressuring Resistant Acquaintances To Shag) was overruled. (“This is about

marriage,” insisted Narcissa. “Not…that.”)

Deliver Unwilling Marital Bliss And Save Sanity was then floated. Everyone agreed it was a
superb acronym, but ultimately far too American, and no one could work out a satisfying
conversion to D.U.M.B.A.R.S.E.

Five minutes later, a handful of additional options had been weighed and discarded,
including: To Overcome Stupidity, Secretly Enforce Relationship, or T.O.S.S.E.R. (“I see the
vision, but it’s really not that good, Ginny.”); N.U.M.P.T.Y., or Narcissa’s Union of Meddlers
Pertaining To You-know-who (“Merlin, Theo, will you stop calling everyone that?”); and
B.A.R.M.Y., which creatively meant Barmy Arseholes Really Must Yunite (“Are you even
trying?”).

Narcissa and Harry eyed each other wearily from across the room.

Theo leaned over the parchment. “Wait, you could try—”

“Yes! That’s it!” Ginny looked up. “Excellent. I call this gathering of gits to order.”

She held up the paper. Across the top in neat block letters, she’d written:

G.I.T.S. (Get Idiots Together Swiftly)

Beneath it, in slightly smaller letters:

W.A.N.K., Time Permitting

“Weasley And Nott Knot,” she explained. “Tie the knot, that is. I’ll admit it’s not perfect.”

“I’m going for a walk,” Harry announced. “I don’t support this. She’s a right to live her own
life however she chooses.”
“She’s choosing wrong, darling, and she would do the same for you,” Ginny said, blowing a
kiss as he exited, their son in tow. “Now,” she said to the room. “Quick recap of where we
stand. She’s in love with him but won’t admit it because she thinks he hates her. He feels the
same but won’t admit it, for the same reason. They're living together under the most
insultingly thin excuse ever thought up. We’ve all suffered greatly over these past five years.
Have I missed anything?”

“They have a child—” Narcissa began, but Ginny was there first.

“No. She, at least, is completely innocent in all of this, and I want her left out of it. I say this
as a representative of the Former Children Who’ve Been Meddled With By a Malfoy Club.”

“The F.C.W.B.M.W.B.A.M.C.? I don’t know…”

“Theo, please.” Blaise turned to Ginny. “The date last week. He said it went poorly,
something about some kind of Muggle Unbreakable Vow? It had to do with her pinky.”

The G.I.T.S. pondered the unknowable mysteries of Muggle customs for a moment.

“No idea,” Ginny eventually said, shaking her head. “She wouldn't tell me what they did,
except to say that they fought the entire time. But then they woke up here, cuddled up on the
chair you’re sitting in, and couldn’t look me in the eye. None of this makes any sense.”

Blaise jumped from the armchair in horror and began to inspect it for fluids.

“I’m with his mother,” said Theo. “Let’s curse them.”

Ginny frowned. “It's too late for that, as I suspect Harry already has Aurors waiting at Malfoy
Manor. Let’s at least try to have them talk it out first.”

Theo looked unimpressed by the plan. “It does seem as though a conversation would solve all
their problems, but they’ll never be honest with each other. We’ve been trying that for years.”

At Theo’s words, an idea flitted through the room like a Snitch. Theo and Blaise caught only
the briefest glimpse before it sped away. Narcissa made a lazy swipe but couldn’t grasp its
slick surface. Ginny, the Seeker, plucked it neatly from the air, turning it over to examine all
sides before pocketing it.

She smiled slyly.

“I’ve got it. And we might even be able to pull off a cheeky W.A.N.K. while we’re at it.”

---

Dante Alighieri was a wizard. This isn’t relevant at all, except that you might find it
interesting.

What is relevant is his description of the nine descending circles of Hell, and only because he
missed one.
He had Limbo, which is problematic and mostly ignored. Lust, where Draco and Hermione
had spent the past few weeks on holiday, was next. Gluttony (self-explanatory) was followed
by Greed (self-explanatory and boring). Skipping a few, we then make our way to the ninth
and final circle, Treachery.

Draco and Hermione thought they were in Treachery when they arrived at the Potters’ house
with Lilith to find that what had looked like a dinner invitation was actually a trap that landed
them together in a room with a child to whom they had lie to in order to stop the apocalypse,
and with Clotilde, around whom they could not.

They were wrong, however, and so was Mr Alighieri. They were actually in the tenth circle
of Hell: Dinner Parties.

“There are rather more people here than I was expecting,” said Hermione, looking around in
confusion. “How do you all know each other?”

Theo gave her his most dashing smile while watching Charlie out of the corner of his eye to
see whether he noticed.

“Hi, Hermione,” he said. “Big fan.”

“Of…what?” She looked perplexed.

“Fucking hell,” muttered Draco, who’d spotted Clotilde and put the whole thing together.
“Don’t tell any lies tonight, Granger.”

“I’m confused.”

“Does your carte blanche at the Ministry cover murder? Because I have a few to commit.”

Ginny breezed in carrying a tray of drinks. “I don’t know what you’re on about,” she said,
startling an outraged gurgle from Clotilde. Draco picked up two drinks, handed one to
Hermione, and downed his own before going for a third.

Harry cleaned his glasses against his shirt irritably. “This wasn’t my idea, for the record.”

“Here.” Blaise deposited one of his infants into Hermione’s arms. “It’s good to see you,
Granger.”

“Now you’re just being a prick,” Draco snapped. “Give her Diamanda, at least.”

Blaise reluctantly reclaimed Spurgeon and wandered off to the kitchen while Hermione
hugged Charlie fondly.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him.

“I have no idea. Ginny just said I had to,” Charlie said with a shrug, but his eyes were
narrowed suspiciously in Theo’s direction.

“Strategy meeting,” Draco announced, and pulled Hermione by the hand into another room.
“What on earth is going on?” she asked, when they were alone.

He pressed his hands against his face for so long without answering that she began to grow
worried. Finally, he pulled them away to blink at her.

“Do your friends ever…misinterpret the situation here?” He waved at the space between
them.

Hermione’s face flooded with heat. “Oh.”

“Precisely.”

“And now our friends have teamed up.”

“It seems that way.”

“And what was that about lying?”

“Don’t do it. One of the triplets is freakish.”

“The one I was holding?”

“No, but also yes, in a much more disgusting way.”

She thought for a moment. “They want to know if the fake relationship is really fake. But we
can’t let Lilith know that it is.”

He nodded. “Or that you’re moving out in a few days.”

“Or that we’re definitely not getting married.”

“Or that we haven’t really adopted her.” They both winced.

“Or about the apocalypse. Actually, no one can know about that part.”

It really was a lot of lies, and that didn’t even include the two biggest ones they were keeping
from each other vis-à-vis their feelings.

“Merlin's tits,” Draco groaned.

Hermione wanted to fold herself into his arms and not think about scheming friends who
didn’t understand them. She decided it wouldn’t send the right message.

“It’s really too bad your mother isn’t here,” she said, attempting a very poor joke. “She can
always be relied on to disapprove.”

“Hermione,” he said, giving her an odd look that made her stomach flip around on itself a
few times. “I hope you know that isn’t why I – that is to say, I don’t hate you because of
that.”

Why, then? she wanted to ask him. Why, and how do I get you to stop?
Her courage failed her.

“Oh. That’s not…that’s not why I hate you, either.”

“Then…”

“It’s just what we do, isn’t it?” she said, squirming in discomfort at her own cowardice.

Draco’s mouth opened and hung for a moment before he answered. “I suppose it is.”

They looked at each other in a silence that seemed to stretch interminably. The air between
them thickened, practically begging for one of them to just open their mouth and say
something honest. If Ginny had been in the room, she would have been screaming in
frustration. But she wasn’t, so the moment passed without any confessions, and they both
breathed a sigh of relief.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I know our truce wasn’t successful before. But I think this is a
common enemy situation.”

“Ah. A joint campaign.”

“Yes. We have to present a united front.”

His lips twitched. “I don’t know any other Muggle war phrases. But they’re going down.”

“That was one, I think.”

His smile widened. “They won’t know what hit them.”

“Another! Well done. Let’s go.”

They re-entered the Tenth Circle of Hell as a team, fingers intertwined for good measure.

It was truly Hellish.

“Lilith told us you’re getting married,” Theo said as they reentered the room. “How are you
getting married if you claim to hate each other?”

Hermione tossed back her drink and immediately abandoned her teammate in search of a
refill.

“Lilith’s getting ahead of herself,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow at the child, who only
shrugged, unperturbed. “No one’s asked anyone to marry them.”

“But you will, right?” Lilith pressed. She already knew he would. They’d been holding
hands, for heaven’s sake.

“You’ll be the first to know,” he promised.

The G.I.T.S. sighed in unison. Things did not get any better as the evening progressed.
“So what are your plans for after she leaves for Hogwarts?” Blaise asked over dinner. “Still
living together, I hope?”

Conscious of Lilith’s rapt attention and Clotilde’s existence, Hermione plastered on a placid
expression. “We think we might like a little bit more space, actually. I see a move in our
future.”

“Together?” Blaise pressed.

“That’s the plan,” Hermione said, figuring that so long as Draco helped carry one of her
boxes to the Floo, that should count for the truth.

Draco tilted his head to one side and watched with an expression of great pride as she
performed flawless evasive manoeuvres. Clotilde munched calmly on a bit of lettuce.

Ginny glowered.

“How do you actually feel about each other?” she finally asked, once the plates had been
cleared and not a single question had been answered with satisfying directness.

Hermione, who was by that point beginning to feel emotionally exhausted from the effort of
being honest but not too honest all evening, gave up on clever wordplay.

“Strongly,” she said.

“It’s hard to define, really,” Draco concurred.

“We don’t have to do this,” Harry said apologetically. “You’re allowed to carry on the way
you have done for an eternity if you want.”

Theo took a healthy swig of his drink. In fact, for the past hour, he'd been taking healthy
swigs every time he observed Charlie look away rather than meet his eyes, and was by this
time more alcohol than man.

His empty glass connected hard with the wooden table.

“It would be a shame,” he announced loudly. "That’s all.”

“Oh?” Draco eyed his inebriated friend with great irritation. His murderous intentions had
multiplied throughout the evening and had begun to solidify into real plans after the fifth time
he’d caught himself biting back the words, “Yes, I fucking fancy her, okay?”

“Yes,” Theo went on, with an anguished glance at Charlie’s stony expression. “It would be a
massive shame. And if you ever get your head out of your arse, you'll regret every minute
you didn't do something about it."

"Theo…" Charlie said warningly. It was about as effective as gently scolding a runaway train.

"And yes, Draco, maybe you made a mistake at some point,” Theo continued, picking up
significant speed now. “You were young and stupid, and you hurt her. But it’s been years and
you’ve both grown and things are different now. All we’re trying to say is that maybe it’s not
too late.”

“Maybe Hermione’s not ready to forgive him. Maybe he hasn’t actually apologised,” Charlie
pointed out.

“Well, he’s sorry!” Theo snapped, pointing desperately at Draco. “Look at how sorry he is!”

Everyone looked at Draco’s befuddled expression.

“And how would she know that?” Charlie asked furiously. “He’s got to actually come out and
say it!”

“Perhaps he’s afraid of what she’ll say! It’s a terrible feeling, putting yourself out there like
that. And besides, what about her?”

Charlie folded his arms. “What about her?” he asked with an inflection that dared Theo to
continue.

Of course, Theo did.

“She never wrote! She never gave any indication whatsoever—”

“She’s completely innocent in this situation! He’s the idiot here!”

Draco looked over at Charlie in indignation. “Now, hang on, I don’t even know you—” he
started. Hermione’s foot connected with his shin to shut him up.

“She’s got to meet him halfway!” Theo was saying, jamming his finger against the table for
emphasis.

“Halfway! What do you mean, halfway?”

Theo pushed back from the table and stood. “She can’t give him rude looks all evening and
expect him to lay his heart out to be trampled on!”

Charlie stood as well. “That's bullshit! I never gave you any rude looks!”

Draco’s eyes widened in belated understanding, and Hermione had to look away to smother a
smile.

“The two of you can go outside and talk, instead of…whatever this is,” Ginny suggested
blandly. “Now’s not the time for a W.A.N.K.”

Draco snorted. “Sorry, what?”

“If he wants to have a real conversation that involves an actual apology, he knows where she
lives,” Charlie replied coldly.

Hermione smiled sweetly up at the both of them.

“We live together. Unless you were referring to somebody else?”

“Merlin, but they’re obvious,” muttered Draco. “We were never this annoying, eh, Granger?”

At his monumental untruth, Clotilde began to wail. The Dinner Party from Hell swiftly broke
apart after that, everyone exchanging terse goodbyes before collecting their belongings and
scurrying through the Floo like bats out of, well, you know.

---

Three hours later, Hermione had seen Lilith off to bed, completed her new nightly ritual of
behaving awkwardly around Draco on the upper floor of his flat (his room, which contained
his bed, was right there – how was she meant to carry on a casual conversation when it was
all she could think about?), and had just drifted off to an uneasy sleep in the comfort of his
guest room when a soft knock on the door startled her awake.

She jolted upright in bed, then ripped off the t-shirt she was wearing.

“One moment,” she called, kicking it beneath the bed.

(It was his. She hadn’t stolen it, precisely – Wally was rubbish with laundry and she kept
finding them mixed in with her own. Still, she didn’t think she could give a satisfying
explanation for why she was secretly sleeping in his clothing instead of returning it.)

Hermione pulled on one of her ridiculous lacy items, spared a moment to consider how
preposterous it was that she’d actually claimed she'd bought it because she hated him (no
wonder Ginny was so irritable all the time), and opened the door.

Draco took two full steps back in alarm at the sight. “Bloody hell,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“Is something the matter?”

“Erm…” He dropped his hands and fixed his eyes on the space above her head. “Can we
talk?”

She stepped aside to let him in.

“Do you want to sit?” she asked unthinkingly. They looked together at the bed, which was the
only available seat.

Draco blew out a long breath and studied the wall with intensity. “I’ll stand, if that’s alright.
You’re not wearing a lot of clothing and I need to focus.”

“This sounds serious.” She slipped back into bed and sat against the headboard, covers pulled
up to her armpits. “Carry on.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not really better. But…alright. It’s just what Theo
was saying tonight. About apologising.”

“To Charlie?”
“No, to you.”

“Why would Theo apologise to me?”

Draco looked up at the ceiling in frustration. “Of course you would make this impossible,
you horrible woman.”

“That’s very rude.”

“I’m trying to atone for my sins here. Can you please stop talking for one minute?”

She considered his request and came to the conclusion that she could not.

“Is this part of your wooing strategy? Because that’s wildly unfair.”

“No – fuck – forget about wooing!”

He looked genuinely distressed, and she would do anything, really, to save him from
whatever put that look on his face.

“It’s ancient history, Draco, you really don’t have to—”

“But don’t you think I should?” he interrupted in agitation. “Shouldn’t I have, years ago,
when we first started working together? Before that, even.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Because I can’t help wondering if it would have changed anything.”

She hesitated. “Changed what, precisely?”

“It’s too late, and it won't make a difference now,” he went on, and her stomach plummeted
dramatically. “I know that, but I just – it feels overdue.”

She tucked the blankets beneath her chin for comfort. “Alright. Go on, then.”

He leaned forward, hand outstretched as if he meant to take hers, but then remembered
himself and straightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said plaintively. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I was cruel, and wrong, and I
deserved every minute of my time in Azkaban. There are so many things I regret, but chief
among them is that I ever hurt you. I would do so much of it differently if I could, but that
most of all. I just wanted you to know that.”

There he stood, face as raw and open as an exposed nerve as he awaited her judgement.

But for the first time in as long as she could remember, Hermione couldn’t think of a single
thing to say.

When the silence grew thin and brittle, he nodded once, turned on his heel, and left, shutting
the door firmly behind him.
Hermione didn't fall back asleep. She lay in the dark of his guest room for hours, turning over
his words long after he'd gone. Something tickled at the back of her mind, a small but
growing presence on the outskirts of her consciousness. It wasn’t really a thought, but maybe
the very beginning of it, still too incorporeal and vanishing to be fully grasped.

It was the idea of an idea, and it was this:

Perhaps there were two liars in their fake relationship. Perhaps Draco didn’t hate her after all.
And perhaps all she needed to do – all she’d ever needed to do – was to meet him halfway.

---

When the report reached Narcissa the next day, she couldn’t help but feel vindicated.

Complete and utter failure.

“Of course it was,” she told her husband’s portrait, folding up Blaise's note and returning it to
her pocket. “I should have been allowed to attend. He wouldn't have been able to get away
with this if I were there.”

Lucius rapped his cane against the gilt edge of his frame, thinking. “There’s something you
could try…a cursed ruby…”

“No, can’t, the Aurors took it.” She sighed wistfully.

“Bring him here, then. I want to speak with him.”

“He’ll never come, darling. He’s not forgiven you for—” She paused. “Well, never mind that.
Anyway, he’s much older than you now. I don’t think he’ll listen.”

Lucius tried to settle back against his uncomfortable stool, but gave up, wincing. “And will
he listen to you?”

“I haven’t really tried. His friends told me that if I give my blessing, that will actually make
him less likely to marry her. He's apparently very obstinate in that way.”

“That’s stupid.”

Narcissa bristled at the suggestion that stupid and Draco belonged in a sentence together, but
facts were facts.

“I’ve recently been informed he’s incredibly dense in matters of the heart,” she admitted
reluctantly.

Lucius smoothed his perfectly painted hair with an absentminded hand, considering.

“Use it against him,” he finally said, with a decisive nod.

“Pardon?”
“Forbid him. Tell him he’s not allowed to see her.”

“I don’t know…”

“What would you have done if your mother forbade you from marrying me?” He gave her a
hint of a knowing smile, which she returned, cheeks reddening slightly.

“I…I suppose we would have eloped.”

“Precisely.”

Narcissa fiddled anxiously with the letter in her pocket and wondered whether it was wise to
take advice from her twenty-four-year-old husband, who really did not know their son at all.

“He wasn’t always this way,” she told him. “He was dutiful. He did everything we asked of
him.”

“What are you worried about, Cissa?”

“Well…I suppose I'm afraid I’ll end up pushing him and our granddaughter further away.”

More distance hardly seemed possible, given how much he’d hidden from her for the past
decade. Still, there was always the chance that Draco might pack up and move to the
continent if sufficiently annoyed.

Lucius smiled, and her heart thudded painfully at the sight. “He’s our son. They’ll be married
within the fortnight if his mother tries to put a stop to it.”

She touched her fingers to her lips and pressed them against his cheek, grateful that at least
one of them felt confident about anything these days.

“What happened?” he asked. “You said he used to do everything we asked of him. What
changed?”

This is what she had traded, to keep Lucius’ youngest portrait as he was for an eternity. She'd
kept him in the dark (literally, on occasion; he'd been stored in a cupboard for some of 1996
and the entire 1997-1998 school year). She couldn’t tell him. He couldn't find out. That
elastic brain of his might decide to blame her, or worse, become as twisted with fear and guilt
as the older versions had done.

“We asked too much,” she said simply, and withdrew.

---

This is it, Lilith thought, as she stared at the blank wall between platforms nine and ten. I
can’t see the platform because I’m a Muggle.

She’d been thinking it all summer.

This is it, when waving her wand around did nothing but make her feel silly.
This is it, when she walked through the corridors of the Ministry of Magic, half-expecting
someone to jump from around every corner to scream, “She doesn’t belong here!”

This is it, when she listened at her bedroom door to hear Draco and Hermione discuss how
she hadn’t displayed any outward signs of being magical. Although, they never seemed angry
or worried, just surprised. “It’s probably something to do with growing up in that horrid
place,” Hermione had concluded. “It’ll explode out of her at Hogwarts, no doubt. At least the
Imperiusing seems to be over with.”

But the moment she’d been dreading never happened. And it didn’t happen then, either, as
Draco and Hermione placed a hand on each of her shoulders and guided her through the solid
wall, which wasn’t solid at all, and was spelled to permit Muggles so long as they were
accompanied by a witch or wizard.

Still, surely her time was nearly up. Someone at Hogwarts was bound to notice, and soon.
She might not even be able to make it through the front gate.

Draco sorted her luggage while Hermione navigated them through a crowd of students and
parents to a nearby train compartment.

“Ready?” Hermione asked, forcing a strained smile to her lips.

She’d been doing that a lot as this day drew nearer: looking at Lilith in wistful contemplation,
smiling too brightly when she caught her eye. Lilith hoped desperately it meant what she
thought it meant, which was that Hermione didn’t really want to send her away. Because I’m
coming back, she told her silently. Way sooner than you’re expecting.

“What if…what if I can’t do magic?” she blurted.

Hermione looked at her in amusement. “You can,” she said, with so much certainty Lilith
almost believed it.

“But if I couldn’t,” she pressed.

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Draco said, coming up to stand behind
Hermione. “By the way, if you want to make a load of friends, tell everyone who you lived
with this summer. Granger here’s really famous.”

It was true. Students were leaning out of the train windows to catch a glimpse of Draco and
Hermione. (Together! Yes, really, look!)

Hermione gave a little snort, ignoring the commotion. “Don’t believe half of what you read
about me. Feeling good about the Sorting?”

“Perhaps if you’d tell me what happens…?”

“Can’t,” Draco said. “It’s tradition. But you needn’t worry, I don’t think you’ll be a Slytherin.
You’re simply too good.”

Not too late, Hermione decided with finality. Never too late to right a wrong.
“No!” she said, voice taking on a shrill quality she wouldn’t ordinarily tolerate. “There's
nothing wrong with being a Slytherin. That’s not how it works, Lilith. There aren't bad
people, just bad choices, at least not when you're a child!”

Draco’s mouth opened and then closed again.

“There’s nothing you could do that would make me think any less of you," Hermione went
on, stubbornly refusing to allow her eyes to flick over to meet his. "Nothing you could do that
can’t be fixed. I know you, and I think you're wonderful. You could – you could summon
demons for all I care, it wouldn’t matter, I would still—”

“Hermione,” Draco said gently, laying a hand on her arm.

She turned to him then, breathing hard, and they shared a look laden with so much meaning
that even Lilith, master of horoscopes and emotional intelligence, couldn’t parse it.

“Are the two of you going to be alright without me?” she asked.

Hermione and Draco, who had each, separately, been wondering the same thing for weeks,
jolted a little to hear their innermost thoughts spoken aloud.

Draco coughed. “We’ve managed this far,” he said, handing her Iago’s cage and giving the
end of her plait a light tug.

“Have a wonderful term, Lilith. I’ll…I’ll really miss you.” Hermione pulled her in for a hug,
which Lilith readily returned.

Lilith said her goodbyes, reminded Hermione to be nice and reminded Draco to propose
marriage sometime soon, then turned to face the train.

This is it, she thought, and gave a sigh of relief when the carriage door didn’t shut in her face.

---

Sometime during Eostur-monaþ, 993 A.D. (You probably know it better as April.)

The school would’ve been completed the previous autumn, but for the labour shortage.

There were fewer than three hundred million people in the world at the time, after all, and
only a tiny percentage of them lived in northern Scotland, and fewer still who knew magic.
Eventually, the foreman gave up on explaining these nuances to the school’s founders (the
Gryffindor fellow just kept shouting rousing speeches while the stern-looking woman
furiously readjusted the work schedules). He finally sent a call out for labourers of any sort,
figuring they could just wipe the Muggles' memories when it was over.

Unfortunately for Rowena's timelines, word had got round amongst the non-magical
population that something yfel was going on up in the highlands, and only one brave soul
arrived on the worksite the next day, lured by the promise of coin.
The rest of the workers stopped their spell-casting to watch as the newcomer wrapped his
arms around a large block of stone and began crab-walking it toward the northern corner of
the construction site.

“Be Merlines bēard, hwæt dēþ hē?” one of them asked. Everyone shrugged. Who knew why
any of these non-magical folk did what they did?

The first Muggle ever to enter Hogwarts only lasted until the end of the day, when he found
out he’d be getting paid not in regular bronze Northumbrian sceats, but in something called a
knut. He thought it sounded like a scam.

3 October, 1594

Wards weren’t what they are now.

Hogwarts had a few, of course: any Muggle that wandered too near the front doors might find
themselves splinched into a dozen pieces, or fed swiftly to the Giant Squid (witch-hunting
was really picking up steam as a hobby, and you couldn’t be too careful). But for the most
part, the school relied on the harshness of the surrounding landscape to keep Muggles away.

It worked, until it didn’t. Not a single Muggle darkened the doorstep of Hogwarts Schoole of
Witchcrafte and Wizardrie, as it was known at the time, for six hundred years.

And then suddenly, thousands did.

Unbeknownst to the mostly-English group of young people learning to levitate feathers in a

secluded castle, there was actually quite a lot going on in Scotland at the time. Clan warfare,
more specifically.

Just up the road from Hogwarts, the Battle of Glenlivet was being fought and won. Or lost, if
you were the Earl of Argyll. After suffering a tragic defeat, he commanded his remaining
seven thousand troops to retreat, where they promptly got turned around (many of them had
head injuries), became lost in the highlands after dark, and were forced to set up camp in the
first suitable stretch of terrain they could locate in the middle of the night.

It was the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, and when the Slytherins woke the next morning, they
didn’t at all appreciate having their match against Ravenclaw ruined by a load of trouserless
Muggles. Every single member of the team wrote to their fathers, who wrote to the Board of
Governors, who commanded that perimeter wards be set up.

The seven thousand Scots were evicted without preamble. They stood just beyond the
magical barrier and watched in dumbfounded shock as the Slytherins defeated the
Ravenclaws 290‑10.

28 July, 1909

The Charms Professor stood outside with the Potions Mistress, looking overhead.

Something was in the sky. It looked like a bird, if a bird was gigantic, made of metal, and was
actually a biplane.
“The Muggles have figured out flight,” said the Potions Mistress. “Probably time for some
real protection.”

By the end of the day, Hogwarts looked like nothing more than a dirty shack surrounded by
unforgiving terrain. And even if anyone non-magical had wanted to visit for some
unfathomable reason, they simply couldn’t.

13 June, 1943

Mr and Mrs Warren came to collect their daughter’s remains in the early hours of the
morning.

It had been a terrible and confusing night, and the whole school was in an uproar over this
Chamber of Secrets business and the tragic loss of one of their own. (In six months or so,
tongues loosened by the relief that all was back to normal, students would sit by the fire in
their common rooms and admit in hushed tones that they’d never actually liked the deceased,
at which point everyone would reassure themselves that it couldn’t mean they were a bad
person if they were all thinking it. But for now, she was gone too soon, and they were all
heartbroken over it, et cetera.)

In all the commotion of the evening, it wasn’t until Myrtle’s grieving Muggle parents arrived
into an empty field in the middle of nowhere that someone thought to let them in.

“Muggles can enter, so long as they know about Hogwarts already,” Headmaster Dippet said,
figuring it hardly mattered as he was going to have to close the school anyway. He made the
necessary adjustments to the wards between preparing a statement to the press and wiping his
eyes on the sleeve of his robes.

2 May, 1998

There were many Muggle-borns among the fallen. After a few hours, when the celebration
wore down and the survivors found time between their grief and their joy to contact relatives
and loved ones, the Muggles started arriving.

The wards fell away without having to be asked. The gates felt them coming and swung open
preemptively. The school was happy to see them, because even though it was a sad occasion,
that they were there at all meant they’d won.

1 September, 2012

A Muggle girl arrived on the Hogwarts Express. She was hardly the first. The wards parted
easily to let her through.

---

Hermione had packed. She had unpacked, just to be sure she had everything, and then she’d
packed again.

She packed her white blazers, and white linen trousers, and white blouses, and white
sleepwear for torturing an unsuspecting man with, and white undergarments that he only got
to see on one or two occasions, and a short dress of a shocking colour, and assorted toiletries
and jewellery, and a small stack of Mizz magazines that Lilith had left behind that she
couldn’t bear to part with, and cat food, and cat toys, and a cat.

She packed an unopened bag of crisps she’d taken from his snack pantry. She packed seven
of his shirts, which she was pretty sure he would notice but he was welcome to come get
them back from her at any time, day or night, and she packed a half-empty bottle of his
cologne she’d found in the bathroom because at that point during packing she was feeling
extremely tender and couldn’t seem to stop herself from taking it.

Then she packed up her pride, and her dignity, and her meaningless wins and losses, and she
went to find Draco to tell him that since she’d already gone to the trouble of packing, it
would be no bother at all to simply move into his room, and into his heart, and into his life on
a more permanent basis, if he wanted her there and had the extra space.

His mother got there first.

---

Narcissa hadn’t seen her son in over a month, since that day in the bookshop, and hadn’t
spoken to him in even longer. (They would have a word about his avoidance of his mother
later, and he could make it up to her by coming by for dinner with his new wife, once that
was sorted.)

She’d been running her lines in the mirror, really getting into the role of the villainess. He’d
be angry, of course, and the whole thing would probably be a giant row, but the ends nearly
always justified the means, in her experience. Besides, he’d forgive her once he’d gone and
eloped.

But in all her dress rehearsing, she’d imagined her scene partner to be the joyful, lovestruck
Romeo she’d spied on last month with Lilith. Instead, she exited the Floo and came face-to-
face with the Act 5, Scene 3 version that had just entered the tomb to find Juliet asleep,
presumed dead. (Why on earth hadn’t he felt for a pulse? It was a lazy writer that relied too
heavily on easily solved misunderstandings, in Narcissa’s opinion.)

Either way, she now found herself beating a dead horse. It was about as unpleasant as you'd
think.

“I’ve found out about you and Hermione Granger and I’ve come to put a stop to it,” she said
directly into her son’s pale, drawn face. There was considerably less confidence in her voice
than she intended.

He crumpled a little, and she awarded herself the title of World’s Worst Mother, but pushed
through for the greater good.

“You must put an end to this at once—” she began.

A loud crack sounded, and a very elderly house-elf appeared in the room with them. He
smiled a bit vacantly at her without speaking, and she judged him to possess even fewer
marbles than teeth.

Draco didn’t seem to notice the elf. Rubbing an agitated hand through his hair, he motioned
to the Floo. “I’m not in the mood for your bigotry, Mother. Please leave.”

She planted her feet and remembered her practice. “This is a completely unsuitable match. I
forbid you from eloping.”

“Eloping?” He looked baffled. “I am not seeing Hermione. Merlin, Mother. And you wonder
why we never talk.”

She refused to be swayed by this accurate yet hurtful remark. “I heard she was living here,”
she continued stubbornly.

“Not anymore,” he said bitterly, then looked at the elf. “Is she finished packing?”

The elf looked startled, as if he hadn’t thought Draco could see him. He vanished without
answering.

Doubt began to creep in. Was she too late? Had they ended things already? She doubled
down on her next lines, hoping he’d be so infuriated he’d whisk Hermione away to the altar
that very minute.

“Listen to me, Draco. You are forbidden from marrying that woman.”

He sneered then, and it was so like looking at a past version of her son – the deeply unhappy
version she’d hoped never to see again – that she took a step back in alarm.

“You can rest easy,” he spat. “She would never in a million years concede to marry me. Now
leave.” He stepped forward, ready to usher her out.

“Wait!” she said desperately. “There’s something else. A prophecy!”

He froze, and really looked at her for the first time. “You know about that?”

“You know about that?”

“Of course I know about it!” said Draco angrily. “How did you hear? If it was that Benjamin
fellow, I’ll kill him. I’ve been looking for an excuse anyway.”

“I heard it directly from the source: right out of Pansy Parkinson’s mouth,” she said, with a
rude look to the elf, who had returned to interrupt yet again. His unnerving grin was gone,
thankfully.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Pansy! It was Pansy this whole time?”

The elf vanished in a fourth loud crack.

“Is there something the matter with your elf?” she asked.
“Oh, certainly. Pansy's a Seer, really?”

Narcissa sniffed. “We mustn’t judge the Parkinsons for their shameful family secrets,” she
said, eyeing him meaningfully. “All things considered…”

Draco didn’t answer, because he was in the midst of a brief contemplation about the great
ironies of fate.

“Your – the child,” she pressed, thinking perhaps he might’ve contemplated something about
the importance of introducing your child to its extended family. “Can I meet her?”

Draco snapped out of it in a hurry. “She’s at Hogwarts. And she’s none of your business,
anyway. The situation with the prophecy is under control. The world won’t be ending, so you
don’t need to worry about it.”

“Draco, please—”

But he was closed off like a wall, hard and cold, and Narcissa realised that she should have
listened to his friends who knew him, and not his father who didn’t. Her son was a thirty-two-
year-old man who didn’t want his mother’s advice, especially not when it was rotten advice
like “you are forbidden from marrying the mother of your child, whom you love.”

Drat, she thought. She’d made it a thousand times worse. There was only one thing left to try.

“Marry her.”

His lip curled. “I am not marrying Pansy. This is the last time I’ll ask you before I have my
insane elf deposit you on the street outside. Get out—”

“No! No, Draco. You must marry Hermione Granger.”

The anger drained out, replaced by confusion and soul-deep weariness. “Is this some type of
reverse psychology?” It was a term he'd learned from Hermione, who used it against him
liberally during the early days of their war until he figured out what it was and how to stop
falling for it.

“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds Muggle, so no.”

Crack. The elf was back.

“You must use a Malfoy ring, of course. I have several you can choose from.”

“For…what?”

“To propose, of course.”

Crack. The elf was gone.

“I’m very lost right now,” said Draco. “You forbade me from marrying her not forty-five
seconds ago.”
“I know. I was only saying you shouldn’t marry her so that you would. I should never have
listened to your father.”

“That’s the very definition of reverse psychology. And also, what?”

“Draco,” she said, staring pleadingly at him. “I just – I just want you to be happy. I have it on
good authority that you love that woman. You do, don’t you?”

“I…I….” He sank onto the nearby sofa, all of his limbs suddenly too weak to support the
heavy weight in his stomach. “She’s leaving.”

“Well, you mustn’t let her! Tell her how you feel!”

Her son looked at her. Her child. He didn’t look like a thirty-two-year-old man at that
moment. He looked like a boy who needed his mother.

“I can’t,” he said finally, and the pleading look on her face was mirrored in his own. “It’ll
ruin everything.”

“But…this is hurting you.” She stood before him to lay her hand on the side of his face and
was relieved beyond words when he didn’t pull away.

“It’s better this way,” he said, with great difficulty. “You don’t understand.”

“Then please, Draco. Tell me.”

And because he couldn’t tell anyone else, not even his friends who were right about his
feelings but certainly, probably, maybe wrong about Hermione’s, he moved to make space for
her on the sofa, nodded for her to sit, and told his mother the truth.

“Very well, but you can’t look at me when I tell you. It’s not how I was raised, to discuss
feelings with my mother.”

“Your father and I talk about our feelings all the time,” she informed him. “It’s really not so
bad once you get used to it.”

He wrinkled his nose. “We’ll circle back around to that. And if you're going to say anything
negative about her, I won't bother.”

“I’m really am sorry about that. I won’t.”

She motioned for him to begin. He began by casting a silencing charm in case a witch
upstairs decided to poke her nose into other people’s business, as she was wont to do.

And when there was nothing left to do but to speak, he swallowed hard and got on with it.

“She’s…Merlin. She’s everything.”

“Yes. That's obvious to anyone with eyes.”

He twisted to look at her briefly before fastening his gaze to the floor.

“I don’t need her to love me. I know she doesn’t.”

Narcissa suddenly understood why the G.I.T.S. as a collective had such a low opinion of her
son’s intellect.

“But that’s ridiculous! You won’t know how she feels if you won’t talk to her about it!”

“I do know how she feels. She’s told me, repeatedly, for years. And if I told her how I felt…
I’m afraid she’d never want to see me again. I can’t. I won’t risk it. It’s just not worth it.”

"But you're not happy."

He didn’t look happy. He looked as though he was being tortured in the mediaeval way,
creatively and with liberal use of hot pokers. But his voice held the fervent certainty of a true
martyr.

"No. That's where you're wrong. I am. Every moment in her presence, I'm happy. It doesn’t
matter that it’s not real. It doesn’t matter if she hates me. She can go on hating me forever and
I’d thank her for it if it means I can keep her in my life.”

A swell of remorse crested within Narcissa.

Occasionally, when she was feeling sorry for herself about their fractured relationship, she’d
look back across the threads of her son’s life and look for the tangles; those snaggled points
where it had all gone wrong. She’d long held the notion she could unpick them if she was
careful enough and patient about it. But it wasn’t a singular event, she now realised, or even a
collection of particularly knotty sections. Rather, it was that he was a perfect reflection of his
upbringing, and it had been at her knee that he’d learned to keep his mouth shut and risk
nothing.

They sat, shoulders nearly brushing, while Draco collected all of his thoughts and feelings
that had been scattered around the room and tucked them neatly away again.

“Do you want me to speak with her on your behalf?” Narcissa offered, breaking the silence.
That would be horrible for all parties, but a mother’s love, and all…

Thankfully, he eyed her like she’d gone quite mad. “Merlin, no. And if I find out you have,
you’ll never speak to me again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m contractually obligated to a
one-year-old to help move at least one box.”

He stood, passed a hand over his face, and called for Wally.

---

The Muggle novelist Stephen King once took it upon himself to offer the following opinion:
“A tragedy is a tragedy, and at the bottom, all tragedies are stupid.” He then went on to claim
that anyone can write about people tragically murdering one another, but only a true genius
can make people laugh.
It’s possible he meant the statement ironically, given his occupation as a writer of horror (a
famously un-funny field of literature), but the point still stands.

Tragedies are stupid.

Stupid for Juliet not to have left a note. Stupid for Hermione to have done what she did,
instead of going downstairs and telling Narcissa Malfoy to bugger off because she had
something important to get off her chest.

Stupid, yes, but also tragic, and people don’t tend to think clearly when tragedies are going
on. Just ask any of the characters in a Stephen King novel.

At the top of the stairs, she caught one glimpse of white-blonde hair, just enough to know that
it was not the same head of hair that she liked to run her fingers through under the absurd
pretence of fake dating, and darted away under the protection of a silencing spell.

“Wally!” she hissed, from within the safety of her room.

The elf appeared, grinning in his usual unsettling way.

“What is Narcissa Malfoy doing here?”

Wally shrugged.

“Do you mind finding out? I was about to – well, it doesn’t matter. Can you see what they’re
talking about? Secretly, though – I don’t want them to know you’re there.”

Wally touched his finger to his nose and vanished. A moment later, he came back.

“They is talking about you,” he reported.

Hermione’s gut churned uproariously. “What about me?”

“She is saying you is unsuitable.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And what is he saying?”

“He is saying you is not seeing each other.”

This completely factual statement had no business feeling like a slap to the face.

“Can you just go back and tell me what else they’re saying?”

The elf vanished and returned in quick succession.

“They is talking about Pansy Parkinson.”

“What about Pansy Parkinson?” she asked, something like the icy dread of premonition
washing over her.
Wally looked more serious than she’d ever seen him, which only added to her mounting
certainty that something had just gone dreadfully wrong.

“He is saying it was Pansy the whole time.” The whole time. The entirety of Hermione’s
existence narrowed to a fine point of concentration over those three words. Something
weighty hung in the balance of them.

“Wally! What was Pansy this whole time?”

The elf pressed his lips together.

“Go back!” She ushered him off with a frantic shooing motion.

He did, and when he returned, his ears were drooping nearly to the floor.

“He is marrying Pansy Parkinson.”

Hermione’s heart seized like a rusty engine. “That cannot be true,” she managed.

Wally nodded sadly. “His mother is giving him a ring to propose with.”

She sat down, knees no longer up to the task of supporting her, and found that she’d landed
on a box.

Her belongings surrounded her, neatly packed and mocking. One of them laughed loudest of
all – the one with his shirts, and his cologne, and all her naive, foolish hopes and dreams
rattling loosely around the bottom.

“Are you going to kill him?” Wally asked hopefully.

The words didn’t reach her brain as quickly as they ought to have. Her ears felt as though the
space between them was stuffed full of cotton instead of all those I.Q. points everyone
insisted were in there. How else could you explain that she thought there could ever be…That
he would ever…

“No,” she told Wally, and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to keep from being
violently ill. “I think I’m…I’m just going to go.”

---

“Mistress Hermione is gone.”

There was nothing vacant about Wally’s expression now. It was filled with an unsettling
quantity of contempt that had Draco looking around himself in alarm.

“What happened to her? Where is she? Is she alright?”

Something was wrong, certainly. It was in the very air, like cigarette smoke from a
neighbour’s flat that you couldn’t get rid of by opening a window because they’d also opened
theirs.
 “She hates you and never wants to see you again,” Wally told him with significant
satisfaction.

The feeling of wrongness dissipated. This was right. This was exactly what he’d known
would happen. He’d opened his mouth, and spoken the truth, and this was the inevitable
consequence of his stupidity.

“Do you see?” he said, turning to his mother in vindication. “I told you, she…I…”

It sank in by degrees. Narcissa watched in wretched helplessness as the tragedy played out
across his face to the bitter end.

Chapter End Notes

Oof. Sorry.

This is something I said while writing this chapter. Leaving it here in case it makes you
feel any better:

On the other hand, never have I enjoyed writing so much as the day I sat down to create
those acronyms. That silly little D.U.M.B.A.S.S. joke might be my favorite of the whole
fic.

This chapter also contains my personal favorite meandering tangent: that poor Muggle
builder lugging stones across the Hogwarts building site while Godric Gryffindor shouts
encouragement in Old English.

Oh! And the Scot-on-Scot violence was of course real, and so was the Earl of Argyll,
who was just nineteen years old at the time of the battle. The Battle of Glenlivet took
place a short 10 miles from Dufftown, or roughly where we suspect Hogwarts to be. I
don’t think it’s unreasonable to believe that the army, which was quite large even after
suffering a stunning defeat (because, again, its leader was nineteen), would have
stumbled upon a magical school as it retreated en masse. Another fun fact: one of the
Earl of Argyll’s opponents was the Earl of Errol, who shares a name with that sweet old
Weasley owl.
I hope the silliness balanced out the absolute nightmare of that last bit.

NEXT WEEK: A basilisk returns to Hogwarts, Draco misses Crookshanks (deep, deep
down), and the weather in Stoke is frightful. Plus, a twist! Can you guess?
 Quidditch Master Weasley and the Mystery of the Nimbus 2001
Chapter Notes

I get the sense that after last week, everyone is taking back all the nice things they said
about wanting more than fourteen chapters. Now you see I was actually being merciful
with my outlining. Just think, I could've stretched this out for another ten!

Anyway, this is the chapter I have been most excited to share. I do love a surprise…

See the end of the chapter for more notes

By the time Headmistress McGonagall shouted for Lilith to step up to the chair in front of the
whole school (Atkinson, Lilith meant she had to go second, which was dreadful, but still loads
better than the first boy, who’d looked ready to pee himself with fright), she knew two things
for certain:

1) She never, ever wanted to leave Hogwarts. Already she’d made friends with five girls on
the train, splitting half the contents of the sweets trolley between them. None of them had
seemed to mind that she didn’t know any spells; it wasn’t that strange, apparently, to turn up
to Hogwarts not knowing anything yet. She’d just started to think there was a chance; a tiny,
minuscule bit of hope, except…

2) The hat could read minds. There was absolutely no hope left.

She thought about what her adoptive parents would say (Hermione would make a case for
acting courageously; Draco would insist he was far too clever to ever get himself into such a
tight spot), and forced her feet to carry her to the chair. She met the headmistress’ eyes as
McGonagall placed the hat on her head, which was something she could be proud of, even if
she was about to be kicked out in front of everyone in a humiliating fashion.

Nothing happened for a moment. Maybe it can’t read Muggle minds? she thought
desperately.

Then, horribly, the ancient hat began to laugh.

It split open along the wide seam of its mouth, pointy tip falling back precariously as it
laughed, and laughed, and laughed. The sound echoed endlessly around the hall, and every
professor and student turned in their seat to look at what was so funny.

Lilith blushed scarlet. You couldn’t have just sent me home quietly? she thought, rather
crossly. The Sorting Hat gave a few final chuckles at that, but settled down with apparent
effort.
“You’re brave, girl,” it told her, in a voice only for her. Lilith had the distinct impression that
if the hat had possessed real eyes, it would’ve been wiping tears of mirth from them. “Stupid,
but brave. Therefore…”

It raised its voice and shouted to the hall: “GRYFFINDOR!”

---

Ron Weasley had been issued a whistle, which was an error on McGonagall’s part.

His teaching philosophy, insofar as he’d developed one after only a few days on the job, was
that flying was instinctual, and that the only way to tap into instinct was to stop thinking
about it. He didn’t have any Felix Felicis that he could trick his students into thinking they’d
taken, but he had a whistle. No one could think whilst having a whistle blown at them
incessantly and at top volume.

By the time the second week came around, and with it the first Gryffindor-Slytherin double
flying lesson, he’d become adept at delivering instructions through the small silver
mouthpiece.

“Welcome, students!” he greeted them, the whistle between his teeth making a tinny fweee
sound with every word. He spotted Lilith and gave her a friendly wink as she lined up in
front of the battered, school-issued brooms with the rest of her year (Nimbus 2001s! Not like
back in his day, no, they'd had to use those rubbish Cleansweeps. It made him feel old.)

“My name is Quidditch Master Weasley, your Head of Magical Sports Education.”

When they only stared at him blankly, he let the whistle drop to his chest and repeated the
introduction, this time with helpful enunciation.

“Well I heard you were the new Madam Hooch.”

Ron looked at the Slytherin who’d spoken, a boy who looked to be about as rotten as a pint of
milk left in a car boot in August (although Ron harboured no prejudices whatsoever and was
completely neutral and fair, of course), and gritted his teeth in a friendly smile.

“We’ll start simple,” he told them, and was disappointed when the boy’s broom shot straight
into his hand at the first sound of the whistle.

That was not to say the Gryffindors were out of the race just yet. Three or four of them
clearly had prior experience and were offering their classmates nudges of encouragement and
helpful advice. “You’ve got to be stern with it!” one of the boys yelled at Lilith, over the
screech of Ron’s whistle. “These ancient brooms never listen!”

“They’re not ancient,” Ron paused to say, indignant.

He looked closer at Lilith. She was trying like the rest of them, hand outstretched over the
handle. But unlike everyone else, her broom hadn’t given so much as a lazy wiggle against
the grass.
He blew his whistle harder, hoping to startle Lilith’s instincts into action. Madam Pomfrey
screamed something incoherent out of the Hospital Wing window at him.

Any minute now, Ron knew, the Slytherin boy would take note of Lilith’s lack of progress,
because slimy gremlins like that were always looking for their opportunity to be horrible.
And then he would lose all appearance of objectivity because he’d have to hand out his first
detention to the little git or face the not-inconsiderable wrath of Draco Malfoy.

He made a split-second decision. With a little swish-and-flick from the wand held discreetly
behind his back, Lilith’s broom rose neatly into her hand. The look of relief that passed
across her face was profound.

Ron smirked at the Slytherin boy before catching himself. But then there wasn’t time for
prejudice, because he had twenty students, a blossoming house rivalry, and one girl with an
utterly unresponsive broom to contend with, and he was forced to occupy himself with
levitating her, and it, around the courtyard without anyone noticing.

After class, he took a turn around the grounds on the Nimbus 2001. It worked as well as the
day it was made, which really wasn’t all that long ago.

It wasn’t the broom, that much was clear. It was the girl.

He puzzled over the facts. Even Hermione had accomplished more in her first flying lesson,
and she was the barometer by which Ron judged the truly hopeless cases. (Ron had never
teased her about it, of course, because then she would only remind him that she was better at
literally every other thing she had ever attempted.)

The point was, Hermione’s broom didn’t respect her because she was afraid of it, but it still
made a half-hearted effort. Lilith, on the other hand, had smiled throughout her Ron-assisted
journey around the courtyard, and yet her broom was as inanimate as a tree branch beneath
her.

Ron had understood there was something special about the girl when he’d been asked to keep
an eye on her. But try as he might, he couldn’t quite believe Draco’s threats to keep her safe
had anything to do with her appalling broom skills. Dumbledore had hardly bothered to keep
a close eye on Harry, and he’d been humanity’s only hope. This girl had to be extremely
important in some way or another.

He flew for an hour, letting the warm breeze and joy of flight settle his thoughts, until only
one bobbed at the surface of his mind. It was a memory, something the girl had said when
she’d stood in his mother’s sitting room.

She’d asked whether Muggles can ride broomsticks.

---

Draco was happy to see Iago whenever Lilith had a chance to write. He read her letters
eagerly, then forwarded them along to Hermione.
He wrote long responses to Lilith, offering advice about everything from which colour of
jellybeans she should avoid at all costs to how to make it from the east side of the third-floor
corridor all the way to the seventh without getting stuck in a staircase.

Then he’d send his letters to Hermione so she could add to them before sending them along,
with Lilith none the wiser that they hadn’t even spoken to each other in weeks.

Not even for work. She’d taken to sending him meeting notes by Howler.

---

Hogwarts had a new Charms Professor, and Ron was in love.

She was American, but after a brief debate, the students had agreed to overlook this
deficiency. Besides, she was also funny and interesting, and they all liked the way she said
alohomora, so it only took a few days for everyone to go from being deeply sceptical about
her suitability to debating which house she would’ve been in, if she’d gone to Hogwarts. So
far, Ravenclaw was winning.

Her name was Ava, and she had shiny dark hair and full lips and she looked to be around
Ron’s age, or perhaps a few years older. He desperately hoped she was his senior, because
he’d developed something of a kink for those professor robes of hers in the week since he’d
spotted her across the Great Hall, and he hoped once he’d confessed his feelings they could
engage in a little role play in which she taught him something he didn’t know.

They hadn’t spoken yet. Ron had a plan to change that.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” she told him, when he appeared in her office to introduce himself.

Ron grinned widely. This was why he’d been part of the wizarding world’s so-called Golden
Trio. Well, it had been more about defeating evil at the time, but worldwide renown amongst
attractive witches was easily his favourite fringe benefit.

“Really? And what’ve you heard?” he asked, leaning casually against the door frame in a
way he hoped was sexy.

It wasn’t sexy, and neither was the fierce blush he produced when she informed him that she
knew of him because he’d been driving everyone mad with that obnoxious whistle, and she’d
been forced to move silencing charms up in the curriculum by a full month.

He stumbled halfway through an apology before she took pity on him (definitely not a
Ravenclaw. Gryffindor, maybe?) and offered him a wry smile. He promptly forgot what he’d
come there for, and so, after a few minutes of casual conversation, she had to ask him.

“Oh! Right. I was wondering if you know whether Muggles – oh, er, No-Maj, I suppose you
call them – can ride broomsticks?”

Ava gave him an incredulous look, which had the dual effect of making him feel rather
stupid, and making him slightly hard. That new kink of his was really something.
“No, of course not! They can’t control the broom’s magic,” she said, in a lecturing tone that
made his heartbeat thrum in his lower abdomen. “Why?”

If he’d been thinking with his brain, Ron might’ve recalled the absolutely terrifying
expression on Draco’s face and the implicit threat to keep the whole thing a secret. But his
brain was suffering from blood loss as his body redirected it somewhere else, and her
eyebrow was arched in his direction.

“I’m solving a mystery,” he said, conspiratorially. “Wanna help?”

---

The thing about the human brain is that it gets rusty over time if new stimuli aren’t
introduced.

This isn’t the same as forgetting where you put your reading glasses only to have your adult
child condescendingly inform you they’ve been on the top of your head the whole time,
which is a standard part of the ageing process. It’s more like finding a bicycle on the side of
the road where it has been resting for two summers and then attempting to enter it, and
yourself, into the Tour de France.

Due to the general lack of available stimuli in Stoke-on-Trent, Mr and Mrs Price’s brains
were practically calcified by the time Gemma came along.

She hadn’t been trying to meddle with their brittle grey matter when she wiped her own
existence clean out of their minds. Gemma wasn’t, despite what everyone liked to believe,
inherently evil. Besides, having spent most of her childhood around elderly nuns, she
intuitively understood that you shouldn’t try to introduce too many new concepts at once to
people of a certain generation, who had grown up teething on lead paint and concocting
mustard gas with the chemistry sets Santa left beneath the tree.

All to say that it was an accident, really, that the Prices were now doing the mental equivalent
of pedalling around in unsteady circles on bikes that contained no chain, brakes, or
handlebars.

The symptoms were fairly benign, all things considered. After a few disturbing instances of
ghostly footsteps on the landing and doors closing of their own accord (someone with better
faculties might have understood the source of the phenomenon as Gemma walking around
normally), the Prices were forced to conclude that: 1) their previously ordinary existence had
been a lie, and 2) a spirit had taken up residence in their house.

She thought about trying to harness her magic to reverse the damage, but that seemed as
likely to result in her having to spend the next ten years spooning soup into their slack
mouths as anything. And if it worked, there was the risk of getting grounded, so. Better not.

They’d already gone to the trouble of accepting their new reality, anyway.

She rattled the china and slammed the cupboards obligingly.

 ---

There was a knock on Ron’s door a week later.

“I solved your mystery,” said Ava, when he opened it to find her standing there. “Why’s there
a Squib at Hogwarts?”

---

Ava’s investigation was thorough. Ron wondered if maybe she was a Ravenclaw after all.

The facts she laid out painted a compelling picture:

Lilith’s broom hadn’t worked. She was good at Herbology, Potions, History of Magic, and
Astrology, none of which required wand work, at least not as a first-year. But she was beyond
rubbish at Charms, and completely hopeless at Transfiguration. Ava’s casual inquiry had
revealed that not one of her professors had seen her so much as make sparks fly out of the tip
of her wand.

Additionally, no one seemed to know anything about her parentage, although there were
strange rumours that she’d been seen with Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy at Platform
9 3/4. Ava had no idea who either of them were, but gathered they were either famous or
infamous by the way everyone spoke about them. (“One of each,” Ron explained.)

But Lilith’s murky background only raised further suspicion. Parents of a Squib, Ava
reasoned, had good reason to hide her condition. Maybe they were wealthy. Important in
some way. Pureblood, even? They hadn’t wanted the world to know about their delightful,
intelligent Squib daughter, because they were horrible people, clearly. They’d hired
Hermione and Draco to secretly get her into Hogwarts and hide her lack of magical powers, a
task they’d outsourced to Ron.

And no, Lilith wasn't a Muggle, because that suggestion was just too absurd to be taken
seriously.

Ron was impressed by her skills of deduction, and told her so. “So I’ve got to hide her
condition from the other professors and McGonagall, then?”

“Yes,” Ava said firmly. It was bullshit, in her opinion, the way Squibs were treated in society,
and this secret mission spoke to her activist heart, which was fully Hufflepuff. “I’ll help.”

“Brilliant.” Ron was delighted she hadn’t wanted to turn Lilith in, which would have resulted
in his swift death at the hands of Draco Malfoy. “With you helping her in Charms, and me
covering for her outside of class, that’s most of it sorted. But Transfiguration with
McGonagall will be a challenge.”

They pondered the problem for a few tense days. “We have to do something,” Ava said, back
in his room late one evening. “Those Slytherin punks have started to notice. I heard one of
them call her a Squib. McGonagall will be asking questions soon.”
Ron scowled. The Slytherin punks, at least the older ones, had bestowed an unpleasant
nickname on him, too.

[Quidditch Master Weasley, while a prestigious title, was a bit of a mouthful. In a good-faith
attempt to shorten it, the Gryffindors had given him the nickname Q.M., which the Slytherins
sixth years wasted no time in shortening to a singular syllable. Attempts by various faculty
members to stamp it out only cemented the new title amongst the student body, and now even
the most innocent, unsuspecting eleven-year-olds were greeting him in the corridors as Quim
Weasley.]

His resolve to help Lilith hardened. There was only one problem. “It’s impossible to trick
McGonagall. The only people who ever did were—” He stopped. There was an idea there.
Stupid, probably, and bound to fail. He snatched at it anyway.

“I have a brother who can help,” he told her.

“You have siblings?”

“Merlin, yes.”

---

Draco was moping. He’d been moping for quite some time, actually, wandering back and
forth across the length of his flat, wishing that Hermione was there, or that Lilith was, or shit,
he’d even take that cat right about now. Wally was on strike for some reason, which wasn’t a
thing he knew elves could do, but it meant that he was forced to listen to the silence of an
empty house and eat his Indian takeaway alone and draft letters in his head that he’d never
send.

His mother was the only one that stopped by, but she kept wanting to Talk About Feelings, so
he finally shut his Floo and told her to let a man mope in peace.

And when moping in peace didn’t work, he went to Hogwarts to visit Lilith.

He stepped out of the Floo, made a face at Ron’s disgracefully messy living quarters, and
headed for the bleachers surrounding the Quidditch pitch. His patronus found Lilith after
class and asked her to meet him there.

“Everyone’s dying to know who’s visiting me,” she said, bounding up to him with a smile.

“Alright, then?” He made a face at her red and gold scarf. “I'm actually having a stronger
emotional reaction to that than I expected. I suppose part of me was still holding out hope.”

“Sorry,” she said, grinning, and took a seat beside him. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Work,” he replied lightly. “Saving the free world. You know her.”

Lilith looked at him suspiciously. “You look sad.”

Hermione would never forgive him if he let his sad, mopey face kick-start the apocalypse.
“I’m in an excellent mood now that I’m here,” he told her, attempting a lopsided grin.

“Yeah. That’s what she said when she visited last week.” Lilith looked down at her knees.

Draco didn’t take the bait. “We’re deeply in love and happier than ever. But enough about us.
Tell me your hardest class and your least favourite House.”

“Why?”

“So I can bribe your professor and threaten your enemies, obviously. Go on.”

She scrunched her nose in thought. “Transfiguration.”

“I can’t do anything about that, I’m afraid. McGonagall's terrifying.”

“And I have friends in every House.”

He snorted. “Then you’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to hate the Slytherins.”

“We’re encouraged to co-mingle these days.”

“It's against the natural order of things.”

“Something to do with a war. Reconciliation efforts, they said.”

“Oh. Right.” Draco pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Look, there’s
something I probably ought to tell you. I’d rather you hear it from me than from one of your
textbooks, although I don’t think I’m mentioned by name. Last name, maybe, but that’s my
father and you shouldn’t worry about him—”

Lilith looked at him knowingly. “Hermione already told me.”

His heart skittered to a stop, then redoubled its efforts. “She did? What did she say, exactly?”

“Well…” She looked at him apologetically. “She said you were a bigoted little git who made
her life miserable, and that you were in an evil wizard gang and you went to prison for it.”

“Oh.”

She patted his arm consolingly. “Don’t worry. She also said she forgave you ages ago,
because you’re a good person now. Well, she actually said you’re not half-bad, but that’s
what she meant.”

Righteous indignation stirred inside the murky pool of misery in his gut. He wasn’t half-bad,
thank you. Normal people didn’t go around passionately hating not-half-bad men who’ve
already been forgiven for the really bad stuff.

“Is it true? Do you have any gang tattoos?” Lilith asked hopefully, snapping him violently
back to the present.
“No! Well, yes, sort of.”

“Can I see?”

“Certainly not. How did this come up?”

“Erm…she was saying I’ve got to forgive people and be the bigger person, because anger
makes you join gangs and go to prison.”

“That’s a bit rich coming from the woman who trapped a reporter inside a jar for a full week.
But who’s she telling you to forgive?”

Lilith fiddled with the end of her scarf. “She told me not to tell you because you’ll do
something brash and stupid.”

“Well, now you’ve got to.” Draco sat up straight. “Besides, I’ve never acted brashly a day in
my life.”

When Lilith finished laughing, they struck a deal. She’d tell him about the slimy little
Slytherin boy and his slimy friends who were mean to her, and he’d show her his gang tattoo.

“You know, Granger’s not wrong,” he said, as he rolled up his left sleeve for her inspection.
“You can't hold on to hatred. This is what comes of it.”

They looked at the ugly faded mark together, Lilith wincing a little.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes, but…worse was knowing I hurt others. It’s a difficult thing to come back from. I nearly
ruined my life, Lilith. Took me years before I could look Granger in the eye again, which,
come to think of it, is all I've really cared about for ages.” A knife twisted in his chest, but he
bravely pushed through. “She’s just trying to prevent you from making the same mistakes I
did.”

Lilith chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. “So I’ve got to just ignore them?”

Draco shook his sleeve back down to cover the mark. “It's hard to know, sometimes, what the
right thing to do is. Being the bigger person and letting things go – it can keep you out of
trouble. But it won’t always solve your problems, either. Sometimes you've got to stand up
for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean revenge doesn’t necessarily make you evil, depending on how you go about it.” He
gave her a considering look. “It’s been a while since I pulled a prank, and I’ve never done
one with a partner. Would you be interested?”

She could hardly contain her excitement, and Draco didn’t try to either.
To his dismay, however, Lilith rejected all his best ideas as “too violent,” “too scary,” or
“likely to get you arrested.”

“These are terrible,” she told him. “Did you pull these pranks on Hermione?”

No, of course he hadn’t. All of that had just been flirtation, a clumsy attempt to communicate
the emotion he'd only recently learned the name of. Those pranks had nothing in common
with his desire to stand over the boy’s bed wearing a dark cloak and a mask and threaten him
to never so much as breathe in Lilith’s direction again. Or, even better, send in a basilisk.
(“Come on, Lilith, not even a small one?” he’d pleaded, after explaining what it was.)

But even a terrible idea can spark a good one, and soon, with a little clever wand work
inspired by the memory of a certain pair of Weasleys and some assistance from his old friend
Myrtle, the plan was set in motion.

There was only one point they disagreed on. Lilith wanted to be there when it happened.

“You’ll get detention, and Granger’ll blame me.”

Her eyes shone. “I want them to know it was me.”

Draco couldn’t argue with the logic, even if he was a little startled by the maniacal look that
crossed her face when she said it. Please don’t summon any demons, he thought. Hermione –
well, she already wasn’t speaking to him, so there wasn’t much worse she could do before the
world ended. But still.

They parted ways, Lilith heading to Herbology, and Draco returning to his silent, empty flat.

But he’d felt better, for a time. Lilith had that effect.

---

That evening, four first-year Slytherin boys screamed for their lives as they sprinted out of
the loo and down a second-floor corridor. An enormous basilisk was close on their heels,
fangs dripping putrid poison as its hungry maw stretched wide behind them.

They rounded a corner at top speed and skidded to a halt at the tip of Lilith’s outstretched
wand. She smiled (“maniacally,” the boys would later say), and the fake basilisk dissolved
into smoke over their shoulders, just as Draco had designed it to do.

When the Slytherin boys could breathe again, an agreement was reached. They would spread
the word that she wasn't a Squib after all, and then they'd leave her alone for good.

Because if they didn't, her father would hear about this.

---

It was not long after Draco left that something strange began happening in Hogwarts. Strange
being a relative term, this meant that Lilith’s spells were…working.
She first noticed it in the Great Hall, when a slice of toast levitated itself to her plate without
her direct involvement.

“Did you do that?” she asked her circle of friends.

“Didn’t you?” one of them replied around a bite of eggs. “I knew you’d get it eventually.”

In Transfiguration, her match turned into a needle, almost before she’d tapped her wand to it.
“Clever bit of spellwork,” McGonagall said approvingly, and awarded her five points for
Gryffindor.

[It was a clever bit of spellwork. George Weasley had invented it.]

And then in Charms, her lumos lit the tip of her wand before she’d even got the word out of
her mouth. She looked up, stunned, and met the warm brown eyes of the professor, the
American woman everyone was half in love with.

Professor Roberts winked.

It was as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped into Lilith’s veins. She was on edge
all class, and then all week, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never did.

The only thing that happened was that Lilith’s spells kept working. In Charms, and in
Transfiguration, and even in the corridor between classes. Every spell she attempted (except
those she tried when she was alone, just to make sure she wasn’t crazy) was perfectly
executed, as though it wasn’t really a first year’s magic. As though an adult, someone really
skilled, knew her secret and was covering for her.

After a heart-stopping few days during which she waited to be sent home, she eventually
accepted that Professor Roberts wasn’t going to rat her out to McGonagall.

She tried not to be overly troubled with the question of why. It was probably a cultural
difference.

---

At some point, it had occurred to Gemma that just because she successfully erased herself
from existence within the walls of her own house, that didn’t mean she wasn’t still expected
to turn up at school at the start of term.

And when she’d asked, Neville and Pansy had informed her with a barely-concealed twitch
of the lips that their own lessons did not count, and that witches still had to attend regular
school to learn…maths? Grammar? They didn’t seem too sure on that point.

So she dragged herself to school every day because if she didn’t, someone from the
administration would turn up at her house, and then the children’s welfare people would be
there with clipboards and phrases like “temporary custody” and “we’re here to help.”
This went on for six weeks, at which point it occurred to her that she wouldn’t have to go to
school if school was closed.

But what kind of magic closes a school? She sat in her bedroom and pondered the question
until her eye landed on a stack of books in the corner. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
sat at the top. It was her favourite. She’d read it five times. The winter wonderland bits were
the best.

Required reading for young witches, Pansy had told her outside the library.

And you had to admit there was a kind of magic to a snow day, even the naturally-occurring
kind.

Outside the window, the first flakes began to fall.

---

“Should we do something about the storm, do you think?” Pansy asked.

The snow had been falling for days and was creeping up past the window sashes now. They’d
been casting unoptimistic finite incantatems at the sky with no success, but neither of them
really thought the unusual weather was magical in nature, anyway. There wasn’t a witch or
wizard on earth who could manage a snowstorm like this one, Neville reasoned, and if they
could, they wouldn’t be wasting their prodigious talents in Stoke, anyway.

“What do you have in mind?” Neville asked.

If she’d asked what he had in mind, and he’d been honest in his answer, he might’ve painted
a picture of a log crackling in the fireplace, a blanket stretched out in front, and more skin
contact than he knew what to do with.

There was something about two metres of snow in early October that made other
preposterous things seem less so, as if the realms of possibility and impossibility had become
jumbled together overnight. Anything could happen in this new, white-blanketed world if
only he could work up the courage to reach for it.

“I think we ought to check on Gemma,” Pansy said, peering through a frosty pane. “No one
will have been ready for this snow, and I hardly think they’re feeding her in the best of times,
the way she eats when she’s here.”

Neville shoved his romantic sensibilities away. He couldn’t argue with that, nor did he want
to.

After a brief conference with Veta, they obtained winter clothing, bundled themselves up like
two misplaced astronauts, and Apparated into a snowdrift outside.

Pansy fell directly over. Neville joined her shortly after.

“Do we really have to walk?” she grumbled, flinching as a fat white clump found its way
between her scarf and the sensitive skin of her neck.
“Would you prefer to be carried?” he offered sincerely, and was surprised and more than a
little delighted when she wrapped her arms around his neck and jumped onto his back.

He looped his mittened hands beneath her knees and together they shuffled down three lanes,
Pansy pointing her wand over his shoulder to melt a path in the snow until they arrived
within sight of Gemma’s house.

They’d seen it before but hadn’t been inside. Hadn’t met her parents, whom she spoke of
rarely and with a general bad attitude.

“This place is a dump,” Pansy said. It was actually a perfectly normal house, charmingly
blanketed in snow. But it was located in Stoke, which was an unforgivable strike against it.

Neville laughed. “Have you seen our house?”

She sniffed as she slid from his back. “Our cottage is quaint.”

“If your friends could hear you now.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“It’s character growth. You should be proud.”

“I’m going to buy a mansion when this is all over. I’m going to hire a thousand servants and
get an entirely new wardrobe and if anyone even so much as thinks the word ‘caftan’ in my
direction – don’t you dare throw snow at me, Neville Longbottom—”

He’d just bent down to collect a handful of artillery when Gemma’s dark head leaned out of a
second-story window.

She appeared to be waving frantically. Neville waved back.

“Hello! We’ve come to see how you’re faring!”

The front door wrenched open to reveal Mr Price’s frown. “Who are you?” he growled,
taking them in.

Gemma withdrew her face from the window, looking as though she wanted to bang it against
the glass.

“Hello,” Neville greeted him. “We’re friends of Gemma. Just wanted to see if you’re alright.
Unusual weather.”

He pointed unnecessarily at the waist-high snow.

Mr Price squinted. “Who?”

“I’m Pansy Parkinson and this is Neville Longbottom. Surely she’s mentioned us?” Pansy’s
voice contained the barest edge of annoyance. The man was practically ancient. He’d had
plenty of time to learn manners.
When he only peered harder and with greater insolence, she turned her attention back to the
window.

“Gemma! Are you coming down?”

Pansy squinted up through the blinding white reflection of daylight off the undisturbed snow.
Gemma stood at the open window. She appeared to be mildly panicking over something.

“Uh…Pansy.”

Neville’s voice recalled her attention to the front door. The old man’s face had gone pale all
at once.

“You…you can see something too?” the man asked in a quivering voice.

“Yes, obviously,” Pansy snapped.

“Do you mean to say you can’t?” Neville asked, less sharply.

Pansy turned back to the window. “GEMMA! What on earth is going on?”

“He’s gone round the bend!” Gemma called back. “I’ll explain later!”

“Tell it to leave,” Mr Price said, craning his head as though he might be able to see a ghostly
form hovering above him in the air. “Tell it to leave me in peace!”

Summoned by the shouting, Mrs Price appeared behind her husband and began reciting off a
litany of offences committed by the resident ghost.

“—always leaves the taps running, and the leftovers disappeared right out of the refrigerator
yesterday, that’s the eighth time this month—”

“Am I to understand that they think you're a ghost?” Neville called up.

Gemma visibly cringed. “Only a little!”

“GEMMA!” Pansy cried. “You cannot stay here! They’re positively batty!”

Mr Price joined in. “That’s right! Begone!” He shook his fist at the sky.

Pansy looked at him in irritation. “I wasn’t talking to you, you horrible old man.”

Mrs Price hadn't yet paused for breath. “—going to have the priest stop by next week, there’s
one in town with some experiences with exorcisms, I heard—”

Gemma leaned further out of the window. “Did she just say the priest was coming?”

“Yes,” called Neville. “Do you mind telling us what’s going on?”

An exorcism was a big deal among Catholic types. It was the opportunity of a lifetime for a
small-town priest, the sort that opened doors to holidays at the Vatican and upgraded
vestments with the fine gold fringe. The whole parish would be buzzing with the news,
including the nuns of the Our Lady of Perpetual Mourning Children’s Home, who knew who
Gemma was, and, more relevantly, who she was not.

Under no circumstances could the priest come.

“Tell them not to send for the priest! Please!”

“Don’t send for the priest,” Neville relayed obediently.

“And why not?” Mr Price had retained just enough of his faculties to recall that he disliked
being ordered around by men forty years his junior.

“Hang on,” Neville said, then looked back up at Gemma. “Why not?” he called.

She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her temples. “Because…say it's because they’re
rubbish at exorcisms!” she yelled down.

Pansy gave her the universal “what the fuck” gesture of spread hands paired with an
incredulous look. It didn't need to be shouted.

“Can you do it instead?” Gemma went on. “Just say you’re better at it. Please please!”

Gemma was saying please and acting as though she really needed them for something. It felt
like a bit of a breakthrough, and they fell victim at once.

“I’m here to do your exorcism,” Pansy said grandly, sweeping her arm to the side. “I’m an
expert.”

She was too tightly bundled in snow pants and a coat to be all that impressive-looking. Mrs
Price looked doubtfully down her nose at her.

“What, today?” the older woman asked. “Right now?”

“Erm…” Pansy said, looking at Neville for help.

There was the audible smack of Gemma’s hand against her own forehead.

“Samhain,” he suggested. “A couple of weeks from now.”

Pansy’s eyes lit up and she put on a voice you might use to tell ghost stories around a
campfire. “Oh, yes. The veil between worlds grows thin on Samhain.”

“What’s that, then?” Mr Price asked rudely.

“It’s called Halloween!” Gemma shouted down.

“Fine, Halloween!” Pansy rolled her eyes. “We’ll come back then and do your exorcism. No
priests, though. They’re rubbish at it. Load of quacks, the lot.”

Neville looked back up at Gemma. “Can they really not hear you?”
Gemma shook her head.

“Stop by later, then! We need to have a chat about your unfit living conditions! I really am
worried about you!”

Mrs Price laid a hand to the side of her face. “Thank you, yes. It’s just been awful. You’ve no
idea…”

Pansy’s absolutely withering look shut the old woman’s mouth as if by magic.

---

There was a chill in the air.

That wouldn’t have been unusual, as it was mid-October and everyone had stubbornly been
wearing their winter coats for the last two weeks as a middle finger to that unseasonably hot
September they’d all just suffered through, except that the chill was indoors, and more of a
figure of speech.

The culprit was slamming doors and glowering at cabinet ministers, and by now they’d all
had enough.

“Can’t you do anything about him?” the Principal Private Secretary finally asked.

From her position behind the large desk, the woman held up a finger and finished typing out
a text. Then she placed her phone face down in front of her and looked up, one camera-ready
eyebrow perfectly arched.

“When did it become my responsibility to solve everybody’s problems?”

The Principal Private Secretary hesitated, uncertain whether the question was rhetorical.
Solving everybody’s problems was presumably written in the job description for Prime
Minister, just above “create loads of new ones for the next guy.”

M.M. sighed and pressed two fingers to each of her temples. “What’s he doing now?”

“He’s just threatened to curse the Chief of Staff. We’re not certain what that means, but it’s
creating a hostile work environment.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t. I don’t think
you have anything to worry about.”

“Wait, sorry, what?” The Principal Private Secretary greatly desired more clarity on this
cursing detail. Draco Malfoy was an enigma, yes, but she wouldn’t have taken him for a
practitioner of Voodoo.

M.M. picked up her phone, looked with dismay at the fifteen messages she’d received in the
short interim, and resumed typing. “Send him in, please. I’ll deal with it.”
“Are you going to sack him?” the Principal Private Secretary asked worriedly, but was
ignored.

It was strange, the secretary reflected as she went to locate the broody man-child who’d been
causing turmoil at Number 10 these past few weeks, that she actually wanted him to keep his
job, whatever it may be.

Five years ago, when he’d first turned up, she and everyone else in the office had argued
passionately against his employment at every opportunity.

For one thing, he didn’t actually appear to have any job duties.

It couldn’t have anything to do with politics, everyone agreed, because he was remarkably
ignorant of the basic functions of the British government. In fact, he seemed to regard the
whole thing as rather quaint. On one memorable occasion, whilst being introduced to the
Lord Privy Seal, he burst into laughter, right in the poor man’s face, and said, “Is that really
the best you could come up with? What sort of anagram is that?”

There were other things, too. No one had seen him so much as touch a computer. The staff
accountant had once confided that Draco had to be paid in cash because he didn’t have a bank
account number. He never remembered to pick up his paycheque, and when the accountant
begged him to collect the stacks of bills from his office, he’d told the man to just buy himself
something nice to make up for the disappointment of his choice in careers. Also, one of the
drivers had an excellent story about a time the Prime Minister had ushered Draco into the
back of her town car to take a meeting from the road, except he’d spent the whole trip
clinging to his seat in terror while gaping out the window with the expression of a man who’d
just exited the bomb shelter where he’d spent his entire life.

He showed up late, sat with his feet resting on the Prime Minister’s desk, and refused to call
her anything other than M.M., which was not her name. By rights, he should’ve been sacked
ages ago.

But, like a stubborn, handsome weed, he’d grown on them.

With the notable exception of recently, Draco was fun to have around. He remembered
everybody’s birthdays and turned up with alarmingly extravagant gifts. He taught the whole
staff how to write with quill and ink. He brought the very best liquor to the holiday parties
(and later, when you went to look for it in the shops, you could never find it), and they were
all, by this time, deeply invested in his relationship with this Hermione Granger person.
She’d appeared at 10 Downing Street a handful of times over the years to yell at him, and
when she did the entire office stopped what they were doing to gawk at her like a celebrity,
which they didn’t even do when real celebrities visited.

And so, after years of speculation on the topic of What Is Draco Malfoy’s Job and How Does
He Still Have It, they concluded that: 1) It was top-secret, probably something to do with
spreading democracy, and 2) M.M. must have a soft spot for him, too.

They were right on all counts, except for the democracy bit, because Hermione had flatly
refused when asked.
That didn’t mean M.M. had to be nice to him, of course. She wasn’t, as a general rule. You
had to be tough in her line of work. This was doubly true if you were a woman, and triply
true if you were an attractive divorcée, because otherwise, all the soft-brained men in various
branches of government would mistake niceness for flirtation, and she couldn't even pretend
that they had the wrong number when they inevitably texted.

Still, M.M. had closely monitored Draco’s general decline since early September with the
hope that he’d pull his head out of his arse so that she wouldn’t have to do it for him.

“I have a phone call with the President of Finland in five minutes, so you’ve got that long to
tell me what’s going on,” she said, as he trudged reluctantly through her doorway.

Draco crossed his arms and scowled. “Nothing’s going on!”

She put on her fiercest expression, the one that always worked on him. [M.M. had the vague
notion that the more sternly she behaved toward him, the more he seemed to regard her as a
mother figure. This raised questions about what his real mother was like, but she wasn’t in
the business of asking personal questions of her employees, even ones she was secretly fond
of.]

“Would you care to try that again?” she asked.

The stern expression worked, as usual. Draco deflated like a punctured balloon.

“Not really,” he told her, flinging himself dramatically into a nearby chair. “You already
know, anyway.”

“Yes, I gathered this has something to do with that woman you once claimed to hate.”

He grunted an admission.

Of course it had to do with Hermione Granger. She'd been the star of his every conversation
for years, although M.M. had only heard him call the woman by her first name in the last few
months. And then he’d talked about her even more, and in greater detail, and now, suddenly,
not at all.

She waved a hand impatiently. “Well, go on, then. Out with it.”

Draco rubbed at his face in agitation. “Oh, no. The last time I opened my mouth and told
someone how I felt – not even her, mind you; I’ve no clue how she found out, she must’ve
smelled the desperation on me – she stormed off and refused to speak to me again. It’s been
weeks, M.M. She won’t answer a single owl and her Floo’s closed.”

So quaint, these wizards and their outdated methods of communication. Not for the first time,
she wondered how he got off on acting so high and mighty when his kind were out here
delivering mail by owl. It was laughable.

“Then what is your plan to fix it?” she asked.

“Fix it?”
 M.M. was not the sort of woman who repeated herself.

“Well…” His flippant shrug was entirely undermined by the deep well of pain in his eyes. “I
hope with time, she'll just forget the whole thing and go back to hating me from less of a
distance.”

She waited for a more satisfactory answer that wasn't coming.

“Hmph. Well, if you refuse to do anything about it, do you think that you can at least manage
to behave with some level of decorum in the office?” she asked. “And stop terrorising my
Chief of Staff.”

“He started it,” Draco grumbled, but reluctantly agreed.

The phone on her desk lit up with a flashing yellow light. “Time’s up. Finland’s on the line,”
she told him, and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. But as he stood to leave, shoulders
stooped and face downcast, something like motherly affection stirred within her heart (which
she possessed, no matter what the press liked to say).

“Draco,” she said, hand hovering above the receiver. When he turned back, she offered him a
rare, though faint, smile. “It’ll be alright. I’m certain this is just some misunderstanding. You
need to be honest with her.”

But the look he gave her was so defeated, she knew he wouldn’t. “I don’t know how,” he
said. “Never have.”

M.M. was distracted throughout her phone call with the Finnish president, which was
mercifully short owing to the Finns’ habitual abstention from small talk. By the time the
president ended the call with a clipped “kuulemiin,” she’d made up her mind that it was
finally time to get involved.

After all, solving everybody’s problems was in her job description. It was right there above
“create new ones.”

She pressed the button on her desk to remotely deadbolt her office door, then drew out a
blank sheet of paper.

On it, she wrote:

Darling, might we lift the moratorium on work talk at dinner this evening? I think it's time we
do something about our little situation. xxx

Then she folded it neatly, walked to her office window, and whistled for an owl. When a big
brown one swooped down, she handed the letter over, taking care to avoid the talons.

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” she said, and watched as it flew away.

Chapter End Notes

I couldn't wait for you to meet M.M.! I love her so much.

And as for you-know-who… This is me, to me:

I have one more completely unimportant thing to add, which I will do in the comments
because the spoiler formatting doesn't work on epub and I want to give anyone who
downloads this the option of not seeing it.

It's nearly apocalypse time! Who's ready?

NEXT WEEK: Two birthdays, an exorcism, and the truth. But first, I think we have
time for one final prank.
 The Truth
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Three Years Ago

Hermione was the Ministry of Magic’s most dedicated employee.

If you’d asked her whether she’d ever taken a personal day, she would have denied the
accusation with the superior air of someone who mistakenly believed neglecting their
physical and mental health was anything to be proud of.

She had seven months worth of accrued holiday leave sitting around. The staff of the
Ministry Human Resources Department occasionally drew straws to beg her to use it, without
success.

Also, apparently, she showed up to work on death’s door.

“I’m not dying,” she informed Kingsley around a sneeze. “It’s just a mild case of
Spattergroit.”

“Go home, Hermione!” Kingsley shouted the order at her from within the safety of his
bubble-head charm.

Hermione wiped her streaming nose on her sleeve. “Sorry, what? Your voice is a little
muffled.”

“GO HOME!” He gesticulated wildly at his Floo.

“I feel perfectly fine. There’s no need for dramatics.” She scratched absently at a weeping
purple pustule on her arm and squinted down at her notebook. “Now, M.M. wants to know
who you are and why you’re wearing Kingsley Shacklebolt’s face.”

He looked at her in confusion.

“Also, something to do with the moon. Sorry, my writing has gone all squiggly.”

As he watched, another pustule formed in the centre of her forehead.

“Alright, you’re delirious. Let’s get you to a healer.”

“Can’t. I have to send the Muggles to the moon.” Hermione pulled out her wand and began
waving it in wide circles. A red mist spilled from the tip and started to creep through the air
toward him.

Kingsley took cover beneath his desk to avoid whatever space travel spell she’d just
invented. “I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me no choice!” he told her insincerely,
aiming a petrificus totalus at her foot.

When it was safe to emerge, he pushed to his feet to find Draco striding through the Floo, a
bubble encased around his own head. Blood streamed from his split lip.

“She got you, too?” Draco asked, taking in the immobilised Hermione and Kingsley’s
defensive position. “She headbutted me when I tried to take her to St Mungo’s and ran off.
I’ve been looking everywhere for her.”

He scooped up the frozen witch and turned to leave.

“Wait, you aren’t going to…?” Kingsley let the end of that sentence trail off suggestively. He
didn’t actually think Draco would hurt Hermione, but in those days the prank war was a
bitter, vicious thing, and he couldn’t be too sure.

Draco cast a featherlight charm and readjusted Hermione’s stiff form in his arms. “No fun
kicking her when she’s down. Don’t worry, I’ll be an excellent nursemaid.”

Kingsley could only stare in befuddlement. They’d been hurling stinging jinxes at each other
in a conference room only last week, and now Draco was smiling fondly at her while
bleeding from an injury she’d apparently inflicted. Their incessant warfare would’ve been
easier to accept if it followed any sort of logic.

“But she’ll infect you,” he protested.

Draco patted the top of Hermione’s head affectionately. “And I’m sure she’ll consider it a
hilarious prank if she does. I’ll think of some way to get back at her, though.” He turned and
escorted his ungainly cargo through the Floo.

In the end, Hermione did infect him, which she thought was hilarious only until she became
lucid again. She then felt so guilty that she got out of her bed, forced him into it, and
dedicated herself to caring for a delirious Draco who required constant reassurance that his
oozing purple boils didn’t make him any less handsome.

All told, they were out of their respective offices for two weeks. The truce lasted up until the
very moment the final pustule faded out of sight.

Meanwhile, back at the Ministry, Kingsley was becoming increasingly aware that Hermione
put out enough fires on a daily basis to keep the population of a small Nordic country warm
through a long winter. And as for Draco’s job, well, he knew even less about what that
entailed than Hermione’s. The whole of the Muggle world could be in flames right now and
Kingsley would have no idea.

It occurred to him he’d better check.

He took the long way to 10 Downing Street, which meant he Apparated around the corner
under the cover of a disillusionment spell and knocked on the front door.

The guards were accustomed to oddly-dressed strangers who insisted they needed to speak
with the Prime Minister on top-secret business, so they just rolled their eyes and motioned
him away with their submachine guns. He was in the process of deciding whether confunding
them to gain entry would constitute an inter-governmental declaration of war when he
stumbled upon the right combination of words to get their attention.

“You know Draco?” one of the guards asked. “That’s a relief. All the lads have been worried,
as it’s not like him to just disappear.”

Shaking off his surprise that Draco Malfoy had apparently made friends with gun-toting
Muggles, Kingsley assured them he was only highly contagious, not dead.

Two minutes later, he stood in M.M.’s office, more surprised than ever.

“You’re M.M.?” he asked the woman incredulously.

“Expecting Margaret Thatcher?” she responded tartly, without removing her eyes from the
email she was typing out.

[Kingsley didn’t know who that was, but he’d heard about Draco’s boggart, and was
expecting some unholy amalgam of Dolores Umbridge and Aragog.]

“My apologies,” he said smoothly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

She did look up then, and understanding that this could be no other person but the Minister
for Magic himself, smoothed down her pencil skirt as she stood to offer him her hand.

M.M. was tall for a woman, and rather than try to hide it, she accentuated the feature with
sharp stilettos that might double as a weapon if needed. She dressed sharply, too, and kept her
expensively-highlighted hair in a sleek chignon, except on Fridays, when she wore it in a
sleek ponytail.

Her whole life, men had been telling her that they’d never met a woman like her before, a
phrase she was not stupid enough to take as a compliment, and then they would try to reduce
her to a level they were more comfortable with before eventually deciding she was too
intelligent, too ambitious, too attractive, too outspoken, too tall, too…much.

Becoming Prime Minister hadn’t changed that, and neither had getting married, or getting
divorced, or even turning fifty.

The only difference was that now they said it with their eyes instead of their mouths. I’ve
never met a woman like you before, their faces said, disapprovingly. Do you think you could
speak a little less often? And then they would stare at her chest and she would have to smile
or be labelled a bitch by the tabloids.

All in all, M.M. was done with men, and good riddance.

But she had never met a man like Kingsley Shacklebolt.

He folded her hand in his much larger one, shook it once, and then said, “The universe erred
when it did not make you a witch. But then, I see you’ve made your own power.”
She cancelled her next two meetings and invited him to stay for tea.

Most members of the magical community would probably have predicted that learning of the
existence of magic would be a watershed moment in M.M.’s life. Eyes opened, mind
expanded, et cetera. It hadn’t been. That had been a Tuesday, and her only response had been
to look down at her already unmanageable to-do list and move “hire someone to deal with
this magic nonsense” to the very top so that she could focus her attention on the Muggles
who’d appointed her to represent them.

This was everything that experience hadn’t been. Meeting Kingsley Shacklebolt cracked
open a door in her mind, hinges rusty with disuse, and let possibility breathe fresh air for the
first time in years.

Conversation flowed uninterrupted for an hour, until eventually he recalled that he’d come to
inform her about her missing employee and to inquire whether any magic needed to be
performed while he and Hermione fed each other soup in quarantine.

“They’re together?” she asked, leaning forward in anticipation. “Have they finally worked it
out, then?”

“You know about that?”

“Christ, yes, she’s all he talks about.”

They laughed for a while about the clueless lovers and their hostile courtship. When Kingsley
stood to leave, he promised to owl her with any intel from Hermione’s end of things.

They ought to keep this their little secret, she suggested, and he winked. Warmth crept down
her spine, unexpected and new.

For three months, they exchanged letters, M.M. feeling like a giddy schoolgirl every time an
owl appeared at her window. At first, their notes were about Hermione and Draco and their
inappropriate workplace behaviour. Then, the letters were about Hermione and Draco, but
mostly about other things.

And finally, one day, Kingsley asked her to dinner and said that he didn’t want to talk about
Hermione and Draco anymore. Ever again, preferably.

“You don’t?” she said, reflecting that you never really know how far you’ve let someone into
your life until they begin pulling out of it.

“No,” he replied, with a smile like the sun. “I’d like to talk about us.”

---

Present Day: One Week Until All Hallow’s Eve

In Grimmauld Place, Ginny was beginning to feel as though she was in over her head.
It was all well and good when she earnestly thought a frank conversation would solve
everybody’s problems. But Hermione and Draco seemed immune to speaking frankly, and
now Hermione had barricaded herself in her house, and Narcissa Malfoy wouldn’t stop
showing up at Ginny’s.

It was like inviting a snake into one’s home to solve a rodent issue. Except a real snake
would have actually taken care of the original problem and then her husband could’ve asked
it politely to leave afterwards. Harry mostly refused to be present when Narcissa was there,
so he was no help in getting rid of the metaphorical variety.

“Don’t you think we’ve taken it too far already?” Ginny asked.

Narcissa looked genuinely surprised that Ginny was already giving in. After all, not a single
cursed object had been put to use yet. They still had loads of options to explore.

“On the contrary,” she said resolutely. “I think we haven’t taken it nearly far enough.”

“But we’ve made it so much worse,” said Ginny glumly.

If she were totally honest with herself, Narcissa might have admitted that she, too, felt that
she was in over her head. Pureblood marriages were typically arranged with quill and
parchment and a brief courting period to ensure the young couple didn’t violently despise one
another, which was generally regarded as good enough.

This was entirely different. There were so many feelings to contend with, not to mention an
illegitimate child who had the power to smash the Malfoy reputation to smithereens. (Along
with, apparently, the entire world. Narcissa had been clinging to Draco’s assertion that that, at
least, was under control.)

So, yes. She might not have the situation entirely in hand. But in for a knut, in for a galleon,
or however the saying goes. (Narcissa didn't carry coins. It wasn't polite to jingle.)

“I have a plan,” Narcissa told her, chin raised. “This one will work.”

“And what exactly does it entail?” Ginny asked uneasily. “I strongly object to cursing them.”

Narcissa looked around. “Is your husband in? I won't have Aurors showing up at my home
again.”

“Erm, no,” Ginny admitted, regretting the loss of this convenient excuse to get out of doing
whatever it was that Narcissa wanted to do. “He’s out at the moment.”

“Good. No curses, you have my word. But we must find a way to get them together. Draco’s
closed his Floo and has rejected all my owls.”

Ginny hesitated. “I don’t like this. I’m starting to think Harry’s right and we should just let
them work it out on their own.”

“I refuse to allow my son to be unhappy. Get them into a room together, and leave the rest to
me.”
There’s this thing called a sunk cost fallacy, which is when it’s easier to go along with a bad
idea than to admit to your husband that he was right all along. Ginny reluctantly agreed.

“She mentioned they’d be at Hogwarts next week for Lilith’s birthday,” she said.

“Excellent. Did you say you have a brother who works at the school? I’ll need his help, too.”

It then occurred to Ginny that she could simply blame the inevitable disaster on Ron, which
was the entire point of siblings. She relaxed slightly.

“Yes, I’ll put you in touch. Anything else you need, just ask him.”

“Good.” Narcissa looked pleased. “Now, who is the Potions Master at Hogwarts? Is it still
Horace Slughorn?”

Too late, Ginny saw the slippery musculature of a snake tightening its coils around Hermione
and Draco.

Well. They deserved it, anyway.

---

The plan came together quickly, like all bad ones.

M.M. thought she might have difficulty getting Kingsley on board. He’d long since washed
his hands of Hermione and Draco’s nonsense, and preferred to pretend the two of them didn’t
exist at all outside of work. M.M. supported this, because it was bad for his heart to be so
stressed all the time.

But, as she explained, it was past time to intervene. They had a moral obligation to their
pseudo-children, who they’d grown rather fond of over the years. And besides, Hermione and
Draco were currently infecting everyone around them with their misery, and it was the boss’
job to maintain a healthy, productive, angst-free working environment.

All those stubborn fools needed was a push. To be alone with nothing but each other for
company. Somewhere they’d be inclined to have a deep, heartfelt conversation, once and for
all.

Somewhere…romantic.

“You want to prank them?” Kingsley asked. His smile had grown wider the longer she’d
talked, and was by now well past the point of unsettling.

“No! It’s not a prank. It’s romance! We’ll make up an excuse, some work-related issue
they’ve got to solve in person, and they’ll have a nice, long, fully-paid holiday to sort out
their problems.”

Kingsley began nodding vigorously. “Payback. Yes, I like it.”

“No, I’ve told you, it’s not about that—”

But he was up, strolling through the Floo in a swirl of robes. A moment later, he returned
from his office in the Ministry and placed a small item wrapped in cloth on the coffee table
before her.

“A portkey,” he announced. “I’ve had it in my desk for months.”

“Oh!” M.M. had never seen one in person. She leaned in to inspect it. “It looks like a
thimble. Where will this send them? I was thinking the Cotswolds, maybe.”

“A bit further. But don’t worry. It’ll be extremely romantic.” He snaked an arm around her
waist to pull her back flush against his chest. “You brilliant woman,” he chuckled against the
column of her throat. “I can’t believe I never thought of it. Just…send them away!”

Peace and quiet in the office. Freedom from other people’s relationship woes, for even a day
or two. It would be a holiday for him as well.

“But…we have to make sure they don’t just leave, when they find out we’ve tricked them…”
M.M. said, or tried to say, as Kingsley began making his appreciation for her brilliance
known by locating the zipper at the back of her dress.

“Leave that to me,” he murmured against the nape of her neck as the fabric slipped down
around her shoulders.

---

Kingsley arrived in Diagon Alley prepared to flex his Minister for Magic muscles, but in the
end, he didn’t have to. In fact, he’d barely opened his mouth to ask the question when
Ollivander agreed, eyes twinkling with something that could not reasonably be interpreted as
friendly.

Sweet Salazar, Kingsley thought. What’ve they done to make him angry?

But he didn’t ask, because one good way to keep your job as Minister for Magic was to
maintain plausible deniability in as many sketchy matters as possible. (In fact, this was the
entire premise of Hermione’s employment there.) He concluded his business and left quickly,
the old wandmaker’s disquieting laughter following him out onto the cobblestone street as the
door swung closed behind him.

The next week, two wands appeared on Kingsley’s desk.

One was ten and three-quarters inches and made of vine wood. The other was ten inches,
made of hawthorn, and reasonably springy.

Perfect replicas, both of them. Except for one thing, the most important, arguably:

They didn’t work.

---

It was All Hallow’s Eve.

It was doomsday; the day of reckoning; judgement day; the end of the world; armageddon;
the prophesied day in which the living would go to their deaths and demons would roam the
earth.

It began as an ordinary Wednesday.

The sun woke at its normal hour and hauled its gaseous bulk across the sky to signal that it
was time to get out of bed and prepare for another day of pretending to look busy in an office
until it was time to go home again.

Muggles made their coffee and resentfully dedicated themselves to their lengthy commutes.
Magical people made their coffee with slightly fewer steps and grumbled about the ghastly
inconvenience of stepping through a fireplace to get to their destination.

In Stoke-on-Trent, Pansy rose early to practise drawing a pentagram on the floor with chalk.
It wouldn’t do to have crooked lines at her first, and probably last, exorcism. Waking to the
familiar sounds of swearing, Neville emerged sleepily from his room, commandeered the
chalk from her frustrated hands, and pulled her into a warm hug before he could think better
of it.

Several streets over, Gemma also woke early. It was her birthday, but, more importantly, her
favourite holiday. Today she would get to dress like a witch. A real one, not one of those
fakers in pointy hats. Her borrowed caftan was too big, but it really just added to the effect.

At Hogwarts, Ron slept in. When he woke, he re-read the instructions his sister had sent and
hoped fervently he wouldn’t get sacked, or worse, yelled at by McGonagall.

Lilith ate breakfast with the Gryffindors and turned away offers to celebrate the occasion in
their common room that evening. She wasn’t sure why she had to spend her birthday with her
guardians in the professors’ quarters instead of in her dorm with her friends, but they’d
promised to bring cake and presents, and they’d also insisted.

In London, Kingsley stopped M.M. on her way out the door for a brief but passionate kiss.
She sighed, wishing that for once they could call in sick and leave the running of their
country up to somebody else. He agreed, but reminded her they'd at least have some respite
soon from the trials and tribulations of moody thirty-somethings. Today was the last day of
that, if all went according to plan. The very last day.

Meanwhile, Draco and Hermione sat in different offices in different parts of the city. They
watched their clocks and thought of nothing but the fact that they would be seeing each other
that evening for the first time in two months. Once in a while, they’d remember about the
prophecy and worry about that for a time before turning back to the much more important
issue of what they should wear, and do, and say.

It was an ordinary Wednesday, and there was nothing much to do but wait.

---
THE EVENING OF HER TWELFTH BIRTHDAY, Pansy had said. EVENING was annoyingly
vague, but they’d agreed six o’clock should be sufficient.

Come to mine and we’ll go to Hogwarts together, Draco had written.

No, Hermione responded, in a Howler.

She didn’t want to be alone with him, because she’d almost certainly cry, or perhaps vomit.
Not that a group situation was any better. Too much like a dinner party to be of much
comfort.

At ten till six, she decided her outfit was bad and needed to change. At five till, she noticed
that one side of her hair was not lying like it should. At six on the dot, she lost her nerve
entirely, and at ten after, she was still staring at her fireplace with clammy hands, hoping she
hadn’t accidentally missed the apocalypse because she couldn’t get her feet to move.

It took a strong talking-to about the good of humanity delivered to herself in front of a mirror,
but at fifteen past the hour, Hermione stepped through the Floo in her living room and out
into the small sitting room in Ron’s private quarters.

Draco stood by the fireplace as if he’d been waiting. Hermione managed to convince herself
it was a coincidence.

“You’re here,” he said, somewhat breathlessly. “You wore white.”

Her hands, which were holding a birthday cake, shook slightly. One of the chocolate
buttercream swirls slid to the floor with an audible splat.

“How are you? Didn't you get my owls?” he asked, liberating the cake from her with an
unmistakably purposeful brush of fingers.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Hermione—” he pleaded, eyes soft on her face.

“Don’t. We have a job to do. Just – don’t.”

Although she wasn’t looking – her gaze landed anywhere but on him, really – she saw his
shoulders stiffen and the emotion on his face dissolve behind a mask of practised calm.

“Of course,” he said formally, and the chill in his voice made her want to throw herself into
the Great Lake, which was undoubtedly warmer.

---

Pansy and Neville arrived at the exorcism bearing a birthday cake.

“It’s not for you, it’s for your ghost,” Pansy snapped, catching the Prices’ odd look. “Did you
even wish her a happy birthday?”
Neville sighed. “We talked about this…”

[There were proper, legal channels, Neville had insisted, for getting a child out of an
unsuitable home. The proper channels didn’t involve kidnapping.]

“And we disagreed,” Pansy replied tartly. “Still do.”

[Kidnapping was fine if it was for a good cause, in her correct opinion.]

Gemma accepted the cake with a grateful twitch of the lips, which practically counted as
effusive thanks by her standards.

“Happy birthday,” Neville whispered, while Pansy sent the Prices out of their front room
under the guise of needing to prepare the space for the exorcism.

When they’d gone, he produced a thin box from the sleeve of his robe. Gemma’s mouth fell
open in wonder.

“Is this – ?”

“It was my gran’s,” he said proudly, rocking back on his heels as she peered down at the
wand reverently. “You remind me of her, actually.”

“Don’t tell her that, Neville,” Pansy said reproachfully. “Wasn’t your grandmother a terror?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Tough woman. But she cared about people. She was a good person.”

Gemma chewed her lip thoughtfully, then closed the box.

“I shouldn’t have it, then.” She tried to push it back into Neville’s hands.

Pansy looked over from the window, where she’d been attempting to affix black curtains over
the panes without the use of sticking charms. As soon as she pulled her hands away, the black
fabric fluttered to the floor.

“Listen, Gemma,” she said, in the severe tone that usually meant she was about to say
something horrifically cutting. Neville kept a cautious eye on her as he picked up where
she’d left off with the drapes.

“There’s no denying you’ve been dealt a shit hand. Those nuns sounded atrocious.”

The girl’s eyes widened fractionally.

“And your current living situation is bordering on criminal, you know; you can come stay
with us on a permanent basis at any point—”

The drapes hit the floor again. They hadn’t discussed permanent, had barely discussed the
concept of the future at all. Neville had noted with increasing confusion that Pansy seemed to
be content, for the moment, living in a cottage on the outskirts of Stoke-on-Trent with only
him for company, and he…well, Neville was…increasingly content.
“I refuse to listen to you tell yourself that you deserve any of this. You’ve done your absolute
best in completely rubbish circumstances, and you are a child.”

Pansy looked fiercely at the door to the other room, where the Prices waited to begin the
process that they believed would finally rid them of the ongoing nightmare of living in a
house with the child they’d adopted and forgotten about.

“I happen to like you, Gemma. And I like almost no one. Just you and—” Her eyes flicked to
Neville. “It’s a short list.”

“You’re a good person,” Neville agreed, more quietly. “We know bad people. You’re not one
of them.”

One of Gemma’s shoes scuffed the floor.

“I…don’t like very many people either…” she said slowly. “But I’ve got to stay here, you
know. To keep an eye on them.”

“Whatever happened to them isn’t your fault.”

She blinked down at the floorboards.

“Tough,” Pansy sighed. “Just like Nev’s gran. But we’ll get there eventually. Here, hide your
wand and help me draw this pentagram.”

Gemma’s fingers found the wooden handle.

The wand chooses the witch, doesn’t it? Neville’s grandmother’s wand didn’t go in for
anything so tawdry as a flash of light, no. It simply warmed under her touch, power
recognising power, and waited.

---

Three cups of tea were carefully arranged on a tray in Ron’s small kitchenette.

There was something he had been meant to remember about dosage – one drop (or was it
two?) per ten stone of body weight. But what was the consequence for overdosing on
veritaserum, anyway? Become even more truthful? It seemed like a small price to pay to
avoid having to do any maths.

Two cups of tea received five drops each.

They were placed at the back of the tray – easy to remember, since Draco and Hermione
would be sitting together on the sofa, most likely – with Lilith’s undoctored cup to one side.

Back in the sitting room, Draco considered the seating arrangements with the high-stakes
pressure of someone planning a Montague-Capulet wedding.

There was a small sofa and one armchair. Lilith settled in the chair.
Draco sat on the sofa.

He tried everything he could think of to indicate that Hermione should sit next to him. He
shifted his body all the way to the right, thus setting a record for the least amount of sofa
space ever taken up by Draco Malfoy. He glanced enticingly at the empty patch of sofa
beside him, then pointedly up at her. He tried to invent a wordless, wandless spell that would
suddenly make her limbs feel very tired in a way that only a nearby sofa cushion could
alleviate, but he was not Gemma, so it wasn’t successful.

Hermione drew out her wand and conjured a second chair.

“You haven’t done gifts yet, have you?” she asked, and handed a small package to Lilith.

It was a golden instrument roughly the shape of a large pocket watch. Little dials along the
sides allowed for the input of birth date and location, at which point the clock face would
change to display a star chart and daily horoscope that included such helpful information as
what colours you should absolutely not wear that day, what types of emotions you should be
prepared to exhibit, and whether you should even bother getting out of bed at all.

Smiling delightedly, Lilith gave the details of Draco’s birth to the little golden instrument.
She read:

“The stars are aligned for you to have that conversation you’ve been putting off. It’s been
years in the making, and today is your chance to finally clear the air. Suck it up and get it
over with.”

Draco scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably while Lilith inputted Hermione’s
information.

“Stop being an idiot,” she read, then looked up. “That’s all it says.”

“Astrology isn’t a very accurate field,” Hermione said. “More of a pseudoscience.”

Draco snorted. “I don’t know. Sounds about right.”

He was looking at her like she was the one secretly planning to marry an ex while stringing
somebody else along in an increasingly real-seeming fake relationship. Hermione felt her
face grow hot.

“Oh? Did you have something you wanted to get off your chest?”

“Yes,” he said, exasperated. “I’ve been trying, but you won’t—” He glanced at Lilith, then
mouthed, “answer your fucking letters.”

“I didn’t want to speak to you,” she mouthed back.

“Obviously.”

“Oh, dear,” said Lilith. They looked at her with twin expressions of apprehension, but she
was occupied with her own horoscope, and was, for once, ignorant to the feud rekindling
around her. (“You probably ought to have stayed in bed today,” it read.)

Ron shuffled in with three teacups.

“You aren’t having any?” Hermione asked, more snappily than she’d meant it.

He looked with dismay at the carefully arranged cups, then shuffled back out.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Hermione said tightly, with a meaningful glance at Lilith.

Draco gritted his teeth in grim acknowledgement.

In the kitchen, a fourth cup was added to the tray. If they’d been at the Burrow, with its non-
matching tea set that Ron had once been embarrassed by but as an adult found sensible and
charming, this wouldn’t have been a problem.

But as it was, four identical cups of tea stared tauntingly up at him.

He was pretty sure he’d got it right. Better put a little extra potion in two of them, he decided,
just to be sure.

Out in the hall, a knock sounded on the outer door. Ava’s head let itself in, followed by the
rest of her body.

“Ron, are you—” She caught sight of his guests and stopped in surprise. “Oh! Lilith. And
you must be Lilith’s guardians.” She winked.

Lilith’s face had gone white.

“Should I have actually threatened you to keep your mouth shut, Weasley? I should've known
the implicit sort wouldn't take,” Draco called to the other room.

Ava grinned broadly. “Don’t worry. I can keep a secret.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hermione told her honestly, and stood to
introduce herself.

“That’s the spirit,” Ava replied cheerfully, shaking her hand. Lilith slumped miserably into
her chair.

Ron appeared in the sitting room and looked at Ava with a drained expression. “Oh, great. I
suppose you’ll be wanting tea too, then?”

He turned on his heel and left before she could give an answer.

---

There were now five teacups, and the tray was round, which meant that the back of the tray
was a mutable concept depending on how you carried it. And he was pretty sure he’d been
carrying it differently a moment ago.
He shifted it clockwise a quarter turn. The original two cups had been next to each other. No,
that wasn’t right; he’d swapped them once Hermione had sat in a chair instead of the sofa. So
that should put them at 9 o’clock and 12 o’clock on the tray. Which he’d just rotated. Well,
fuck.

Ron leaned in to sniff the tea. It was a desperate, fruitless gesture, because even he knew that
veritaserum had no scent. The tea just smelled like tea, and a bit like the sweat that was
starting to bead on his upper lip.

“Ron,” Hermione called. “We’re having cake.” Footsteps sounded in the other room.

In a moment of panic, he split the remainder of the bottle into two cups at random. All he had
to do now was remember to give those two, the ones that he’d definitely just dosed, to Draco
and Hermione. He made a mental note to secretly tell Ava not to drink hers because he would
probably never get to sleep with her if he accidentally drugged her.

And as for Lilith, well, everyone already knew her big secret, so the risk was low.

He rejoined the group, teacups rattling.

---

“Professor, when’s your birthday?”

Lilith was on the offensive. People liked to talk about themselves, she’d observed, and if Ava
was busy talking about herself, she wouldn’t be able to talk about Lilith and any secrets they
might have between them.

Everyone waited while Ava’s neonatal chart was rendered on the small golden surface.

“This says you shouldn’t drink any tea today,” she said, squinting at the device in confusion.

Ron emerged once more and sat the tray on the table before them. He watched with relief as
Hermione and Draco accepted the correct cups, those laden with the appropriate dosage for
an entire herd of African elephants.

Ava grinned wryly at Lilith and picked up a third cup. “I wasn’t going to. I don’t even like
tea. But now, I don’t know…something about being told not to do something only makes me
want to more.”

“Your moon is in Gemini,” Lilith said, nodding sagely, accepting her own cup.

“No, I really think you shouldn’t,” Ron stated, too loudly. “Bad luck to ignore a horoscope.
I’ll just take it—”

He reached for Ava’s cup but she held it out of the way.

“I’ve never heard that. Must be cultural.” She downed the tea before he could object further
and set it back down, making a face. “So, are you just here for Lilith’s birthday?” she asked
Draco and Hermione. “I didn’t know students could have visitors.”
“Yeah, it’s weird,” Lilith shrugged. “They’re not like normal parents, though.”

“We’ll be lucky if that’s the weirdest part of tonight,” Draco muttered.

“Oh, it definitely won’t be,” said Ron, taking a miserable swallow of his own tea. It only
seemed fair at that point.

“Parents?” Ava asked, frowning. “Wait, how do you three know each other?”

“Hogwarts,” Draco said, at the same time Hermione answered, “Ron and I were best friends
who later dated, but you don’t need to worry because it was ages ago and we don’t even think
of it anymore. Draco and I have an extremely long and complex history beginning with him
bullying me throughout school and ending with him stringing me along for months. We’re
currently not speaking.”

Everyone looked at her in various shades of astonishment, and, in Draco’s case, offended
outrage.

Hermione covered her mouth with her hand and looked down at her cup. “Merlin, Ron, what
did you put in this?”

“Veritaserum,” he replied sullenly, without meaning to. It had definitely been in his cup as
well.

There was a pregnant pause.

“I’m going to k-ki…mildly injure you,” Draco told him.

“Ronald! Why?” Hermione gasped, staring down at the teacup in horror.

Ron produced a slip parchment and waved it defensively. “I’m sorry! I’m supposed to ask
you about your feelings.”

Draco speared him with a look. “Currently feeling like I wouldn’t mind a trip back to
Azkaban, Weasley.”

Ava gave a soft snort, which drew Ron’s eyes back to her.

“I’m really sorry,” he told her. “It might’ve been in yours too.”

“Hush,” she replied. “This is just getting interesting.”

“I should actually thank you, Weasley. For once, I might get a straight answer out of her.”
Draco narrowed his eyes at Hermione. “Why did you say I’ve been stringing you along for
months?”

“I said that because it’s true,” she gritted out, evading on a technicality with great effort.
“And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad. My horoscope said we’ve got to.”

“Have you forgotten what’s happening tonight?” she asked in disbelief. “We absolutely
cannot discuss this right now!”

“But I want to know,” protested Lilith.

Hermione looked at the teacup in Lilith’s hand. “Hang on, you didn’t put it in her tea, did
you?”

Ron cringed. “I’m not sure, really.”

A vein in Draco’s forehead bulged. “Go on, Lilith,” he said, putting forth a great effort to
sound calm. “Tell a lie.”

“My favourite colour is bl—” Lilith tried to say, then broke off, unable to finish.

Hermione’s cheeks reddened. “You poisoned her!”

“No, I—” Ron looked contritely at the girl. “Look, I’m sorry, Lilith. It was an accident, I
swear. But you don’t need to worry. Everyone here already knows your secret.”

Lilith turned panicked eyes on Draco and Hermione. “You do?”

Hermione and Draco looked at each other, baffled. “What secret?” Hermione asked. “What’s
wrong?”

“That she’s a Squib,” Ron explained hastily. “But the point is, I have this list of questions
from Ginny—”

“She’s not a Squib, Ron! What were you thinking?”

“Narcissa Malfoy said – wait, what?” Ron stared at Lilith, then at Ava, who shrugged.

Draco unfolded himself from the sofa, which could no longer contain his growing unease.
“What about my mother, Weasley?” he asked menacingly.

“You’re not a Squib?” asked Ava. Lilith shook her head forcefully.

Hermione stood too. “Why on earth would you think she’s a Squib?”

“Answer the question, Weasley. What about my mother?”

Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion.“Because she can’t do magic, obviously.” He turned to

Draco. “She wants you two to get married and thinks this is the best way to go about it,
apparently. It’s not my fault your mother is mental.”

Hermione’s pulse picked up, carrying half a bottle of veritaserum to her brain. She’d have
had better luck stunning herself than keeping her mouth shut at that point.

“Married?” Hermione spluttered. “He’s already getting married!”

Draco rounded on her in astonishment. “What? No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are! You’re marrying Pansy Parkinson!”

“You’re marrying someone else?” asked Lilith, crestfallen.

Draco was very nearly rendered speechless. “Pansy…? I don’t know what you’re talking
about. I’m not marrying Pansy!” He turned to Lilith and repeated more quietly, yet just as
firmly, “I’m not marrying anybody else.”

“Yes, you are!” Hermione insisted. “And Ron, of course she can do magic. You were
supposed to look after her! Haven’t you been paying any attention?”

“I’ve been doing exactly what you asked! Why do you think we’ve been covering for her in
all her classes?”

“I’m not getting married to Pansy, Hermione. I cannot believe you thought that.” Draco
turned to Ron. “What do you mean, you’ve been covering for her?”

“Spells in class, charmed matches, things like that. You asked me to—”

Lilith made a desperate attempt to redirect the conversation. “Can we please get back to this
Pansy person?” she asked.

“Yes!” Hermione crossed her arms. “Wally said you told your mother it was her the whole
time.”

It was like a freight train to the face. Draco stumbled a step back.

“That’s what you thought? No, Hermione. No. Fuck, that’s not at all what happened.”

“Then what’s going on? Tell me the truth!”

The veritaserum in Draco’s veins perked up. Truth. Now there was a pleasing concept.

It sent out feelers, his veins carrying it to all corners of his body until, at last, it located the
iron lockbox deep within his heart where he’d kept the facts of the situation hidden away. It
took aim with a battering ram.

“Pansy’s the Seer who had the prophecy about Lilith, you horrible woman. You had months
to ask me and you chose today? We deserve whatever happens at this point.”

Hermione paled. “Oh…”

“There was a prophecy about Lilith?” Lilith asked, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Draco dragged frustrated hands through his hair, clumping the strands between his fists. “You
didn’t even ask me! You just disappeared for two months. Two months! I was out of my
mind! Fucking hell, do you really trust me so little?”

“Of course I don’t trust you! My feelings were hurt, I thought you were my friend!”
“I don’t want to be your friend, Granger!”

Her jaw dropped. Devastation flashed across her features, twisting his stomach into a knot of
remorse. Draco had just enough time to think “fuck it, I’ve got to elaborate” when Ava shot
to her feet, arms outstretched.

“ENOUGH!” She pointed at the sofa. “Sit down!”

They sat at once. Ron marvelled.

“You’re worse than my fourth years and all their hormones. I can see why your friends
thought dosing you with veritaserum – illegally, by the way,” Ava added, with a pointed look
at Ron, “—was their only recourse. Enough of this. It’s time for the truth. Now…”

Hermione shifted miserably. Draco looked at the Floo and wondered if he should make a run
for it.

But Ava’s eyes just skated from their faces as she turned to look at Lilith.

“You’re not in trouble,” she said kindly. “But I need you to tell me who you really are.”

---

The truth was out at last.

Well, some of it.

Lilith was a girl named Gemma. More importantly, and more shockingly, Gemma was a
Muggle.

“Oh god,” said Hermione. “Oh god.”

“I’m really sorry,” Not-Lilith told them wretchedly.

The obvious distress on her face pulled Draco out of a daydream that heavily featured demon
armies and mushroom clouds.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” he asked, endeavouring to sound calm.

The veritaserum had well and truly kicked in by now, and the child who was not Lilith
delivered the sorry truth through the hand clasped over her mouth. “Didn’t-want-you-to-send-
me-back,” she mumbled.

Draco looked at Ron, who wilted further in his chair. “How much did you give us?”

“Like…half a bottle?”

“Oh god.” Hermione pressed her hands against her face as though considering screaming into
them.
“Alright, listen,” Draco said, turning back to the miserable child trying futilely to cram her
words back inside her mouth. “Weasley here’s a fucking idiot but at least you’ll know I’m
telling you the truth when I say this. We are not, under any circumstances, sending you away.
I would sooner let the whole world end, which is a real possibility, actually— ”

He closed his mouth with great effort.

“You don’t care that I’m a Muggle?” the girl asked, swallowing thickly.

“No,” Hermione and Draco answered firmly, in a unified voice, and then looked at each other
in astonishment, the apparent truth of their words hitting them on a bit of a delay.

“And you won't send me back?” Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes.

“Never,” Hermione said simply. “Not ever.”

She opened her arms, and the girl who was really Gemma fell into them. After a moment,
Draco joined in, and they were, for just a moment, a tiny island refuge in a sea of wrongness
that churned violently around them.

Ava looked at Ron, eyes brimming with delight. “This is literally the best thing that has ever
happened,” she whispered loudly.

Ron sat up a little straighter. He, Ron, was responsible for the literal best thing that had ever
happened.

“No it fucking isn’t,” Draco told him, and he deflated once more.

“We have to go, erm, do something,” Hermione told them, stepping away. “Lilith, I mean
Gemma, where’s Lilith? The real one?”

“She’s still in Stoke-on-Trent, with some old couple.”

That seemed to make sense. Hermione wondered how she’d ever thought the apocalypse
could start somewhere else.

“Okay,” she said. “This is fine. This is definitely fine.”

“Is it?” Draco asked doubtfully.

“Yes.” Hermione nodded emphatically. “We’ll just find her, the other one, and bring her here
right away. It’ll be completely fine. Nothing bad is going to happen at all.”

“I don’t think that’s how veritaserum works, Granger. You can’t just make something true by
believing it hard enough.”

“It’s still early evening. That’s not the same as evening,” she insisted.

“So does this mean I get to stay at Hogwarts?” Lilith/Gemma was asking.
Hermione chewed her lip, considering how far into the absurd her power and influence
extended. Maybe there wouldn’t even be a Hogwarts in an hour or so.

But Draco, it seemed, still had faith in the likelihood of their continued existence. “Yes,
definitely,” he said firmly. “Granger’ll have a word with McGonagall about it.”

Not-Lilith’s face looked as though a thousand birthday wishes had just come true at once,
which, in a sense, is exactly what had happened.

Ava laughed out loud. “Ron, I think I might be in love with your ex-girlfriend.”

“That means you have good sense,” Draco told her. “So you’re in charge. Keep her here until
the potion wears off, then send her back to her common room. Although,” he looked at Ron,
frowning. “You also seem to like him, which does call your judgement into question…”

“You do?” Ron asked her, eyes widening.

Ava reached across and patted his cheek fondly. “Against my better judgement.”

Real-Gemma gave a sniffle and brightened a little. “A Capricorn and a Pisces. Not bad, so
long as you don’t mind being bossed around,” she said to Ron, who choked on his air.

“But…where are you going?” he asked, recovering. “She can’t actually stay at Hogwarts,
Hermione, surely you know that’s not possible—”

“Hush, Ron,” Ava said firmly. When his mouth shut with a snap, she grinned.

“We’re going to Stoke,” Hermione said. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. Take care of her,
please, Ron.”

It occurred to Ron that while he’d accomplished a great many other things that evening, he’d
yet to achieve his original goal, and an extremely unwelcome visit from Narcissa Malfoy
might be in his near-term future.

“But I still have questions!” he said, unfolding the list. “Draco: how would you describe your
intentions toward Hermione?” he read quickly.

“I intend to help her murder you, if she wants,” he said briskly, then turned back. “Lil – er,
Gemma. Does your friend know anything about demons?”

“Oh, yes. She read Dante’s Inferno four times.”

“Oh god,” moaned Hermione. “We are in so much trouble. We need to find Harry. Let’s
hurry, before it starts—”

Draco reached for the Floo powder just as twin streaks of blue light entered the room and
materialised into identical lynx patronuses.

“Shacklebolt?” asked Draco. Hermione nodded mutely.

“Hermione,” began one, while the other addressed its message to Draco. Then they
continued in unison, Kingsley’s duplicated voice echoing discordantly and too loud in the
small room.

“You’re needed in my office immediately. It’s an emergency.” Message delivered, the twin
patronuses faded from sight.

“Say hi to Lilith for me!” Gemma called, as they disappeared into emerald flames.

---

It was a magic trick without any magic to it. M.M. taught it to him, enjoying the irony of
teaching an actual wizard how to do sleight of hand.

They practised with the timer on her phone until he could do it in under three seconds.

It began with two lightning-quick expelliarmuses. The real wands would be collected into
one hand and covered by one conveniently-drapey sleeve of his long robes. Then the other
drapey sleeve produced the fake wands, which would be handed back over with some vague
apology.

The swap was fluid and invisible, and Kingsley felt younger than he had in years. It came to
him, then, why Hermione and Draco acted so childishly all the time. There was something
about pulling off a successful prank that really got the blood pumping.

“Ready?” he asked her when it was time to cast the patronus.

“Do you know,” she said, “I feel rather heroic about the whole thing. Like we’re actually
doing something important instead of just fixing their silly misunderstandings. It’s rare I get
to really solve a problem. I think I mostly just create new ones.”

When the Floo spat out the harried forms of Hermione and Draco, Kingsley broke his record,
swapping the wands in two-point-five seconds.

All the practice had been for nothing, though, because they didn’t seem to notice they’d been
disarmed. Kingsley looked down at his wand and wondered whether he’d accidentally
stunned them in the process.

“What…the…fuck?” Draco was staring at M.M.’s hand, which was resting on Kingsley’s
shoulder in a familiar manner.

M.M. winced. “Oh. Right. Yes.”

“OH RIGHT YES?” Draco's jaw swung freely.

Kingsley frowned. “I don’t know why this is such a shock. We’re two grown adults.”

“Kingsley…” Hermione said, shaking her head in confusion. “Why didn’t you tell us you
knew each other?”
“I don't see how it's any of your business. Unlike some people, I am capable of behaving with
discretion in the office.”

“When you say discretion…”

“Yes,” Kingsley confirmed, looking unimpressed by Hermione’s rather slow deductive skills.
“We are dating.”

“DATING?” Draco’s face was one big horrified splotch of red.

“For how long?” Hermione asked.

“Close to three years. Stop overreacting,” M.M. said sternly.

“THREE YEARS? OVERREACTING?”

Hermione pulled on Draco’s sleeve. “You can yell at them later. We have to go.”

“You know I’ve always thought of you as a mother figure,” Draco told M.M. hoarsely. “This
is like finding out your mother is dating the Minister for Magic. I feel betrayed.”

M.M.’s eyebrows shot up. “Goodness.”

“And you,” he rounded on Kingsley. “She’s been through a lot, you know. She has an
important job and she doesn’t need you distracting her from her work. I’m really not certain
you’re good enough.”

Hermione attempted to keep a bolt of hysterical laughter inside her mouth, unsuccessfully.

“There’s been a veritaserum overdose,” she told them. “So I’ll add that I’m very happy for
you both, although I’m also annoyed you never said anything. We’re going to have a long
conversation about this later. Now we have to get to Stoke-on-Trent.”

M.M. wrinkled her nose. “Stoke-on-Trent? That’s where you want to go? I mean—” She
backpedalled, looking about as though a member of the Muggle press might be hiding in
Kingsley’s bookshelf. “It’s a lovely town, of course. Full of intelligent voters.”

Hermione and Draco looked at each other. “Isn’t that why you called us in here?”

“Er…Yes.” Kingsley reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small parcel. “You’re needed
urgently.”

“This will take us there?” Hermione peered down at it sceptically.

“Yes. Here, take your wands; you dropped them.” He pressed the fake wands into their hands.
(They hadn’t even realised they’d lost them. A whole hour of practice, wasted.)

It was almost a relief, Draco thought, to have an emergency to focus on rather than the soul-
eating pain of whatever had gone wrong between them. He offered Hermione his hand and
she took it, shoving the words “I don’t want to be your friend, Granger,” to the back of her
mind, because they were a distraction she couldn’t afford, and because she didn’t ever, ever,
ever want to remember them.

Kingsley watched with growing anticipation as they took a big steadying breath in unison.
Then Hermione reached out with her bare fingers and they were gone.

Silence reigned for a blessed few moments while Kingsley and M.M. basked in the joy of
pulling off a successful prank.

“Stoke?” she ventured. “Why on earth would they want to go there? That’s the opposite of
romantic.”

Kingsley laughed, full and deep. “I think we’ve just done them more than one favour.”

“Yes, you’re right. They’ll be relaxing on a beach any minute now.”

“One very far away from Stoke. But never mind about them. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”

Kingsley’s blood was thrumming in his veins along with something like vitality, and it had
just occurred to him what purpose a big, sturdy desk like the one in his office could serve, if
you were creative enough.

He locked the door.

---

Pansy’s book on the topic, which had been provided (obviously) by Veta, described a buffet
of horrors: heads spinning like tops, pea-green vomit, limbs turned backwards as the
possessed scuttled across the ceiling like crabs.

“Disgusting,” she’d pronounced, and vanished it. “It’s all nonsense anyway. We’ll just do the
bit with the crosses.”

There was something in the religious aesthetic that appealed. It was probably all the black
and silver. She’d hung a thick, ornate cross on a chain around her neck, and coordinated the
look with silver jewellery and black lacquered nails.

It was a mistake, she thought now. Mr Price eyed her black robes suspiciously.

“You look like an occultist,” he said with disapproval.

She glowered back at him, but managed to keep her own, better insults to herself. Neville’s
shoulders slumped in relief.

“We’re here to commune with the ghost of Gemma Thompson-Stewart,” she intoned.

“Oh, what a lovely name!” Mrs Price cooed, unaware that she had ever heard it before.

Neville’s eyes flicked to Gemma, who sat in the corner eating a piece of cake.
“She seems alright,” he told her.

“Yeah.” Gemma speared the cake with her fork guiltily. “She’s not bad.”

Pansy waved her hands in the air as if feeling for hidden spirits.

“Is there anything you want to say to them, Gemma?” she asked in her favourite mystical
voice. “Any messages to impart from beyond the veil?”

Gemma weighed her options. “Maybe they could stop turning the telly off when I’m trying to
watch it? And it would be nice to get a ride to school once in a while, now that the snow is
gone.”

Pansy passed along the messages with a shrug. “Gemma doesn’t want to leave,” she said. “I
told her not to bother, but she feels responsible for you for some reason. Probably because
she’s a good person.”

Mr Price did not take the news well. He continued to insist, in the most strenuous of terms,
that he wanted a ghost-free house, thank you very much.

“I can’t see why,” Pansy said frankly. “I think she’s rather nice to have around.”

A string of curses exited the man’s mouth, and Pansy’s eyebrow arched appreciatively.

“She can hear you,” Neville told him. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“Who did you say you were again?” Mrs Price was staring at Pansy’s painted fingernails as if
they might spring to life and scratch at her of their own accord.

Pansy’s patience hit a snag. “This is absurd. You seem otherwise perfectly competent, so
unless this is some kind of extremely selective Muggle memory disease I’m not aware of, I’m
beginning to suspect you’re doing this on purpose. How on earth could you adopt a child and
then forget all about her? Especially one like Gemma, who’s interesting, and smart, and
actually quite kind and funny beneath all the frowning. It’s cruel, what you’re doing. You
can’t say you’ll take care of a child and then completely neglect her basic needs.”

“They don’t take returns,” Mr Price said, the words bobbing unbidden to the surface of his
mind, and then frowned, growing confused. “You’re not an exorcist! Useless woman—”

“The pentagram didn’t clue you off?” she asked acidy.

“Don’t,” Gemma objected. “He’ll call a real priest.”

It was too late. In the fragile ecosystem of Mrs Price’s mind, a red switch labelled DANGER
had just been flipped.

“WITCH!” she screeched, and shot to her feet, finger outstretched. Gemma groaned.

The old woman ran on wobbly knees for the phone in the other room, her husband trailing
after her. Neville followed a pace behind.
“Hang on, don’t use the fellytone—” he pleaded, voices vanishing down the hall.

“Sorry,” Pansy said, watching them go in utter confusion.

Gemma shrugged. “She’s really not well. I never meant to…well, never mind.”

“Neville will fix it. He’s good at that.” She watched the doorway for another moment with a
slight smile.

“Are you going to do anything about that?”

Pansy leaned over and helped herself to a forkful of cake.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

There was something forced about Gemma’s usual expression of extreme disinterest. “You
two are so oblivious. If my friend was here, she’d…” A line formed between her brows, there
and gone. “She’d say you should talk to each other. She was always meddling like that.”

“Gemma! Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft. I thought you found the whole idea of love
repulsive.”

“I do,” Gemma insisted. “But…say I didn’t. What are you waiting for? He obviously likes
you.”

“I suppose I’m waiting for him to do something about it.” Pansy looked at the girl
consideringly. “Seems a bit silly, now I’ve said it out loud. I’m not sure when I became
someone who sat around and waited for a man to make a move. What would your friend say,
if she were here?”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Probably that it’s romantic.”

“Mmm.” Pansy sighed. “I hope so.”

They each took a bite of cake and chewed in comfortable silence for a moment.

“Is it true?” Gemma ventured, setting her fork down. “What you said about me?”

“That you’re a delight and those adults of yours are idiots? Of course it is. But what are we
going to do about them?”

“Well.” She looked at the pentagram, an idea gathering like storm clouds. “You could always
summon a demon? And then send it away. Tell them it was the ghost they've been hearing,
and that it's left.”

It wasn’t a bad plan, Pansy thought. There was only the small detail of demons not being real.

“It’s…tricky.”

Gemma was instantly intrigued. “How do you do it?”

“Well, you picture a demon in your mind and say accio demon!”

Pansy demonstrated the movement with her hand. Gemma picked up her new wand and
tapped it against her knee thoughtfully.

“And that's safe? It stays inside the pentagram?”

Pansy looked at their chalk artwork, which was purely decorative.

“I guess it can’t hurt to try. Go on, give it a go.”

It wasn’t a real spell. It wasn’t even all that creative.

Most people, if they were foolish enough to attempt the obvious counterfeit, would have
achieved nothing other than the brief silence that occurs after you’ve done something
embarrassing in public. Demons didn’t even exist, after all.

But Gemma wasn’t most people.

---

It was an ordinary Wednesday, and the world kept turning.

That’s what it’s best known for, after all, along with “containing the correct set of elements
and conditions to produce life” and “possessing an underwhelming number of moons.”

It rotated on its axis, the same as every Wednesday, and one great, vast hemisphere slipped
from early evening into evening proper.

But that’s the tricky thing about the earth: it’s round. And even if the so-called Flat Earthers
might stubbornly disagree whilst performing experiments that accidentally disprove their
own theories, current prevailing thought and mountains of evidence put the shape as
spherical. So, until someone manages to locate the edge, we’ve all got to live under the
oppressive regime of time zones.

Therefore, evening proper in Stoke-on-Trent (which even Flat Earthers can agree is not the
centre of the universe) might look differently depending on where in the world you’re
located.

For example, as the first demon burst from the floorboards of Mr and Mrs Price’s living
room, the day had just begun in French Polynesia, and Tahitians went about their mornings
blessedly unaware that a place such as Stoke-on-Trent existed. At the Northeast Science
Station in Siberia, researchers took a six a.m. break from studying how living in total
darkness during the winter months can negatively impact a person's mental health, and forced
themselves to eat breakfast while trying not to think about how nothing seemed to matter
anymore.

In Salem, Massachusetts, it was three p.m. on Halloween, and any Puritanical time travellers
could be forgiven for thinking they'd arrived in Hell instead of the future. In Melbourne, it
was altogether Thursday.
 And at two o’clock in the afternoon at the Sandals Montego Bay Resort in Jamaica,
Hermione and Draco flung open the curtains in their pre-paid honeymoon suite and looked
out at the pristine white sands and day-drinking tourists in mute horror.

Chapter End Notes

You're probably thinking, what the hell, OB? Why does a chapter titled 'The Truth'
contain a conspicuous lack of it? And that is because I get off on being withholding. I
think Alexandra's notes for this chapter were mostly just her yelling at me in all caps.

Huge thanks to Art_emis for the astrology consult. (I am one of those people who likes
astrology but doesn't really Believe in it. In unrelated news, I wrote every word of this
fic lying on the couch in a position my husband affectionately refers to as "carc-ing,"
which is short for carcass, and why yes I am a Taurus, why do you ask?)

Chekhov’s Portkey first appears in Chapter 9, when Lilith begs it off an unsuspecting
Ministry employee in the hopes of sending Draco and Hermione on a romantic holiday
together (step four of her nine-point plan). I found it immensely satisfying for M.M.
(another Muggle) to finish what she started. She really does have an astonishing sense of
timing, though.

One final chapter! And as you might have guessed, it’s a big one. We’ve got a lot of plot
threads to tie up into pretty bows.

I cannot even express how much I've enjoyed sharing this journey with you. Thank you,
thank you for being here.

NEXT WEEK: A prophecy is fulfilled.

 The End of the World As We Know It
Chapter Notes

And away we go.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry Potter was having a record-breaking bad week, and if you knew even the barest facts of
his life, you’d understand the seriousness of that statement.

It began, as many bad weeks often did, with an existential crisis at work.

He’d been sitting at his desk, surrounded by stacks of expense reports and personnel files,
when it struck him that maybe being the youngest ever Head Auror wasn’t such a good thing
after all. The title and position, while earned, had been offered with a compensatory
undertone that made it clear that any outstanding debts had just been settled: Harry had nearly
died in a host of creative ways in service of the wizarding world, and the Ministry had
provided an office with a door.

And now that office was where he spent nearly all his waking hours, assigning away all the
interesting work to Aurors still on active duty and approving timesheets until his fingers
cramped and ink permanently stained the lines of his palms. Sometimes, when the door was
closed, he would look around the cluttered room and think to himself, I can’t believe I peaked
at seventeen.

Home was different, though, or at least it had been until recently. When he stepped through
the Floo at the end of each day, his mind felt light and unplagued by the occasional intrusive
thought that his desk would be his tomb someday.

Home was his temple. Narcissa had entered it like a conquistador bearing swords and
smallpox.

Even when she wasn’t sitting stiffly on his favourite floral loveseat, coercing Ginny into
doing Merlin only knew what in her fanatical effort to marry off her only son to a dubiously
willing partner, the symptoms of her presence were everywhere.

Ginny became wholly preoccupied with thoughts of Hermione and Draco, and had little time
for Harry. And James, who was still in that sponge-like state of early childhood, had replaced
his once-favourite word (no!) with Narcissa’s lip curl of displeasure, forcing Harry to
acknowledge there was probably a bit of Black and also Malfoy somewhere in his family
tree, thanks to all the inbreeding.

He’d taken to wandering the Ministry corridors like a malcontent ghost in search of
something useful to do.
That was how he found out about Stoke and the snow.

His nose drew him in. The smell of smoke wasn’t all that concerning since everyone walked
around carrying wands that doubled as firehoses, but Harry knew well how quickly fire could
spread, and their whole system of government was practically built on parchment.

As he neared the source of the smell, he heard what sounded like a frantic argument.

It’s three metres deep, they said…we’ve had to empty the bin five times today already…we
can’t…you heard what she told us…still, somebody ought to do something…

“Does somebody need an Auror?” he asked hopefully, popping his head around the
doorframe.

All three of the Improper Use of Magic Office’s assistants froze over a burning rubbish bin,
caught in the act of evidence disposal.

Harry recognised it and groaned. “What’s she doing now?” he demanded.

“Nothing!” one of the assistants squeaked, and frantically shoved a final bit of parchment
into the open flame.

But Harry wasn’t totally useless, you know. He had a wand and knew accio. The singed
remains of the paper flew over to him and he snatched it out of the air. (You could still play
Seeker if you wanted, it’s only that you’re busy, you haven’t really peaked, he told himself
sternly.)

“Snow in Stoke-on-Trent?” he said, reading the burnt parchment. “What’s that got to do with
magic? And Hermione, for that matter?”

The assistants pressed their trembling lips together and refused to answer.

But never mind them. He was an Auror, wasn’t he? The Head one, in fact.

When he told Ginny he’d be leaving for a few days on a secret mission, she kissed him
sweetly, but then asked whether he thought another dinner party might be a good idea.

I just need fresh air to clear my head, he thought as he departed.

And there it was, the final nail in the coffin.

His desk was a tomb, Ginny had let an invader into their peaceful kingdom, one of his best
friends was away at Hogwarts and the other was chasing a ferret around in endless circles,
James had begun lifting a pinky whenever he picked anything up, but worst of all:

The air in Stoke was not fresh.

So, yes. It was a record-breaking bad week.

At least there weren’t any reports to be filed in the unseasonal snowbanks.

(Although, this wasn’t really even Auror business, and he’d probably have to complete a
stack of paperwork to explain why he’d come at all instead of just leaving it up to those
blokes in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.)

He shuffled that thought beneath a stack of parchment in his mind and got to work on the
boring-but-useful job ahead of him.

Strange snow, though.

It was…resistant. Almost like it didn’t want to be vanished.

What he thought would be a short trip, easily resolved, was evolving into a bit of a mystery.
There was definitely magic afoot; he didn’t need the fact of Hermione’s involvement to tell
him that. Over the course of Harry’s life, he’d developed something of a sixth sense for dark
magic, so while he could tell that this wasn’t some evil plan to do the world a favour by
burying Stoke under a mountain of snow, the magic wasn’t entirely benign, either. It had a
kind of guilty grey tint to it, like a child who knew better. Not that a child could ever have
cast this particular spell.

He performed the standard Auror procedures of casing the area while asking carefully-
worded questions to the local population, who seemed to know less than nothing about
practically everything.

The snow started getting into his boots, despite permanent repelling charms. When finally he
managed to banish it and free the ungrateful residents from the threat of global warming's
early arrival, he vowed never to let Hermione find out how long it had taken him. And there
was still the mystery of how it had got there in the first place, a puzzle that eroded at his
mood as the days stretched on with no progress to speak of.

Finally, when the thought of remaining in Stoke another minute outweighed the dread of
returning home to discover a rude, uptight, extremely distant relative in his sitting room, he
gave up and went home.

Ginny opened the door a second before he could, as if she’d been waiting for the crack of
Apparition, and positioned herself in the open doorway like a bouncer.

“Hi! You’re back. James is with my mum, you’ve just missed him.”

She looked nervous. The emotion instantly rubbed off onto Harry.

“Oh. Were you going somewhere?” She had a sleek wool coat belted around her waist.

Fingering the trailing sash, Ginny shook her head.

“Then…can I come in?”

Harry hated the reediness of his voice, the shuffle of his feet on the doorstep. You would’ve
thought he didn’t live there. You would’ve thought, wow, now there’s a pathetic specimen. I
wonder what he’s done? Probably so many terrible things, he doesn’t even remember which
one his wife is currently angry with him over.
He wondered if maybe he had.

“Ginny,” he began worriedly, but she stopped him with a hand.

“I have something to tell you,” she told him, and his heart sank further, if possible.

“This is incredibly difficult for me to say,” she went on.

His heart took up a shovel and began excavating.

Her fingers traced the stitching on the sash. “It’s just that I thought I could make it work, and
you know I tried, I really did…”

“Ginny,” Harry said, dread curdling in the place where his heart had once been. “Please just
tell me what’s going on. I’ve had a terrible week and you’re really starting to scare me.”

She seemed to take note of his expression for the first time, and her eyes widened. “Oh! I just
realised how that sounded. Of course I’m not leaving you, you idiot. I’m only trying to tell
you that you were…you were…right.” She nearly gagged on the word. “Fuck, that was
awful.”

Harry sagged a little against the doorframe. “I was right?”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” she said peevishly. “I can admit when I’m wrong.”

The sudden return of his vital organs to their proper places left him lightheaded. “Yeah, it
sounded very natural. But what was I right about?”

She waved her hand to encompass the general scope of her errors in judgement.

“Oh, you know. Meddling. I shouldn’t have; I think I made it worse.”

Harry’s chest swelled. She was the salve to all of his wounds: exhaustion, worry, excessive
time spent in a droll town with a noticeable lack of economic prosperity, and age-related
existential dread. And anything she couldn’t heal, the words you were right had just patched
right up.

He hooked a finger into the belt of her coat to pull her forward. “Oh? I wonder who could
have predicted that?”

She bit down on her lip, smiling up through her lashes at him. “I’ve learned my lesson, and
I’m really sorry. I’m going to mind my own business from now on.”

He grinned down at her, green eyes darkened by the evening shadows. “No, you’re not.”

“I am! I even closed the Floo,” she told him. “No more visits from you-know-who.”

“Merlin, Ginny, can you please not call people—”

With a flick of her wrist, the sash fell free, taking her coat with it.
Like Venus on a shell she stood, a curtain of fiery, silken hair the only thing left between her
skin and the crisp night air. Lit from behind in the open doorway, she was nearly blinding.
Harry sucked in a breath and held it, eyes sweeping over her rounded shoulders, the pale
curve of her hip, her pink nipples taut with cold.

Then it came to him that she was utterly naked, practically in public, and they had
neighbours.

“Ginny!” he cried, and, spreading his cloak out like bat wings, jealously guarded her from
view.

She laughed as she ran a remorseless hand down his chest, and then a little further. “I missed
you like mad. And I heard you had a bad week. Let’s see if we can’t do something about
that.”

They barely made it through the door.

---

While Ginny and Harry peaked in one of those rare simultaneous events that are mostly the
provenance of literature aimed at women, Hermione was having her own nerve-trembling,
palm-sweating experience half the world over.

A panic attack, you might call it.

Ragged huffs of breath fogged the glass as she pressed her nose to the window. She stopped
hyperventilating just long enough to wipe it clear.

Outside, a family of five occupied several lounge chairs by the water. The oldest child
seemed keen on fratricide, attempting to bury his brother's head in the sand while the mother
drank something out of a coconut and idly flipped the pages of her romance novel. The father
snoozed beside her, the top of his round, shirtless belly slowly reddening in the sun.

It was not the English sun, that much was evident.

“These people are all going to die if we don’t get back! How could Kingsley have made such
a terrible mistake?”

When Draco didn’t answer, she turned to find him standing like a statue before the bed,
staring down at it speechlessly.

It was conspicuously singular, a great big four-poster thing. Someone had spread scarlet rose
petals in the shape of a heart in the centre.

“I don’t think it was a mistake,” he said in a strangled voice.

She forcibly dragged her thoughts out of their downward spiral and came to stand beside him
at the tip of the fragrant abomination. Resting neatly in the centre, a card printed on hotel
stationary read:
Welcome to Jamaica! We’ll fetch you in a few days. Do try to have your issues worked out by
then. The wardrobe is stocked with everything you’ll need. Enjoy your stay!

Below it, an amendment in Kingsley’s scribbled hand:

This is your own fault.

Hermione’s breathing picked back up.

“This is wildly inappropriate! If Human Resources finds out he used government funds to
trap us in a hotel room at a Muggle resort with a – a bed…” She choked on the word.

Draco finally snapped out of his horrified trance. He brandished his wand and, looking
pointedly away from her, summoned his patronus.

Nothing happened.

“How is that meant to work? It will take days for a patronus to cross the ocean, surely!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried again. “Expecto patronum!”

The silvery fox didn’t emerge.

“I think you might need a happier memory,” she said unhelpfully.

Grey eyes slid over her and darted away again. “I don’t have a happier memory than that
one.” The admission looked as though it caused physical pain as the veritaserum dragged it
from his throat.

“What—”

“You know perfectly well that I’ll have to tell you if you ask. Don’t.”

Hermione pursed her lips and cast her own unsuccessful patronus. They didn’t look at one
another.

The pile of rose petals mocked her from the bed. We know all about your fake happy
memories, they said. Wouldn’t you like to create some fake new ones?

“Evanesco,” she snapped at them. They didn’t budge.

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

---

Unable to wait until even the next day to learn whether her son was engaged to be married or
still somewhat of a disappointment, Narcissa sent her fastest owl to Hogwarts. It returned
shortly.
Small mishap with the veritaserum. We’ve all been dosed – did you know you can’t even lie in
writing if you’ve taken enough? I’ve tried this letter five times. Please don’t come here,
they’ve just gone to Stoke-on-Trent of all places – eurgh – something about demons?? – but
they’re so loaded up with the stuff they’ll have no choice but to talk soon. Tell my sister I’m
never helping her again. Disaster of an evening.

Well, that was just wonderful. Another problem for her to solve.

Narcissa tried to take the Floo to 12 Grimmauld Place, found she was unable to, then drew
out a fresh sheet of parchment to draft another letter.

And that would have to do it.

She wasn’t about to go traipsing off to save the world herself.

Who did they think she was, Harry bloody Potter?

---

Theo knocked, then shivered for a full three minutes in the late October air before the door
conceded to open.

“No need to ask what you’ve been up to while I stood out here in the cold,” he said,
surveying Ginny’s flushed cheeks and general dishevelment. “You had to close your Floo for
a little midweek romp with the Boy Wonder?”

She grinned, drawing her housecoat closer at the neck. “I tend to keep a G.I.T.-free household
these days.”

“Well, thanks for that, because Narcissa’s gone and made me the messenger boy. She
probably would’ve come herself, but I don’t believe she’s ever knocked on a front door
before.” His lips pulled to one side in thought. “Actually, there’s a chance she doesn’t know
how.”

“Did the veritaserum work, then? Is our collective nightmare over?”

“Veritaserum? Oh, I can’t wait to learn what that’s about. But no, she said to tell your
husband he’s on world-saving duty again.” He shrugged. “The end of the world is apparently
nigh, and, for some unfathomable reason, Stoke-on-Trent is the epicentre and Narcissa
Malfoy its herald.”

Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Figures she’d think a bit of snow was the end of the world.”

He snorted. “I take it I can stop worrying?” he asked, looking the very picture of unbothered.

“Yes, he’s just been earlier today, and all is well. I’m curious though…” She put her head to
one side and observed him speculatively. “If the world was really ending…”
“Oh, no. Why do I feel a W.A.N.K. approaching?”

“If you can honestly say you wouldn’t have any regrets, I’ll drop it. But if the world was
ending, I know I’d regret not telling you to get over yourself and apologise. He really misses
you, you know.” Taking a step back over the threshold, she grasped the doorknob. “And now
I’ll say goodnight because I’ve just broken a promise I made not twenty minutes ago to stop
meddling. I suppose I’ve got to go and redo my own apology.”

“Oh?” There was a twinkle in her eyes he wasn’t sure he liked.

“Indeed.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I recommend turning up at his door
starkers. It worked for me.”

Theo stood outside Grimmauld Place until his toes went numb in his boots.

If the world was really ending…

It wasn’t, of course. That was just Naricssa getting worked up over things that didn’t concern
her.

But if it was.

If it was, and he only had tonight, he’d…

He’d…

In the end, he only took part of Ginny’s advice. It wouldn’t do to be presumptuous.

---

They argued over their options while looking anywhere but at the garish display of petals.

The best one turned out to be completely mad, and Hermione had to clap her hand over her
mouth to keep from bursting out into panicked laughter that would, she was sure, shortly be
followed by great wracking sobs. She felt on the very precipice of a mental breakdown.
Draco’s hand snaked out on no fewer than six occasions but he caught it every time, jerking it
back from her shoulder before it made contact.

“If this doesn’t work, I can think of worse places to spend the apocalypse,” he said with
forced lightness as they exited their room.

There was a pronounced wobble in Hermione’s stride as they crossed a sunlit lobby filled
with smiling holidayers. She couldn’t stop herself from cataloguing their faces as she passed:
the American honeymooners (dead soon; her fault), a group of sweaty Europeans stumbling
out of a taxi out front (dead soon; her fault), a pinched-looking woman wondering loudly
why she’d only been given four beach towels instead of the five she specifically requested
(dead soon; feeling peevish, she assigned this one to Draco).

“I’ve never broken the Statute of Secrecy before. If this works, do you think we’ll lose our
jobs?” she asked, hurrying to match his long strides toward the pool bar. It was packed with
people, which was the idea.

“We have, actually,” he corrected her reluctantly. “We sent a Muggle to Hogwarts.”

She sniffled against her sleeve.

Draco’s hand spasmed toward her again. He shoved it into his pocket.

The couples around the bar were plastered to their seats, having started their day with a
daiquiri (which contains fruit; part of a healthy breakfast) and were now well into their tenth
rum punch.

Sitting on a barstool all day in paradise has a kind of bonding effect, the same way surviving
a traumatic experience together does, like going to war, or being stuck on a tarmac for an
hour after your plane’s landed. The pool bar’s dozen occupants had been strangers that
morning. Now they were following each other on social media and had an inside joke about a
parrot.

Draco cleared his throat as they approached.

The bar patrons turned at once to greet their new best friends, and he faltered. It occurred to
Hermione that purposefully embarrassing himself in front of perfect strangers directly
contravened Draco’s upbringing and every aspect of his personality.

She pulled herself together and stepped forward.

“Hello. Are any of you witches or wizards? The world is about to end and I need to get a
message to Harry Potter immediately.”

The day drinkers were delighted. They raised their coconuts in a raucous salute.

“It’s true,” she insisted. “I literally cannot lie.”

“Who’s your supplier?” one of them shouted amiably.

Hermione did her level best not to engage in any petulant foot-stomping.

“Pardon me,” she said, turning to a bartender in a blue-striped uniform. “Do you have a
phone we can use? I need to call whoever runs this country.”

The woman sighed wearily and pulled a bottle of water from a cooler.

“Drink water, eat a snack, and sleep it off,” she advised pragmatically.

“We’re telling the truth,” Hermione said urgently. “There was a prophecy about demons
walking the earth and everyone dying. We were supposed to stop it but we adopted the wrong
girl.” She looked pleadingly around at the drinkers. “It could be happening any minute! We
have to get in touch with the British Prime Minister.”
The drinkers were forced to confront their own inadequacy in the face of Hermione’s
impressive inebriation. Alcohol began to disappear rapidly through pink and purple straws.

Draco leaned in but didn’t bother lowering his voice. “They’re Muggles, Granger. How’s
your wandless magic?”

“Good idea. How about…that?” Her eye landed on a machine that sat on the bar, whirling
and humming as it mixed rum and artificial flavouring together into a frozen, sugary sludge.

“What is that thing?”

“You can’t have any. You would love it too much, and it would become a problem I’d have to
save you from.”

She raised her voice to recapture the attention of the drinkers while Draco eyed the frozen
drink longingly.

“We have real magic, and we will now demonstrate! Behold.”

He rolled his eyes at the dramatics but watched in admiration as she sharpened her focus in
the direction of the unwitting frozen drink machine with a muttered confrigo.

Something popped within. It shuddered once and fell still.

“NO!” The drinkers gasped at the shocking loss.

“Party foul,” one of them told Hermione reproachfully.

The woman seated closest to the machine stroked it mournfully. “You’ll be missed.”

Someone suggested a toast in its honour. Coconuts went up.

“Farewell, Frozy, our eternal frosty companion. You freezer of brains, you…”

“Icer of esphoguses?” someone suggested.

“May your memory be a blessing, and may we not remember this tomorrow.”

There was a brief moment of silence punctuated only by the sounds of straws scraping the
bottom of cups.

“Come on, then. There’s another bar around the corner.”

As one, they peeled themselves from their stools and stumbled in a herd formation around the
perimeter of the pool.

When they were gone, the bartender smacked the machine with the side of her hand. “Just
look at what you’ve done,” she admonished.

“Everyone just thinks we’re drunk,” Hermione moaned, slumping onto a recently-unoccupied
stool.
Draco settled in beside her, inspecting the faintly sticky bartop closely before resting a
tentative forearm against it.

“No, I don’t think they suspect alcohol. Though, I can’t say I blame them.” He looked over at
the bartender, who was committing the interaction to memory so it could be brought up later
as supporting evidence for why she deserved a raise. “Where’s your Ministry? Kingston? Can
we walk there from here?”

The bartender blinked at him in displeasure.

“Well, that’s alright. If Jamaica's wizarding government is half as organised as ours,

someone’ll be here soon.”

[It was easily less than half as organised. All eleven employees of the Ministry of Magic in
Kingston were on an extended lunch break that had begun the day before.]

Hermione shifted anxiously on the seat beside him. “So what? Are we just supposed to wait
here while demons take over Britain and kill everyone?”

Draco’s mouth flattened out. One of his eyes began twitching.

“Are you trying not to say ‘yes’ right now?”

All of his breath left him in a woosh. “Yes. Merlin, that’s a lot of veritaserum. It must be fully
metabolised by now; I can hardly keep my mouth shut.”

Hermione felt overheated and ice cold all at once. Though they’d shed their coats in the hotel
suite and Draco was down to his shirtsleeves, they’d dressed that day with the expectation of
a Hogwarts autumn. Sweat made itself at home between her skin and the cashmere of her
jumper. She pulled at her collar in agitation.

“I think we’re going to die.”

“Hermione…”

“I don’t want to die!”

“We’re not going to die.” He paused, frowning. “Well, apparently I actually believe that. I’m
not sure why, even. It just seems impossible that Potter won’t swoop in at the last moment
and save everyone. It’s his favourite activity.”

“I don’t think anyone’s coming for us.”

“No, I don’t believe they are.”

“Oh god. Lilith—”

“Gemma, you mean.”

“We just left her there!”

“We left her at Hogwarts. There isn’t a safer place.”

“We adopted the wrong child.”

“Well…that’s indisputably true.”

“We made every imaginable mistake.”

Draco’s expression grew solemn as he watched her features twisting up in misery. “I know I
have.”

Panic tightened its laces around her chest. The tears, which she’d been holding at bay through
sheer force of will, surfaced and spilled over, unrestrained.

“The world is going to end because of us,” she said hollowly. “And I am going to die here of
all places, with you, of all people.”

He was silent for a full minute. Cheerful music drifted, unwanted, from the ceiling-mounted
bar speakers, and she resentfully awarded it the title of her all-time least favourite song.

…don’t worry…about a thing…

“Is that it, then?” he finally said, voice tight. “You can’t stand the thought of being stuck here
with me?”

She hiccoughed and wiped angrily at her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper.

…cause every little thing…is gonna be alright…

“I can’t think of anything worse,” she said.

…singing don't worry…about a thing…

“Then I don’t understand why you left,” he said bitterly, staring down at his clenched fists.
“When you thought I was marrying Pansy, you left. I can't see why you would do that.”

“What is there to understand?” She was sobbing now, furious. “You don’t want to be here
with me, and I don’t want to spend my last moments with someone who hates me!”

Draco looked stricken. His hand went to his hair, gripped a tight handful, then released.

“Come on,” he said, standing sharply. “We’re going back to the room.”

“Why?” she asked, but didn’t object when he put a hand under her elbow to draw her away.

“We’re going to have a very overdue conversation. And I refuse to do it while listening to
this fucking music.”

---
If, for some reason, you ever want to make a man feel capable and important, you should do
the thing that Ginny had just done.

“I think I’m going to take another crack at it,” Harry said, as his breathing returned to normal.
“There’s something going on in Stoke, I can feel it.”

“What, right now?”

---

Draco walked at her pace, leaning in but never touching. A pulsing pressure behind his eyes
warned him if he didn’t hurry, he’d end up screaming the truth at her in the hotel lobby,
which would probably not make her any more amenable to accepting it.

He’d held it safe within the creases of his heart for years. What was another thirty seconds?

In the room, Hermione sat sullenly on the end of the bed, exhausted, tear-streaked, and worn
out by the knowledge of their failure.

He could – truthfully – state that he did not care one ounce for the rest of the world at that
moment. His entire universe was sitting in front of him.

Draco took in the entirety of her.

His brilliant counterpart, his best friend, the object of all his desires and the eternal rock in
his shoe. His favourite adversary; his most treasured enemy. He would not lie to her again,
not even if they had a million lifetimes left on this earth instead of a few veritaserum-filled
hours.

He knelt at her feet.

“Hermione, I don’t hate you. Quite the opposite, actually.”

---

There’s a trite saying that, on its surface, seemed as though it ought to have applied:

The truth will set you free.

Instead, Hermione just felt stymied by it.

Her mind worked overtime to intellectualise her way through two contradictory truths: that
the veritaserum wouldn’t begin to wear off for hours yet, and that somehow, he had just lied
to her again.

Unable to reconcile them through brute force, she fell back into familiar patterns.

“You hate me,” she insisted, shaking her head.

He reached forward to wrap his hands around her own.

“Think about it. You know I must be telling the truth.”

“But you said – you don't even want to be friends,” she objected.

He looked at her meaningfully, and her face flooded with heat.

“But…no, you’ve always told me you hated me…and the pranks…”

“The pranks, Hermione, what do you think those were? Running after you, begging for your
attention like a child. Surely you can see that if I hated you, I would’ve avoided you, refused
to work with you. I wouldn’t have pursued a job for the sole purpose of being near you—”

“You didn’t!” She pulled her hands free and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes to
stem a fresh flow of tears. “That's not possible! You didn’t! You – you…”

“Always asking the wrong question. Ask me why I took that job.” His fingers slid around her
knees and tightened. “Go on.”

“Why?”

“It’s true that I didn’t like you, not then. But when I heard you took the job, my first thought
was that somebody ought to keep an eye on her before she consolidates too much power. My
second thought was that I’d be mad to let anyone else be the one to do it. I wanted it to be
me. I wanted to be the one fighting with you over Muggle nonsense—”

She sniffled loudly. “It isn’t nonsense!”

“I wanted to be the one giving you grief in your office. I wanted to be the one taking up too
much space on your sofa. I wanted to be the one to watch you write endless lists and
challenge you over silly topics and flirt with you just to annoy you.”

“But that’s just it!” she cried, running her fingers beneath her eyes, again and again. “How
am I to believe you? The flirting, the way you’d always touch me…You’ve made it
impossible to trust that any of this is real!”

“Then please, allow me to set the record straight,” he said, without hesitation. “I love you.”

It was as though every one of his muscles had been conscripted into the effort of holding it in,
and now that the words had left his body, they could finally relax. He looked nearly delirious
with the relief of it.

“If that means I've lost,” he went on, “and you want to make me suffer for it while the whole
world goes to shit, just know that you cannot do worse to me than I've done to myself. When
I think of the years wasted when I could have simply opened my eyes…”

Unburdened and empty, he leaned forward to rest his cheek against her thighs in supplication.

“It's over. You win. You can have anything you want of me, or nothing at all, if that's what
you prefer. I'm yours, anyway. This whole time, I've been yours.”
Her fingers twitched. She didn’t suppress the urge, because it wouldn’t have been truthful to
hold anything back now. They slid through his hair and stroked the back of his neck.

“You haven't lost,” she told him.

“I haven't?”

“No. I have.”

“I don't understand.”

"You said it first.”

“Please be clear with me,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need the truth, all of it. No
matter what it is.”

“You said it first,” she said again. “So you won. I love you, too.”

He turned his face into her lap and, for a long moment, just breathed into the fabric of her
skirt.

When he found the strength to lift his head up to look at her, she was already moving.

Their mouths collided, pulled back by millimetres, and came together again with all the
gentleness two starving creatures could manage.

“Draco,” she said against his mouth, and then again, low and guttural. “Draco.”

It was not ambiguous.

He wrenched her from her seated position and tumbled her backwards onto the bed. Crushed
petals drifted beneath his hands as he climbed with steady determination back into that
coveted position above her, the full length of her body pressing alongside his.

“Tell me again,” he demanded.

“I love you.”

She pulled him down with fistfuls of his shirt. He gladly obliged, and for a while they
occupied themselves in their mission to take shelter beneath each other’s skin while rose-
scented desire thickened the air around them.

But they couldn’t stay that way for long. It was too hot, and they were both dressed for late
October in Scotland.

Draco’s hands slid beneath her cream jumper, finding flesh, then lace, then flesh again as he
liberated her warm brown skin from the constraints of out-of-season knitwear.

“Merlin, Hermione.”
She flushed prettily as he stroked one hand across her ribcage, relishing the utter freedom of
the action. He could look without pretending he didn’t want to. He could touch without
cloaking his desire within stratagem. He did both as if fearing the liberty might be snatched
from him at any moment.

“We’re both still wearing too much,” she told him, gasping as his hand found its way beneath
the hem of her skirt.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

He pulled her down the pillows and laid her out before him, settling between her bent knees
as she got to work on the buttons of his shirt. But her hands, shaky with adrenaline and the
desperate need to be everywhere all at once, were too slow, and he soon pulled away to shuck
shirt, then trousers, then briefs.

“You’re the best part of my life,” he told her, locating her zipper and easing the skirt down
over her hips. “The very best part.”

Oh, she thought abstractedly. The truth really does set you free.

For years, Hermione had encased herself within rock-hard layers of pride and obstinance, a
protective measure against the inevitable sharp stop that follows a fall. But it was fear that
she wore closest to her skin. Fear that clung like mud, blinding her to what was directly in
front of her. It was not the general fear of unrequited heartache, but a specific dread of him,
and the truth that lurked unacknowledged in the liminal edges of her consciousness: that for
years, her heart had thrummed, not within her chest, but between his hands like a soft,
trapped thing.

There had never been any defence against him, only the hope that he never noticed what it
was that he held.

She offered it to him now willingly, and let his words wash her clean.

“Say more things,” she asked him, head tipping back to receive the truth he poured into her
like communion.

From the foot of the bed, he looked up at her, eyes soft and adoring.

“I must be the biggest idiot who ever lived. How did I fail to see what was right there?
Merlin, I’m such a fool.”

Hermione panted as his lips traced a path up the inside of her knee. “Say more.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long. I think you knew that.”

“I knew. I was afraid. I thought it didn’t mean anything to you, not like what it meant to me. I
thought—” She arched in a spasm of movement as he pressed a kiss over the fabric between
her legs. “I thought you would ruin me.”
He paused, fingers hooked around the waistband of her knickers, and met her heavy gaze. If
the truth pooled in her limbs like water, it crackled on a pier inside him. His touch burned
bright and hot with the flame of it.

“I want to ruin you.” He tugged. “I want you to ruin me.”

“But you won’t hurt me after. You won’t use it against me.”

His mouth grazed just above her hipbone and her toes curled in response.

“Never, Hermione. Never.”

“I love veritaserum. Say more.”

“I love you.”

Moving without thought, her legs wound around his waist, nesting him directly between her
parted thighs. With immense effort, he resisted.

“Your turn. Is this for me?” One thumb rubbed a teasing circle over the white lace still
covering her right breast, her nipple pebbling under his touch.

“It always has been.”

“You’re perfect,” he informed her, then reached behind her to liberate more skin for his
consumption. Once freed, she flung the bra at the wall as if it had personally offended her.

“Just look at you.” His jaw dragged a path up the side of one soft breast and then across the
other. “Say more.”

“I feel as though I've been reunited with a part of myself I didn't know was missing. Do you
feel it?”

She took his hand and rested it together with hers over her heart. Beneath the thudding pulse
in his own fingertips, he registered her galloping heart. Hers was faster; his more unsteady.

“I feel it,” he murmured. “Say more things.”

"I love you, Draco."

As one, their pulses lurched into a measure of double time. He took his hand away and
presented a solemn pinky.

“Pinky promise this is real?”

Her face fell at once, and the heartbeat in his chest careened to a halt. “Oh, dear.”

"What?"

“I'm afraid the pinky promise is meaningless. That was a prank.”

He looked at his outstretched finger in outrage.

"It’s redundant, anyway."

“I should’ve been drugging you with veritaserum from the start. But please, say it. I need to
be sure.”

“It’s real! It’s real. I swear—”

Nothing at all remained between them: no secrets, no lies, and not a scrap of fabric. He
perused her body lazily, enjoying the total freedom as his hands moved down her side; wound
through her hair; crested the peak of her breast; cupped her calf to pull her legs open for him.

When, for the third time, he ghosted the pad of his thumb in an exploratory circle between
her legs, she grew impatient.

“I’m on the potion,” she gasped nonsensically, forgetting that such concerns were usually
reserved for people who had a future to worry about, and slid her hand below his navel to
grip him authoritatively.

He thought he might go blind. It was addictive, her touch. He could spend a happy eternity
giving himself over to her in whatever way she wanted.

They didn’t have an eternity.

“Tell me more,” he croaked, desperate to eke every drop of truth from her lips while he was
still alive to do so.

Hermione pulled back to look at him with shining eyes. “If the world doesn’t end tonight, I
want to move back in with you. Your room this time.”

“That’s easily arranged. What else do you want?”

“I want to sit on your face. Oh my god.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean
– Ginny said – we don’t have to—”

But there’s no undoing the truth with half a vial of veritaserum rocketing through one’s
bloodstream, so the rest of her words wouldn’t come.

“Fucking hell,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t you dare try to take that back. We do have to. In fact,
I insist on it.”

In a flash, he was on his back with her astride. He looked up at her and just…looked.

“You’re so beautiful. You have no idea how long I've spent wishing – FUCK!”

She made a halfhearted attempt to draw back in alarm. His hands tightened on her hips and
didn't let her.

“What’s wrong?”
“I just realised we could’ve been doing this for years. Years, Hermione. I am so stupid, I—”

She laughed. “Alright, you can stop talking now!”

Grinning wolfishly up at her, he clamped his hands around her bare thighs and nudged her
forward. “Climb up here and make me, you minx.”

Sighing fondly, she did.

It was, by a landslide, a preferable death to anything a demon might’ve orchestrated:

smothered between her soft thighs, drowning in a flood of heat and lust while she stretched
and writhed above him. But much as he might’ve wanted to spend his last moments there, she
shuddered and broke with a surprising speed, riding out the final aftershocks against the flat
of his tongue before draping herself back against his chest.

“I thought about that a lot,” she admitted between heaving breaths.

It had been a very, very long time coming. Draco was glad the windows were closed. A stiff
breeze could’ve knocked him over, so to speak.

As if wishing to test his resolve, her hand wound back around him while he traced the curve
of her hip with steady, teasing strokes.

“Don’t,” he said, eyes squeezing shut, but his traitorous hips bucked up into her palm. “It’ll
be a massive blow to my ego if I can’t make it past the opening act.”

She laughed softly and took pity on him. Lying back against the pillows, she allowed him, for
once, complete control. He seized it, looping one arm beneath her knee to spread her further
for him.

“You’re beautiful. My brilliant, perfect, infuriating witch. Say you won’t leave me again.”

Taking his face in her hands, she nodded once.

“I won’t. Not ever,” she said, and brought his lips to hers as he pressed into her.

Finally.

The word hung unsaid in the air between them. They were insensible with it, drunk on the
relief of laying down arms, of winning, and losing, and not caring in the slightest which was
which.

Finally.

He buried his face in her hair and moved inside her at a torturously slow pace, driven by the
need to savour every solitary second.

Finally.
She said it back to him, wordlessly, as she wrapped her legs around his hips to pull him
further into herself.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

Only when she begged him did he concede to increase his pace, and, truth falling from his
lips like diamonds across her skin, he brought them both hurtling together over a precipice.

They loved. It was enough, and yet how could they ever have enough of it?

In his arms again some minutes later, she trembled, and nearly cried, suddenly overwhelmed
and overcome by the sheer shock of finding him now, when it was very nearly too late.

“You were right there,” she said, again and again, her cheek rubbing into the firm valley of
his chest. “You were right there, and we wasted so much time being stupid.”

“I’m here now,” he promised her. “I’m right here with you.”

Perhaps they had minutes to live before a girl in Stoke-on-Trent fulfilled a prophecy. Perhaps
some deus ex machina would appear to do battle with demons on their behalf. Perhaps the
world was never in any danger other than the steady, creeping lap of waves against
increasingly higher ground. Perhaps a butterfly had just flapped its wings in Indonesia and
soon an earthquake in Nebraska would disable the cache of nuclear weapons stored below
ground there, finally giving the Russians their opportunity to do something about the problem
of too many humans.

It was out of their hands now. She clung to his shoulders as he rolled them together over a sea
of perfumed petals and told her he loved her and she believed him.

---

The demons that appeared through the floor of the Prices’ front room were probably hoping
for a reception involving a lot of satisfactory wailing and crying and gnashing of teeth.

If so, they misjudged the human brain’s capacity to adapt to new stimuli when it was being
violently shoved at them. Therefore, they were forced to wait in somewhat awkward silence
until Pansy gathered her wits enough to scream.

It was an excellent scream, though. They were very pleased.

Neville sprinted back to the room, followed by Mrs Price and, somewhat later due to his
creaky knees, Mr Price.

At once, Mrs Price fainted dead away while her husband discovered that his joints weren’t
that bad after all, and fairly sprinted for the exit.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Pansy was screaming. She actually hadn’t stopped yet.

“It’s alright, they’re in the pentagram,” Gemma reminded her. “Haven’t you done this
before?”
The demons opened their mouths. Or, at least, they opened the spaces where a mouth should
have been. The voices that poured from them sounded as though a boys' choir had been
instructed to just pick a random high note.

THY MORTAL BONDS CANNOT CONTAIN US.

They moved, and it was a sight more terrible than any a human eye had ever witnessed. The
white chalk lines of the pentagram smudged beneath them as they headed for Gemma.

Neville shot his arm out, hoping to – he didn’t know what. Grab her and run for it? Shove her
behind himself and squeeze his eyes shut?

But Gemma stepped forward and his fingers closed on air.

“STOP,” she commanded, a hand held out in front of her.

The writhing mass of blackened limbs and wings oozed to a stop mere feet away.

Understanding crackled through the air.

Whatever monsters had been unleashed, they obeyed her.

“Back up,” Gemma told them sternly, and they skulked back into the pentagram without
protest.

Her lips twitched with pride.

She’d summoned the demons in the same way an artist summons a painting onto canvas.
Shaped from her morbid imagination and the religious overtones of her upbringing, they
hadn’t so much come forth from the bowels of Hell as they had popped into existence on a
whim.

Kind of like a really, really powerful illusion charm. Well-behaved illusions, at that.

You can think of them like horrific-looking pets, the kind that might appear in an Ugly Dog
of the Month calendar alongside a pug that had survived a house fire. Each was more
creatively gruesome than the last. There was the classic half-man, half-goat variety (which is
a lot more disturbing in person), one with flesh dripping from its bones like lava, and another
with molten eyes and acrid, steaming breath and claws the length of your arm.

Neville kept trying to shield Pansy’s body with his own, forcing her to wedge her head into
his armpit to see better.

“What are they?” she shrieked. Her overwrought brain couldn’t seem to pick a spell to try
first.

Gemma turned to her in confusion. “Well…they’re demons, aren’t they? You told me to
summon them!”

“But…” She stared up at them, outraged. “Demons don’t exist!”

“Erm,” said Neville, looking at the hard evidence. “Wait a minute, you summoned demons
with my gran’s wand?”

Pansy grabbed a fistful of his shirt and shook him roughly.

“SHE IS A WITCH, NEVILLE!”

“Oh. Oh…”

Gemma eyed them worriedly. “Yeah, but you knew that already. Did I make you forget by
accident?”

Neville began to remove his glasses to clean them – now seemed like the appropriate time for
a nervous habit – but decided he didn’t want to be sight impaired for any length of time in the
demons’ presence.

“Merlin, we didn’t know you were a real witch!” he told her. “We’ve been teaching you fake
spells this whole time!”

Gemma’s mouth fell open.

Pansy, who did not wish to spend any more time gazing upon the putrid composition of
drippy flesh and matted fur in the room with them, began banging her head against the wall
of Neville’s chest in frustration.

“I don’t know how this could’ve happened. If you were a witch, you should’ve received your
Hogwarts letter. You should be at school right now!”

Gemma’s mouth snapped shut again.

In the centre of the pentagram, the demons shuffled their feet (if they had them), impatient to
get started on world destruction.

THOU HAST SUMMONED US FROM THE BOWELS OF HELL. WHAT IS THY WILL?

“Hell?” screeched Pansy. “What hell?”

“Oh…erm, the Catholic one, I guess?” Gemma ventured. Then, to the demons, she added, “I
didn’t really have a plan. What can you do?”

FOR THEE, MISTRESS, THE RIVERS SHALL RUNNETH BLACK WITH BLOOD. THY
THRONE SHALL BE FORGED BY THE BONES OF THE DOOMED. WE SHALL LAY
THE ASHES OF THIS ONCE MOST WONDROUS NATION AT THINE FEET—

“Incarcerous,” tried Neville, with an unoptimistic wave of his wand. The demons turned to
him, and within the endless abscess of their eyes, he watched the fall of a thousand empires
and the enslavement of humankind for all eternity.

He lowered his wand hesitantly.

“No thanks, I don’t want any of that,” Gemma told them. “I think I should like for you to go
away now.”

MISTRESS, WE BESEECH THEE. GRANT US LEAVE TO CONQUER THIS WORLD IN

THY NAME.

“Please don’t, actually,” Neville croaked.

The demons shuddered in fury. HOLD THY TONGUE, WEAKLING.

“I’ve quite had it with you,” Pansy snapped. “He is not weak.”

Neville shot her an appreciative look.

WE SHALL BRINGEST HELL UPON THIS EARTH AND YE SHALL TREMBLE

BEFORE US. THE FIRES OF OUR DESTRUCTION SHALL BURN FOR ONE
THOUSAND YEARS—

Gemma wrinkled her nose. “No thanks. The earth’s alright as it is.”

MISTRESS, THOU DIDST CALL FOR US.

“Yes,” she said reasonably. “But that was before I knew you could talk.”

The winged demon ruffled his leathery appendages irritably, causing a waft of something that
smelled like roadkill pickled in sulphur to permeate the room.

Pansy pinched her nose and glowered at them, and Gemma shrugged in a way that meant
they’re biblically accurate, what did you expect?

“This is ridiculous! I refuse to die at the hands of demons that shouldn’t even exist—”

“No one said anything about dying,” Gemma muttered.

WE DID, insisted one of the demons, looking a bit put out.

In the far corner of the room, Mrs Price stirred, opened her eyes, and fainted again. Neville
helpfully levitated her to an armchair.

“Get rid of them!” Pansy demanded.

“It’s not like I know how! You’ve been teaching me fake magic, apparently, so it’s not my
fault—”

Pansy moaned. “Merlin, of course you’re a witch, just look at you!”

“Look,” interrupted Neville. “It’s just a little flick, like this…yes, that’s it. The spell is
evanesco.”

There was a sound like the buzzing of a thousand locusts as the demons opened their mouths
in protest.
BETRAYTH NOT THY LOYAL SERVANTS! BID US DESTROY THIS EARTH—

Gemma decided that if she were to have any pets, she wanted them to be small and cute like
the Prices’ yappy dogs (current occupation: barking madly at the demons’ feet, trying to bite
their scaly, pointed tails). She had little use for pets that stank of rotting flesh and talked
about world domination all the time.

“Evanesco!” she yelled, and flicked her wand just as Neville had taught her.

---

Harry burst wand-first into the room. All of his senses, which had been complimented by a
complex weave of detection spells, told him that something was happening, and not only that,
but it was happening here, in the front room of a little house on the outskirts of Stoke-on-
Trent.

Or, rather, had happened. He lowered his wand.

“Harry!” Neville blinked at him in surprise. “You got here right on time.”

“Did I?”

He looked around the room again, cataloguing the clues. A tipped candle dripped wax onto
the smudged remains of a chalk drawing on the floorboards. Someone had tried and mostly
failed to hang a dark curtain over the windows, and a singular locust hummed noisily against
the exposed pane in a doomed effort to escape. Neville and Pansy (what were Neville and
Pansy doing here?) had twin expressions of dawning comprehension, as though they’d just
had knowledge dumped into their skulls at a rate much faster than their spongy grey matter
could absorb, and the excess was slowly getting soaked up and fitted into place. And, there
was an old woman snoozing softly in a chair by the door.

It didn’t look as though he’d arrived on time. It looked as though he’d just missed the tail end
of a house party hosted by ogres.

“Yes, if you’d been here a minute earlier you would have run right into the demons. I don’t
think they would’ve liked that much.”

Demons? That hadn’t been on his list of working theories. Although, there did seem to be a
stench in the room that went beyond the town's normal air quality concerns.

“Does anyone care to explain what’s going on?” he pressed.

“Why yes, Potter,” Pansy began, pointing. “This is a witch. She is definitely not a Muggle.”

The girl in question threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “I told you I was!”

“Oh, Gemma. I’m so sorry we didn’t believe you. I cannot think why, now.”

Gemma shrugged. “Adults never pay attention.”

“That changes, starting now. Merlin, what a mess.”

Neville nodded at the sleeping elderly woman. “Harry, she needs to go to St Mungo’s along
with her husband, who's on the loose somewhere outside.”

“And there had better not be a single report about this incident,” Pansy added.

Some of those words made even less sense than others, to Harry’s ear. “No…reports?”

Pansy nodded firmly. “I know that’s what you get up to all day in that fancy job of yours, so
you’re probably trembling in horror at the thought. But it’s really important that we don’t
document any of this little situation. We’d be happy to explain all about the demon
summoning later, but I imagine a lot of it was illegal in some way, and I’m sure you wouldn’t
want to get us into any trouble.” She paused, then reconsidered. “Not Neville, at least.”

“It would be a lot of paperwork, I bet,” added Neville. “Mountains of it.”

Harry rubbed his jaw. What were the proper forms for demon summoning? The Ministry
probably didn’t have one; he’d have to create it from scratch. And what department would
that even go to, anyway? Would he have to get the Unspeakables involved? They’d probably
insist on trying to recreate the whole thing in the name of research…

When he finally agreed, he managed to make it sound like he was doing them a favour.

“And who are you?” he asked the girl.

“I’m—” she paused, looking uncertainly around at Pansy. “Actually, I have to tell you
something about that.”

Pansy felt behind her for Neville’s arm, intuiting that she was soon going to need something
to hold onto. Gemma hadn’t even looked this nervous in the face of biblically-accurate
demons.

“I’m not…actually Gemma. She’s my friend; we switched places at the children’s home
because she wanted to go to London and I didn’t. My name’s actually—”

“LILITH!” Harry shouted.

Everyone stared, and he flushed. “I worked it out,” he muttered. “Before you said it, I worked
it out.”

“Oh, very well done.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s been doing magic on those Muggles this
whole time and the Ministry has only just noticed.”

Harry looked affronted. “That’s not my fault. There’s this rubbish bin.”

“Anyway, now you get to go to Hogwarts, which you’ll love, and Potter here will take you,”
Pansy told the girl. “All the magical children go there.”
“And your friend, too, actually.” Harry rubbed his eyes. “Merlin, they sent a Muggle to
Hogwarts. I’m never letting Hermione live this down.”

“Gemma’s there?”

Harry looked down into her serious, impertinent face and nodded. His Auror senses (still
finely honed, obviously) whispered to him that if this child got the notion into her head, she
could take reality into her hands like modelling clay and reshape the universe so that it had
never contained a Harry Potter, and he would have nearly died all those times for nothing.

“Can Pansy and Neville visit me there?” she asked.

No part of Harry was willing to risk nonexistence by denying this child something she
wanted.

But Neville answered instead. “Course we will.”

They readied to leave. Lilith said goodbye somewhat awkwardly, Harry thought, as if she was
toying with the idea of a hug but couldn’t quite work up the courage for it. Pansy settled the
matter by yanking her in and squeezing her firmly around the shoulders.

“You are going to do amazing things,” she told her. “I cannot wait to see it.” Then, pulling
back to take hold of the girl’s face, she added: “No more demons, though. I forbid it.”

Lilith actually grinned. Then she turned to Neville, staring hard.

“You’re taking too long,” she told him sternly.

He gulped. “Pardon?”

“She’s trying to be patient but I don’t think she’s very good at it. You might end up taking too
long. So hurry up.”

Neville flushed crimson in understanding.

New clues presented themselves, now that Harry knew what to look for. He took in the way
Pansy had settled back against Neville’s chest as if pulled by a magnet, the protective curl of
his fingers around her waist, the absent-minded stroke of her hand across the sleeve of the
arm that held her.

“Wow, you’re right. I actually think we’d better go, before they…” Harry cleared his throat.
“Bye, Nev. Bye, Pansy.”

Floating the sleeping Mrs Price before him, he ushered Lilith outside. Some things weren’t
meant to be seen by twelve-year-old eyes, and one of them was about to happen in that
demolished front room.

Pansy waited until the front door closed, then turned, stretching up to cross her wrists behind
the back of Neville’s neck.
“Well, you heard her.”

He blushed again, and was still blushing when he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

---

ON ALL HALLOW’S EVE, ELEVEN YEARS AGO, A PARENTLESS CHILD WHO IS NOT A
MUGGLE WAS BORN WITH THE POWER TO END THE WORLD.

ON THE EVENING OF HER TWELFTH BIRTHDAY, SHE WILL BRING FORTH DEMONS
TO WALK THE EARTH AND THE LIVING WILL GO TO THEIR DEATHS. UNTRAINED
AND UNAIDED, SHE WILL TURN TO THE DARK.

SHE MUST BE GUIDED TO THE LIGHT.

---

By now, the child's birthday had come and gone. The demons were defeated and the world
did not end. Lilith (the real one) still lacked formal training, but McGonagall would soon be
tasked with making sure Hogwarts’ newest student continued to develop into a decent person,
and Neville and Pansy had already made respectable progress in that regard.

That only leaves the LIVING WILL GO TO THEIR DEATHS bit.

Pansy, of course, meant the French kind, wherein no one actually dies but it can feel that way
if performed correctly.

Below is a partial accounting of the petites morts that occurred on All Hallow’s Eve:

Theodore Nott (1) and Charles Weasley (1)

They mostly just talked, as there was a lot to catch up on.

Ginevra Potter (2.5) and Harry Potter (2)

James’ accidental magic chose the worst possible moment to manifest as the ability to open
locked doors.

Daphne Zabini (1) and Blaise Zabini (1)

He would’ve gone for more, but she fell asleep. He understood. Three babies is a lot.

Improper Use of Magic Office, Second Assistant (1) and Junior Unspeakable Benjamin
Davies Preston (1)
The long and short of it is this: Benjamin, who was fairly certain the world was about to end,
didn't want to die a virgin. As he blurted this fact on the precipice of a panic attack on a
Ministry lift, it just so happened that the lift’s other occupant was one assistant who was
fairly certain she was going to be fired and/or murdered by Hermione and/or Draco for
revealing critical rubbish bin information to a certain Head Auror. A Ministry broom
cupboard is as good a place as any to spend your last night on earth, and he was feeling
considerably less hung up on Hermione by the time it was over.
Professor Ava Roberts (3) and Ronald Weasley (2)
Late that night, when she’d asked him what he wanted to do, he had no choice but to tell her
the truth. And so she put on her professor robes and they located an empty classroom.

Pansy Parkinson (3) and Neville Longbottom (2)

His first one was a bit of an accident, but she was kind and understanding about it and he
eventually acquitted himself admirably. She was very satisfied.

M.M. (4) and Kingsley Shacklebolt (1)

If there’s one thing powerful women are good at, it’s getting what they want.

Hermione Granger (6) and Draco Malfoy (4)

She won, although he would say that he did.

---

Three days later, as promised, Kingsley and M.M. arrived at the Sandals Montego Bay Resort
to collect their employees.

“Hang on,” she said, leaning one ear against the door. “I thought I heard…”

There was an uncomfortably familiar noise coming from within the suite. She drew back
sharply. “Oh dear. This isn’t a good time. We should probably come back later.”

Kingsley, suppressing a grimace, rapped his knuckles hard against the door.

“That’s enough of that!” he called, voice booming down the hall. “It’s time to go!”

For a moment, there was silence from within. Then the door wrenched open to reveal Draco,
gleaming magnificently, wearing nothing but a towel held loosely around his waist and a
fiendish grin.

“We’re occupied,” he told them brightly. “She does this thing with an ice cube—”

“Draco!”

He looked over his shoulder at the source of the horrified screech.

“It’s true!” he called, then turned back to the ministers. “We tell the truth all the time now. It’s
exhilarating, if I’m being honest. Which I am.”

M.M. arched a brow at him. “Congratulations, but we really don’t need to know the details.”

“This is your fault,” he shrugged, unbothered. “You got us a bed. What else were we to do
with it?”

Kingsley did not have an answer. It had just occurred to him that this new version of Draco
and Hermione might be somehow worse, and certainly more disgusting, than the pining,
miserable iteration from a few days ago.
“So, did the world end?” Draco was asking. “Were there demons? We didn’t see anything on
the news.”

M.M. peered at him, uncertain whether he was being serious. “The world obviously did not
end. Are demons real?”

“Good. That’s good.” Draco nodded, distracted. He looked over his shoulder then back at
Kingsley, flushed and triumphant. “Come back later, then. If you’ll excuse me, I’d very much
like to…erm, finish.”

Kingsley spluttered a protest as the door began to close.

“Don’t you want your wands?” he asked, face awash in horrified awareness of the fresh hell
he’d just created for himself.

“Oh, right.” Draco accepted them gratefully. “Good timing, actually. There’s something
interesting I’d like to try with levitation. Goodbye.”

He pushed the door shut, still grinning, and there was the unmistakable sound of a giggle
from further within.

M.M. shook her head in astonishment. “I suppose we made our own bed. So to speak.”

“Yes, but Merlin. I’m going to have to start disinfecting everything.”

---

Any lingering questions Hermione and Draco had about whether they were really prepared to
be the legal, ostensible parents to a twelve-year-old Muggle child were answered when,
within five minutes of their return to British soil, they were called to Headmistress
McGonagall’s office for a parent-teacher conference.

In the further ten minutes it took to arrive outside her door, Hermione had prepared a
thirteen-point argument as to why Lilith Gemma should be allowed to remain at the school,
and bugger the rules about it being built for magical children; all children were magical in
their own right, and besides, Hermione had a truly disturbing amount of power and influence
that she was fully prepared to flex.

McGonagall’s lips went very thin as she watched Hermione’s argument morph from maternal
outrage into unsubtle threats.

“Am I to understand that the Ministry wishes to interfere at Hogwarts, Miss Granger?”

Hermione could only blink at her, slack-jawed and outmanoeuvred.

Draco delivered a consolatory pat to her shoulder.

“You may wait outside. I’ll speak with the girls alone.”
They moved to leave, although not too quickly so as not to appear defeated, but McGonagall
spoke again, stopping them.

“That’s a remarkable child, Muggle though she may be. When Mr Potter arrived with the
other girl, I feared we’d have a riot on our hands when word got out. But her friends have
been taking it in shifts to come in here, an absolute stream of them from every house,
endlessly pleading with me not to send her away. I haven’t known a moment of peace.”

“She really is the best,” Hermione said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone better.”

Draco and Hermione went out, and the two girls went in with determined expressions,
holding tight to each other’s hands.

Gemma Lilith was also the best, judging from the pride on Pansy and Neville’s faces as they
watched her go.

“Oh! What are you two doing here…” Hermione squinted in suspicion at their somewhat
intertwined limbs, “…together?”

“Parenting, obviously,” Pansy replied. She nodded at Hermione’s own hand, which was
wrapped around Draco's. “And do I get to be the first to say I told you so?”

Draco snorted. “There’s a queue, I’m afraid. Seven or eight people in front of you – oh! Here
comes one now.” The sound of heels on the staircase made everyone turn. “Hello, Mother.
Have you been called into the headmistress’ office for poisoning a student?”

Narcissa’s lips pursed in a frown, which everyone took as a yes.

At Draco’s side, Hermione took an unconscious step back, but he put a reassuring arm around
her waist and pulled her forward.

“Mother, you know Hermione. Love of my life, future wife, et cetera. Oh, relax.” He looked
at Hermione, beet-red at his side. “She offered me a Malfoy ring to propose to you with, you
can’t possibly think she doesn’t approve.”

“That was for me? Oh my god…”

“I attempted to arrange a tea, too,” Narcissa said, with the air of someone still waiting for an
apology.

“That invitation was real? Oh my god!”

“Congratulations, Hermione,” Neville said. “I’m really pleased for you.”

“No one’s getting married,” she grumbled. Draco exchanged a conspiratorial look with his
mother before dropping a kiss onto the top of Hermione’s head.

“Will someone explain to me what happened?” Narcissa demanded. She meant about the
demons, and the apocalypse, but soon the words “legal guardianship” were uttered, which
threw her into an absolute tailspin.
“You thought we…Mother!”

“We hated each other back then! And I mean I really, truly despised him. I wouldn’t have
touched him, let alone—”

Draco elbowed Hermione in the ribs to get her to shut up about how much she used to loathe
him. His ego had recovered from all the beatings it had taken over the summer, and was once
more a large, delicate, needy thing.

“Well, I don’t hate you now,” she amended, and he was mollified.

“So, the child’s not a Malfoy,” Narcissa said, looking relieved.

Oh dear, thought Hermione. Draco’s turn for paternal outrage.

“Yes, she most assuredly is," he said, staring hard at his mother. "And this is your singular
opportunity to accept all of it, Muggle grandchild included, or none of us.”

Narcissa accepted. She thought Lucius might, too. The girl wasn’t a Squib, after all.

There were more details to iron out, and the whole story grew more confusing the longer they
talked (“I knew demons didn’t really exist,” said Hermione confidently, to which Neville and
Pansy shuddered but said nothing) but soon the door opened, and McGonagall stepped out to
deliver her verdict.

Lilith would stay, obviously, because she was quite literally the most powerful witch to ever
walk the face of the earth, and someone should probably teach her how to undo a spell
properly.

Gemma could stay, too.

“Just through the end of term, on a trial basis, to help Lilith get settled in,” McGonagall said
firmly. “Her Transfiguration and Charms classes will be substituted for Divination and
Astronomy.” Besides, she privately added, I’d have a riot on my hands if I kicked her out.

She really was one exceptionally well-liked student. Even those Slytherin boys had come
around, and, if rumours were to be believed, one of them harboured a secret crush.

“G-Lilith,” Pansy began. Both girls turned.

“We’ll be doing that for ages,” Neville muttered.

“Once the Prices are released from St Mungo’s, you can go back to living with them during
breaks, if you want. But we’d like for you to come stay with…well, us.” She looked to
Neville, experiencing the discomfort of shyness for the first time in her entire life. “We
haven’t worked out the living situation yet, but…I hope…”

“Yes, alright.” Lilith rolled her eyes. “Stop being weird about it.”

But her scowl had a smile in it.

Pansy and Neville departed to go work out who had the better mattress so that they could
solidify their living situation, and everyone else readied to leave except Narcissa, who was
engaged in a baffling reunion while she waited.

(“Gemma. An excellent name. A star, did you know? In the Corona Borealis.”)

“Headmistress,” Hermione asked, “what do you plan to do about the veritaserum?”

“It was illegal, Miss Granger. By rights, Mrs Malfoy ought to be handed over to the Aurors
along with Ronald Weasley.”

“Oh, that’s alright then.”

Mother and son tensed in unison.

“I outrank the Aurors, so you can just hand them over to me. Unless…am I to understand that
Hogwarts wishes to interfere at the Ministry?”

McGonagall didn’t roll her eyes as she closed her office door, but it was a very near thing.

So then it was just Draco, Hermione, Narcissa, and two chattering twelve-year-olds, standing
together on a small landing. It was entirely too many people, in Draco’s opinion.

“Mother,” he said, not taking his eyes off Hermione. “Will you see the girls back to the Great
Hall? I’m going to kiss her now, and it will be absolutely obscene.”

Before he’d finished speaking, Narcissa was halfway down the staircase, gently herding the
girls forward with a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Were they always like that?” Lilith asked, the horror in her voice carrying easily up the
stone stairs.

Gemma giggled. “It took me ages to make that happen. I wrote a whole plan, want to see it?”

Hermione buried her head against Draco’s chest in mortification.

“You don’t need to be quite so honest, and in front of your mother of all people,” she
moaned. “I hardly know her.”

“You have ages to get to know one another. Besides, she doesn’t mind.” He coaxed her head
back with a finger beneath her chin. “She wants loads of grandchildren. She probably hopes
we're currently getting an early start on the next one.”

Hermione lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Well…go on, then.”

He delivered on his earlier promises and then some. Only when the stone gargoyle guarding
the door to McGonagall's office growled in irritation did he take a leisurely step back,
keeping his hands wrapped around her upper arms to account for the weakness in her knees.

“I suppose we ought to go,” she said, staring at his mouth as if mesmerised.

“Yes,” agreed the gargoyle. “Please do.”

That snapped her out of it in a hurry.

“Well, Granger, now what shall we do? Blindly stumble through our lives like normal people,
with no prophecies to guide us?”

“No, of course not.” She reached into her dress (Draco didn’t see where, precisely, and
looked forward to investigating her person in great detail later) to withdraw a slim black
notebook.

“I wrote a list,” she said, already flipping the pages.

“Ah, right. How silly of me.”

He drew her beneath his arm as they began an unhurried stroll away from McGonagall’s
door.

“It’s very boring, though. No ambiguous visions. No surprise Muggles. No pranks—”

“No pranks?” he laughed, and twirled a coil of her hair around one mischievous finger. “Did
you think the pranks were over with?”

She looked at her neatly ordered list in consternation, then up at him.

“What, aren’t they?”

“Oh dear. Who’s being silly now?”

“Draco Malfoy,” she said, coming to a stop. “What have you done?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, and bent to press a kiss beneath her ear. “But keep
saying my name like that, I like it.”

“Draco Malfoy,” she repeated dutifully, except this time it was husky with want, because he’d
taken her earlobe between his teeth while his hands searched her dress for hidden pockets.
“Incorrigible man…just you wait…oh.”

He kissed her deeply, and indulgently, and in total ignorance of the students that had begun to
filter into the corridor after class.

“Gross,” someone muttered in passing, and she brushed a smile against his lips before
stepping back.

They'd pulled up short beneath a portrait of a man on a horse leading his cavalry into battle.
Painted sunlight glinted off the warrior’s golden breastplate. Draco scowled at the man, who
was busy winking at Hermione, and hustled her away.

“Come, then,” he said, plucking the notebook from her loose fingers. “Let’s see what the
future has in store for us.”
She sighed, and took his arm, and rested her head against his shoulder as they walked.

“Step One: Extension Charms on Shelves and Wardrobes. You can't mean to say that’s the
first step of the rest of our lives? Better wardrobe organisation? You were right; this list is
boring.”

“It’s an acute need,” she sniffed. “There isn't enough space in your flat for my books, not to
mention the clothes. You haven’t seen half of them because I’ve been confined to dressing
like a ward of the state in your presence for the past five years.”

“Is there any red?”

She smothered a teasing smile. “Perhaps.”

“Very well, I’m interested again. Oh! This one’s good, too. It says we’ve got to bicker more.”

“It does not say that!”

“It does; I’m looking right at it.” He held the page in front of her face. “Step Five: Argue
More About Trivial Nonsense.”

“That says Argue Less.”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t agree to your terms.”

“These aren’t terms, it’s simply an outline—”

“I happen to like arguing with you about trivial nonsense. I couldn’t possibly give it up.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“I might be amenable to a trade, though.”

Hermione pretended to think about this for a while. “Fine. What would you like?”

“Oh, lots of things. Shall I make you a list?”

The pale November sun streaked through the pane glass oriels that lined the third floor
corridor, and as they bickered over trivialities, they drank in the sight of each other’s faces
bathed in rich gold light.

Within their minds, they tucked away and hoarded this one perfect moment, and then the next
one, and the next.

Because you couldn’t know, could you? Not about tomorrow, or next week, or a decade from
now. Even with the entire contents of Junior Unspeakable Benjamin Davies Preston’s
logbook at your disposal, you could still have it wrong, and besides, the real thing is so much
brighter, and richer, and true.
 There isn’t even a trick to it. You just have to grab on tight to what’s in front of you and make
the most of it. With every word, every look, and every touch, they promised each other that
they would.

And on and on they walked, hand in hand, toward the first day of the rest of their lives.

THE BEGINNING

Chapter End Notes

Oh, our sweet ineffable idiots!

Chapter notes first, then my overall closing remarks:

After I finished writing Chapter 9, practically in tears of annoyance and needing an

outlet that wasn’t just banging my head against a wall, I skipped way ahead and wrote
this hotel room confession. It was incredibly cathartic to make them just fucking talk to
each other. All of that relief they experienced in that moment was mine as well.

You all have Alexandra to thank for the face-sitting callback. I also managed to squeeze
in a “there was only one bed” situation, right under the wire, because I'm pretty sure I'm
legally obligated.

Finally, and I'm excited to share this: M.M. does have a name. She is (in my head,
anyway) the one and only Rebecca Welton from Ted Lasso, or at least a version of her
that went into politics. And Kingsley is a very lucky man indeed.
 ***

Endless thanks to alexandra_emerson for the beta and emotional support. I was starting
to worry I’d bitten off more than I could chew when she swooped in.

This fic! This fic! My whole heart and soul is in this fic. Look, it's no secret that I have
taken “write what you want to read” to an extreme here, and I truly expected the
readership to mostly just be me going back and laughing at my own jokes. But still,
when you pour enough of yourself into something like this, you can't help but hope that
it will find its audience.

And it’s you! Hi! Thank you so much for trusting me to pull us through the chaos. I had
the best time chatting about my weird brainchild with you all.

As much as I continually claimed to hate them, I deeply love these characters and had a
difficult time leaving this universe behind. But enough comedy for now! Care to join me
for a massive genre shift into gothic horror? (With an HEA? you ask, to which I
reluctantly spoil my own fic and say yes.) I'm finishing it up now and will be back soon.
On a Tuesday, of course.

In the meantime, I would love to hear from you, here or on Tumblr.

Love,
OB
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