Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Curiosity killed the cat, Granger.”

Hermione almost leapt back from the book she’d been eyeing.  Narcissa Malfoy had let her into the library to wait, her customary sneer curling her lip.  She’d wanted to tell the woman that was likely to create wrinkles, but this meeting was too important and she didn’t want to get thrown out before she’d even had a chance to talk to Malfoy.

Not that she really had much hope.  Her best prediction was that he’d listen to her, laugh with delight, and tell her he’d send flowers.  Then he’d show her the door and she’d go home and see how long potions could stave off the inevitable.  Harry swore he could use Snape’s old textbook to brew a better remedy than the one she could buy at the apothecary, but she could already feel the itch of her heritage between her shoulders. A better potion might buy her an extra month, but that was all.

She tried not to wring her hands as she faced her schoolyard nemesis.   Life after the war had been good to him.  The haunted look he’d had their sixth year had faded, and the terrified boy who’d watched his aunt torture her had been replaced by a confident man, albeit one who had on long sleeves despite the heat of the day.

She told herself it was the unusually warm day that made sweat drip down her neck but she knew that was a lie.  She’d dreaded this meeting from the moment she’d found out.  So much for Gryffindor courage, she thought as she studied him.   She’d never thought he was especially handsome in school.  Too pointy, too pale, too mean.  Handsome is as handsome does her mother had always said, and Hermione had agreed, especially when it came to bullies like Malfoy.   Was it her blood that made him seem attractive now, all part of this curse, or had he truly aged into an agreeable-looking sort?  She doubted she’d ever really know.  Everything about Malfoy was subjective now.

“I have a problem,” she said.

“So your owl said,” he said and waved her to a chair.  “It must be truly diabolical for you to come groveling to me.”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t groveling.  She wanted to tell him to sod off. She wanted to climb into his lap and sit there like a cat and let him stoke her. Damn this.  “How much do you know about Veela?” she asked.

He shrugged.  “Magical creatures, breathtakingly beautiful, captivate men with a single look.  Why?”

“That’s one strain, yes,” she said.    It would have been nice to have been that strain.  She’d talked to Fleur at length and the woman had apologized over and over again as if Hermione’s condition were somehow her fault.  “There’s another.”

Draco began to look interested.  She handed over the research she’d done and he skimmed it quickly, his eyes widening at one point.  He began to laugh when he reached the end and she could feel herself shrivel into the beautiful, antique chair.  It had been a long shot and now that he was opening his mouth to tell her hell would freeze first, she wished she hadn’t taken it. Dying would be bad.  Dying with the knowledge Draco Malfoy would be able to gloat about it was worse.  Watching him gloat worse still.

“This has to be a joke,” he said.  One look at her greying face, though, and he knew it wasn’t. “Granger,” he said pain in his voice.  Pity, even.  She hadn’t expected that.  Somehow that was worse than scorn.   “You must have done the research wrong.”

She shook her head. That had been her first thought too.  It was absurd. Infected by a magical creature and doomed not to live eternally like a vampire, or even to turn to a wolf like poor Professor Lupin, but to be dependent, utterly dependent, on a mate just to stay alive.  Who had even heard of such a thing?  It was like some perversion of what Fleur was.  Instead of captivating all men, she was captivated by one.  She’d pine.  She'd wither. She’d die without him.  She was already in almost constant pain.

“I double-checked everything,” she said in a whisper.  “Triple.”

He stared at her in horror and she shrugged. “It was a last hope,” she said.  “I know we aren’t... but I had to try.”

“Of course you did.”  He said the words automatically.  “I would have done the same.”

“Now that I’m here, of course, I see my... I see this was ill-advised.” She stood to go.  She’d try Harry’s potion.  She’d travel in the time she had left.   At least, she thought with bitter humor, I won’t need to save for retirement.

She made it halfway to the door only to find him blocking her path.  He’d filled out since school and the slender seeker she’d loathed seemed more solid than she remembered.  The urge to fling herself into his arms and cry was almost overwhelming and she had to fight it off.  “Granger,” he said.  “If I’m reading that right, you’ll have a very short life without me.”

“Quite,” she said.  

She tried to step around him and he blocked her path.  “We should at least talk about this over tea,” he said.

She began to laugh.  “Tea?”  she asked giving in at last to the hysterics she’d avoided since she’d learned what was plaguing her.  “Could you be any more British?  I’m going to die without you and you think we should have tea?”

“I prefer tea to murder,” he said with implacable calm as he took her by the elbow and guided her back to the chair she’d perched on nervously before.  The touch made her nerves settle and the prickles that had been running along her skin for months fell into silence.  She hadn’t even realized how much they’d bothered her until they were gone. Even her emotions calmed under his hand.  When he released her, she felt the absence at once and she braced against the return of all the pings and whispers of her fate but they remained dormant.  

He picked up a bell, quite literally rang for tea, and she watched him.  This wasn’t what she’d expected at all.  She’d hardly dared hope he’d do more than throw her out.  

He’d poured her a cup and asked how she took it, adding a single sugar cube with tongs she assumed were silver before he returned to the subject that mattered.  He regarded her over the rim of his cup and asked, “Does Potter know?”

“Yes,” she said.

“He must hate it,” Draco said.  “Not being able to fix you, I mean,” he added when she narrowed her eyes at him.  “He likes saving people.”  He took a sip and seemed to think.  “It never was my specialty.”

“No,” she said.   

He set the cup down and frowned at her.   “Pity you didn’t get the strain that makes a woman irresistible or that there wasn’t at least a bit of that in this version.”

She had no idea what to say to that.  She was quite sure he’d just insulted her, but before she could formulate a response he shrugged and added something that took her breath away.  “Well, we can’t live here.  I’ve been meaning to get my own flat anyway.  I assume anyplace you already have is some kind of hovel, so I won’t even bother to look at it, but Mum’s relator can have us in an acceptable address by nightfall tomorrow if I throw enough galleons at her.”

“I live with Harry,” she said faintly.  She took a sip of the tea and tried to figure out why the edges of the room were going white.  Merlin, he was an arrogant bastard.  Any place she had wouldn’t be good enough indeed.

“Definitely a hovel, then,” Draco said.  “Are there doxies in the curtains?”

“I... I don’t think so?” she said, the words coming out as a question.  She couldn’t believe what was happening.  Harry had told her Draco couldn’t possibly be so horrid as to let her die, but she’d been sure that was Harry projecting his own generous nature onto others.  Relief from pain, and relief from the fear that had been pressing her down, made her woozy.  She managed to set the cup down before she collapsed and the room tilted sideways.   When she came to, Draco was kneeling over her, an annoyed look on his face.  She was pretty sure he’d slapped her back into consciousness.   Gallantry only went so far, apparently.

“It’s really very unflattering that you thought I’d let you die,” he said.  “You were so sure I would, you fainted at the idea I’m not a total bastard.”  He helped her sit up and she tried not to curl into his shoulder but she was pretty sure he saw the aborted movement because he wrapped an arm around her shoulder with only a faint grimace of distaste.  “I’ve yet to murder anyone, you know, and I don’t plan to start with you.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.  

“Lots of fabulous sex?” he suggested.  She started to pull away from him and he sighed and tightened his grip on her.  “It was a joke, Granger.”

That was when she started to cry.

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped across the threshold of the flat with more that a little discomfort.  The doorman had managed to perfectly convey that sneering dismissal that purebloods liked to throw at her and she didn't look forward to walking past that every time she wanted to leave.   Being a war heroine still didn't make her good enough to live in their toniest buildings.  However, before she'd been able to say anything like, "Enjoying your Voldemort-free afternoon?" Draco had taken by the elbow and steered her up the stairs to their floor.   

"I can have him fired," he said quietly as he held open the door - their door - and she entered what was to be her home, at least until she could figure out a way to fix this, and stood, open-mouthed and gaping.  

The place was beautiful.   Exquisite.  She couldn't even begin to conceive of how much this had to cost per month.  Exposed brick surrounded huge windows through which sunlight poured onto the wooden floors.   Couches and chairs clustered on feet around a glass table and a small kitchen gleamed with stainless steel.  

"It… it came furnished?" she asked, unable to formulate any other thought.  How had he done this so quickly?  A bookcase stood along one wall, empty shelves begging to be filled.  A table sat next to what looked to be a comfortable chair with a reading lamp and space to set a mug of tea.  She took another step in and saw a hall leading down to what she assumed were the bedrooms.

At least she hoped there were two bedrooms.

Draco regarded her with condescending amusement. "No," he said.  "I asked Mum to do something modern and she flooed her people and they made it happen."

"It's very nice," she said somewhat faintly.   He'd said he didn't want to live in a hovel.  He hadn't been kidding.   She'd have to move her books in.  She'd have to move her clothes in.  Even this brief interaction with him left her with more energy than she'd had in weeks, though she still felt the dull pull of weakness engendered by long illness.  She wanted him to take her arm again.  She wanted to feel his hand on her skin, not just her clothing.  She wanted to lock herself away and cry that she'd been reduced to this. 

"You don't understand money, do you?" he asked, watching her and infuriating in his amusement.

"I wasn't exactly poor," she said, annoyed with him already.  "My parents were dentists.  We had plenty of money for ballet lessons and travel and - "

He cut her off with a snort.  "That's money," he said.  "I have money.  It's different."

She could hear the emphasis and, looking around, she had to admit he seemed to be right.   Only peasants like her tromped around London looking at flats and trying to find the right furniture, and then carrying it up the stairs themselves.  People like Malfoy had people who took care of things.   She wished, not for the first time, that if she'd had to get this thing, it had somehow latched itself on to Ron or Neville, or even Harry.  She knew how to deal with all of them.  She liked all of them.  Smug, accommodating Malfoy and his money-with-emphasis and his beautiful flat left her uneasy.

"Money," he said, "can solve almost any problem."

"Not Voldemort," she said.

"No," he said.  He nodded graciously.  "Not that one.   Not yours either, it would seem."

That, she thought, was true enough.

He took her by the elbow again and she let herself luxuriate in that for only a second before she jerked her arm away. "You don't need to steer me," she said.

He didn't look offended. If anything he looked even more amused than he had when she'd looked around the apartment like a rube. "Right," he said.  "You despise my touch."

"I know you despise mine," she said.  She took a deep breath and tried to seem more grateful, though she remembered an old adage that gratitude was a polite word for resentment.   "I appreciate what you're doing - "

"I should hope so."

" - but I don't want to put you out any more than necessary."

"You're very considerate," he said.  "You are also an excellent excuse to escape my parents."  He unnecessarily tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves and held an arm out to guide her, sans touch, down the hall.  "I have selfishly decided to take the master bedroom, so you will have to settle for this." 

He opened a door to a room and though she should have known to expect something wonderful after seeing what Narcissa Malfoy had managed to accomplish in less than a day with the living areas, the sight of her bedroom made her take a step back in shock.

The feel of Malfoy when she bumped into him was just another shock.

The room was small, but as bright as the rest of the apartment.  Heavy curtains on each side of the windows promised she'd be able to sleep in darkness, but she could also curl up in here and read in the afternoon if she wanted to.   Someone had lined one wall with more shelves, and a photograph of red smoke hung on the wall.  "It doesn't move," she said, gesturing weakly at the picture.

"Muggle," he said.  She stepped forward so she could turn and look at him, surprised at that.  He quirked his brows up in what she knew was mockery.  "Art is art, Granger."

"Right," she said.

"If we can continue our tour," he said, "your bath is across the hall and that door leads to my room, a place where you are not welcome."

She nodded and went to return to the main area to see if there was anything to drink.  There was.  The cabinets had been stocked with most basic foodstuffs, tea, and a generous selection of alcohol.   Her hand hesitated over the kettle. It was early, and she really should have tea.  That was the responsible thing to do.  Malfoy, however, reached past her to pull out a bottle of Ogden's and said,  "Oh, let's celebrate our new home, Granger.  Don't be such a stick in the mud."

She let him measure her a glass and took it, careful not to let her fingers brush against his.  "To us," he said, raising a toast toward her.  "The oddest couple in wizarding Britain."

She took a sip and let the fire burn along her tongue and down her throat.  "Why are you doing this?" she asked.  

"You'd prefer I let you die?"  Malfoy laughed and poured himself into one of the chairs.  He stretched his legs out and his perfect shoes gleamed in the sunlight.  "Why can't I just be a noble do-gooder like your lot?"

"Because you aren't?"  she suggested.  

"No?"  He regarded her and then tipped his head back.  "Probably not, no."    

She knew she had to be hovering when he said, "Oh, sit down, Granger.  It's your flat too.  Put your feet on the furniture, spill beer on the floor if that will make you feel at home.  But, for the love of Salazar, don't stand around like a child expecting to be scolded."

She didn't want to sit next to him, or, rather, she burned to sit next to him, so she sat on a narrow chair and tucked her feet under her.   They drank in silence that was neither companionable not comfortable until he asked, "What's it like to be Veela?"

"Miserable," she said.   One word that shortened months of slow creeping pain, exhaustion, and endless visits to St. Mungo's into three syllables.  She was rare.  So rare. She'd done most of the research herself after they sent her away with endless potions and bromides that didn't work.  An orphan disease, the Healer had said when she'd confirmed Hermione's work.  Most people died because, without your mate, you did, and trying to find your mate was a fool's errand.  There was no cure, only ways to alleviate the pain.  The Healer had almost cried when she'd confirmed the verdict.  No one likes to tell a young, vibrant woman that she's dying.  

Then she'd brushed against Malfoy in a shop and she'd known.

"No cure?" he asked.

"They couldn't even diagnose it," she said with disgust.  "I had to figure it out myself."

"And it's me."  He laughed and took a swallow of his drink. "Bad luck for you, Granger."

"Yeah," she said.  His face contorted at that and he drained the rest of his glass.  Had she, improbably, impossibly, hurt his feelings?   

He stood up.  "The key's on the counter," he said.  "Think about my offer with the doorman because I don't want you made to feel unwelcome, but I'm going out.  I assume you can live without my constant attendance?"

"This is already… it's better.  Thank you," she said.  

He passed by her and, with a smile she couldn't read, briefly rested his hand against her shoulder.  One finger brushed against her skin and every nerve flared into life at that touch.  If she'd been in some level of pain for months, now she was in whatever was the opposite of endless, creeping discomfort that no potion could eradicate.  Skin to skin contact was immeasurably better than his hand on her clothing.  Was this soaring high why people took drugs?  What would it be like if she touched him?  What would it be liked if she - . 

"It will be okay, Granger," he said, interrupting her thoughts.

Before she could say anything he was gone and she blinked a few times as if that could clear her head.  "Well," she said to what she thought was an empty flat, "that was interesting."

The 'bleerrtttt?' from under the couch was loud and she set her glass down and knelt on the floor to see what it was.    An orange kitten looked back at her.

Chapter Text

Draco opened the door and looked at the red face of Ronald Weasley and considered for the first time that being stuck with Granger meant being stuck with her friends.  The man had a box in his arms and looked out of breath.  Had he really carried that up three flights of stairs?  Had it not occurred to him to ask the doorman if there were a lift for freight?  

"Hermione asked us to bring over her books," Weasley said.  He sounded like he hoped that Draco would refuse to let him in and he could use that as an excuse to throw a punch.

Draco stepped aside and let him enter.  "Weasley is our king," he said as blandly as he could.  "It was good of you to bring her things over."

Harry Potter stepped through the still open door lugging his own box.  Draco hoped there were dozens more boxes and that they'd be idiots enough to carry them all up by hand.  He'd be sure to mention the lift at some later date and see if they got it.  

"Malfoy," Potter said.  

"Potter," Draco replied.  "Still alive, I see."

"So they tell me," Potter said.  He set the box down and shifted uneasily on his feet and Draco wondered if he planned to spew out pathetic words of gratitude for saving his friend.   Granger had certainly been depressingly certain he was such a monster he'd let her die rather than have to do something quite as banal as share a flat with her.   It made him wonder what other horrors they assumed he'd considered acceptable.  Before Potter could stammer out whatever passed for courtesy in the Muggle backwater he'd known, however, Granger saved him by coming through the door, a smaller box in her own arms.  

Draco eyed her with bitter displeasure.  She was sweating, and, based on the way it frizzed, her hair might have accepted some challenge to be as giant and unruly as possible.  If so, it appeared determined to win, no matter the aesthetic cost. She had on some wretched Muggle top that clung to an ill-fitting bra and the whole effect was less than dazzling.  He wondered if asking his mother to take her shopping would backfire.

Probably. 

He remembered Fleur Delacour.  Like every boy at Hogwarts, he'd wanked off to mental pictures of her.   She'd personified beauty.  Light had seemed to follow her and her smile was the sort that moved armies.  He and Blaise had fantasized at some length about what it would be like to have a Veela of their own, one who saved her smiles just for them.  And now he did, boyhood fantasy come to life, but it was Granger and she looked exactly like herself.  At least the buck teeth had disappeared.  Fate, he thought to himself, fate laughs at mortals foolish enough to ask for redemption.

At least all the power in this odd little play belonged to him.  He didn't even have to openly threaten her; she knew he held her life in the palm of his hand.   That gave him some comfort, he supposed.  He certainly liked it more than he had when he'd been on the other end of that dynamic. 

She looked a bit grey as she stood there, wheezing, and she stumbled a bit as she set the box down.  Draco could feel his displeasure grow.  Even if she weren't pretty, he'd thought she was supposed to be smart. Carrying boxes of books up the stairs when she'd been ill suggested that had been more rumor than fact.  He put on one of his best sneers and directed it at her. "If you kill yourself moving in, Granger, the whole effort of having secured the flat will have been wasted."

"It's not like it was your effort," she said, and wiped sweat off her face with one hand.

"Nevertheless," he said, trying not to grit his teeth, "I would appreciate you letting your dear friends carry the rest of your things up lest I have to admit to Mum I was wrong."

"Can't have that," Weasley said.  He tried to summon a sneer of his own but he was an amateur in the field and it came out looking as if he were a bit constipated.

"Are there more boxes?" Draco asked.  At Weasley's nod he said, "Then might I suggest you go get them?"

Hermione turned to trudge toward the door, but he set a hand along her lower back.  "You, however, need to sit and have a glass of lemonade."

She did that thing where she jerked a little at his touch, and he smiled, but before she could pull away he removed his hand, handed her a glass, and she sank onto one of the kitchen stools and took a sip she had to be grateful for.  Not that she'd say anything.   Keeping him informed about the details of her condition didn't seem to be on her list, though he supposed he couldn't fault her for keeping secrets without being a hypocrite.  

For trying to keep secrets.

"Alphabetical or by subject?" he asked.

She stared at him.  "The books," he said.  Merlin.  Was she always this slow? "Do you want them shelved alphabetically or by subject?"

"Alphabetically would be fine," she said, "But I can - "

He already had his wand out, however, and the problem solved.  He wasn't the sort of fool who carried loads up stairs on his own.  Manual labor was for Muggles.  The boxes opened with one incantation, and the books flew out through the air and sorted themselves onto the waiting shelves with another.   He glanced over at her, careful to make sure she didn't notice, and his messy veela was smiling in delight at the sight of her books putting themselves away.   He felt a quick surge of contempt that she'd be charmed by something so simple overlaid by traitorous pleasure that he'd made her smile.

"I forget, sometimes, that you were always capable," she said.

"Mmm."  He didn't respond to that rather insulting observation but moved behind her so he could take one of her frizzy curls in his fingers and play with it.  She stiffened but didn't move away and he wondered if this was more or less enrapturing than a touch over her clothing.  Since she declined to discuss the issue of her reaction to his touch, or admit it even happened, he certainly wasn't going to acknowledge it.  "Where's the cat?"

"I locked her in my room," she said.  

"Smart," he said and turned the hair round and round.   He'd never liked her hair.   It was ordinary at best, and the curls reminded him unpleasantly of his aunt at worst.   What the hair lacked in cosmetic appeal, however, it more than made up for in the way she sat in front of him, frozen, as he toyed with it.   "Have you named her yet?"

The door opened again before she could answer and Weasley pushed his way inside.  He'd managed to lug up two boxes this time and he set them down with a loud crash as he glared at the intimate picture of Draco running his hands through Granger's hair.   Her pathetic crush on him had been common knowledge at Hogwarts and Draco had thought they'd ended up together after the war.  Had her illness ruined that relationship, or had it died before she'd become a veela?  Maybe - delicious thought - Weasley had nobly stepped aside when Draco had been unexpectedly agreeable about the whole thing and now he had to stand there and watch a man he hated caress a very recent ex-girlfriend.

"Lynx," Granger said with only a hint of a hitch in her voice.

Potter staggered in.  "That's it," he said.  He'd managed to float a dozen boxes up at once, plus the two he was carrying.  

Draco dropped the curl and turned on a least a dribble of manners.  "Could I get either of you anything?" he asked.  

"Lynx what?"  Weasley asked.

"A beer, if you have one," Potter said. "Thanks."

"Done," Draco said.  A flick of his wand and a bottle flew to Potter's hand.  

He returned to putting the books away as Granger said, "Malfoy got me a cat."

"Why?"  Weasley asked.  He took the bottle away from Potter and took a long drink.  All Draco could think of was that was a good way to spread disease.  Both of them were vile and if they didn't leave soon he was going to.  

"Why what?"  Granger asked.  "Why did I name her Lynx?"

"Why did he get you a cat,"  Weasley said.

"To make her happy," Draco said.  Weasley snorted and he felt his lips curve into a smile when Granger stirred at that.  She didn't like the way her ex dismissed him.  Good.

"I'm tired," she said.   He could hear the truth in the words, and the apology.  "I know I said I'd go out with you after, but I think I should lie down."

"Carrying your things was not a good choice," Draco said.  He was still irritated about that.  If he had to live with her to keep her alive, the least she could do was try to take care of herself.

"I didn't realize you were her keeper," Weasley said, defensive on her behalf. 

Draco looked at him in amusement.  Her keeper was exactly was he was.  Her keeper, her hedge against death,  her only hope.  Had the man really not put that together?

"Ron,"  Harry said. He sounded worried.  Did the man think he'd kick Granger out and let her die in retaliation for Weasley's sniping?  Or was he just worried one of them would say truthful, cruel things in front of the shaky woman who left her half-drunk lemonade on the counter, air kissed Potter near his cheek, gave Weasley an uncomfortable smile, and disappeared back into her room.

"I thought this was supposed to make her well," Weasley said after the door shut.  "What gives?"  

Draco opened his own beer and eyed Weasley.  "Sorry putting her up in a luxury flat and agreeing to live with her isn't working fast enough for you," he drawled.  "Perhaps more intimate contact is needed to hurry things along."

Weasley balled his fists but didn't take a swing and Potter hurried to cover the moment with, "No one expects her to be her old self in a day, Malfoy.  We've just been worried and no one quite seems to know how this strain works if the veela finds her mate so…. it's just been a long year, that's all."

Draco thought of the pile of reports on surviving veela his father had used his contacts to dredge up out of the bowels of the Ministry.  He hadn't had time to read them yet but wasn't it interesting that researcher extraordinaire Hermione Granger hadn't tracked them down.  

"I'm sure it has," he said.  He took a long swallow before adding, "But I'll make sure she's fine from now on."

.

Chapter Text

Draco was sitting on the couch he seemed to have claimed as his when she emerged from her nap.  The sun had gone down, and the only light was the lamp at his side, and she stood and admired the way it made his pale hair glow until he said without turning, "I know you're there, Granger.  I can hear you breathing."

She flushed and pushed some of her hair back.  She'd lost the hair tie she'd had earlier somewhere between Harry's townhouse and this flat, and sleeping had squashed her hair into even more of a lopsided mess than it had been that afternoon.   Vanity made her want to look appealing.  Bitter honesty told her she'd never be the kind of beauty men watched go by.   She decided to cover her embarrassment at being caught staring at the back of Malfoy's head like a lovestruck teenager by bustling about the kitchen.  She could try to put a meal together, perhaps.

That plan was derailed by the boxes of takeaway sitting on the counter.  "It might be cold by now," Malfoy said, "but I got curry."

She nodded, though he still hadn't looked up, and spooned some of it into a bowl.  It wasn't exactly hot, but it hadn't cooled enough to be worth the bother of heating, so she stood at the counter and chewed and swallowed, washing it down with water from the tap.   "Thank you," she said between bites.  "That was very thoughtful."

"I assumed you couldn't cook," he said.   

"I keep myself from starving," she said, stung but unable to properly defend herself since his snide comment was near enough to truth as to make no difference.   Ron had complained about her cooking when they'd been on the run, and, if he'd learned to keep his mouth shut when they'd all been at Harry's, she'd still overheard him complimenting Fleur on hers last time they'd been at Shell Cottage.  If Hermione could cook like this, he'd said, we'd still be together.  He hadn't known she'd been within earshot, and, really, she knew that wasn't the reason they'd ended things.  They'd just turned out not to suit. It happened. That hadn't made the way he phrased his flattery of Fleur hurt any less.

"I like to maintain a standard somewhat higher than 'will keep me alive' in most things," Draco said.

Hermione's fingers spasmed around her fork and she turned and began rinsing her dish in the sink.  When she turned around Draco had padded into the kitchen, silent as little Lynx, and he took the bowl from her and set it on the drying rack.   "I'm sorry," he said.  "That was tactless of me."

He was too close.  He hadn't touched her but every one of the cursed Veela senses seemed to spark to high alert at his proximity.  Her mouth went dry, and her pulse raced, and she could feel her breathing try to sync with his.  She wanted to take a step back but the counter was in her way and he smiled at her with a gleam that suggested he knew exactly how uncomfortable she was and rather enjoyed it.  She hated this so much.  Why had this happened to her, and why with Malfoy of all people?

He stepped away and said, "I was looking through your book on counter-curses. I hope you don't mind."

"No," she said, both pleased and sorry to have more space between them.  "Of course not."

"You look tense," he said.  "Is something wrong?  Was the curry too rich?  I didn't think you might need food better suited for an invalid. If so, I'm sor -"

"It was fine," she said in a rush.  She cast about for an excuse that would explain any tension he thought he saw because anything was better than the truth that all she could think about when he was this close was his touch.   "I might be a little sore after carrying my books over here.  That's all.  I've been in bed so much lately I'm a bit weak."

Malfoy nodded and she felt relieved he believed her until he said,  "I can help with that.  Pansy always said I gave an excellent shoulder rub."

She stared at him, cornered.  He smirked down at her and she realized that while the bastard might not know exactly what that would do to her, he'd managed to figure out it did something.  "That's all right," she said.  "I don't want to make you go to any trouble.  You've already done so much and -"

"It's no trouble, Granger," he said.  "Consider it a little atonement for not thinking to tell you about the lift."

He returned to the couch and pointed to the floor in front of him.  When she hesitated, he sighed dramatically. "I said it's no trouble, Granger.  Or is there some reason you don't want me to rub your shoulders?  Don't want the Death Eater getting his hands on you?"

There was nothing she could say to that so she sat at his feet, almost cringing, as he made a show of flexing his fingers. When he set them against her shirt she could hear herself audibly sucking in her breath and her hands curled into claws.  He was careful.  He didn't let himself touch any bare skin, and Pansy had been right.  He was good at this.  Even without the melting urge to lay her cheek against his knee and just belong to him in some unthinkable, primal way, she could tell he was methodically and gently working out any soreness in her muscles.   It should have been nice. It would have been if she weren't so utterly aware of him.  She could hear every breath.  She could almost feel the blood pounding in his veins.  He was everything and everyone and he lulled her into a veritable trance as she sat there and felt his fingers and his heart and his very soul align with hers.  

The loud screeching of the kitten shattered the moment. She'd been sleeping on Hermione's bed and now that nap time was over she wanted food.   Malfoy laughed and stood up.  "I'll get it," he said.

Hermione nodded, a little shakily, and pulled herself to what she'd decided was her chair.  "Thank you for that," she said.   It hadn't been as intense as the shock she'd felt when he brushed against her bare skin, but the lengthy contact had done a number on her anyway.  It was hard to think about anything but him.

"Not so bad having the Death Eater around?" he asked as he poured food out and set a small bowl down on the floor.  

"You aren't," she said automatically though she knew, of course, that he was, or had been.  Harry had testified at his trial.

"Wrong, but polite," he said.  "It might be easier to just say all the things you want to about my wartime activities and get them out into the open."

She sat in the chair.  Perhaps, she thought, she should describe it as she draped across the chair. She couldn't remember feeling so relaxed in all her life.  Malfoy, on the other hand, looked tenser than he had since she'd arrived at his giant, horrible manor and begged him to save her. "I'm hardly going to tell you you're some horrible monster," she said.  She'd planned to go on and point out he'd been a child, same as she had, that his being drafted into that war had been unforgivable on the part of the adults.  She'd planned to tell him they'd just been in utter harmony with one another and how could he think she'd be able to be anything but sympathetic to the ways he'd suffered.  

She didn't get a chance to say any of those things because as she tried to form them into coherent sentences in the mind he'd made languid and hazy he said, "Since you need me to stay alive, I suppose you wouldn't."

She straightened up, horribly sober almost at once.  "That wasn't what I - "

"How much would you do, Granger?  What lies would you tell me to save your skin?"

"I've never lied to you," she said, stung.  "Not once."

"But you haven't been exactly forthcoming either, have you?"

Before she could answer that he smiled.  It didn't reach his eyes.  "No matter.  I'm sure we'll find an equilibrium as the days go on."

"Thank you for the shoulder rub," she said, not sure how to respond.  He was right; she hadn't been.  And she didn't want to talk about it. If he'd asked when he had his thumbs kneading away at her muscles she'd probably have answered any question, but now she was herself again and knew not to trust him.   "It was very kind of you."

"Anytime you want one, just ask," he said.  "It was, as I said, no big deal.  At least not for me."  He picked up the book he'd been reading when she first came into the room and she saw it was indeed a book on counter curses.   She wondered whether he was searching for a way to undo what had happened to her, and thus to him. The answer wasn't in there.  It wasn't in any book she had. She'd already searched them all.  "I think I'll finish this in the privacy of my room if you don't mind."

"Of course not," she said.  

He shut the door with what she decided to call excessive emphasis because surely Draco Malfoy hadn't just slammed the door to his bedroom in a fit of pique.  

She sat without moving for a long time.  Eventually, Lynx jumped into her lap and demanded to be pet, and she did. As she moved her hand along the orange fluff part of her observed how soft the fur was and how soothing the loud thrum of the purr.  Another part wanted to go pound on Malfoy's door and demand why he thought she should open her heart to him.  Why should she spill out the details of what she felt about this nightmare, how it had started, how she'd suffered?  Did he want her to explicate all the ways she found this humiliating?  He owned her life.  All he had to do was touch her to turn her into a mindless, adoring animal.   Wasn't that enough?

Chapter Text

Draco had his back to her when she entered and Hermione had the wry thought that seemed to be a theme in their, well, she hated to call it a relationship but there wasn't really a word for what they were.  Bonded, perhaps, though it only went the one way as far as she could tell so that didn't seem quite right either.   Whatever it was, he usually had himself positioned so he couldn't see her.  Today it looked like he was making coffee and she was amused to discover that his hair looked as bad as hers in the morning.  One clump had rubbed together into a cowlick that pointed up at the ceiling at an angle.  He had to know she was there, but he didn't turn.  He didn't acknowledge her at all.

"I blame you for the way you treated me when you were twelve, thirteen, fourteen," she said without introduction.  She'd rehearsed this first lying in bed and then in the shower.   He stopped what he was doing and set his hands on the counter, fingers splayed out, but he otherwise didn't react.  "You were a racist, elitist, arrogant bully."

She stopped to take a breath and he said, "That's fair."

"I do not blame you for anything you did during the war.   Anything you did for Voldemort.  Anything he made you do.  That wasn't your fault."   This had sounded more coherent under the running water and that annoyed her, but she opened her mouth to press on when he spoke.

"I don't believe you," he said, "but thank you for the courtesy."

"Oh, believe me, you really were a bully," she said without thinking.  His shoulders began to shake and she thought for a moment she'd made him cry but when he turned around he was smiling and she realized it was the first time she'd seen him smile since this whole ordeal had begun for him.  As the daughter of dentists, she recognized he had perfect teeth.  As a woman, she thought how those upturned lips transformed his angles into charm.  As a veela, she swayed toward him, pulled by the damnable power he had over her.

She forced herself away instead and flung herself into her chair.  She felt alive.   She felt glorious.  She felt like she wanted to sniff his shirts and that was absolutely not acceptable so she was going to go out and prowl the streets today.  Maybe she'd go to a bookstore or get some lunch.  She didn't even especially like him, for Godric's sake.  The urge to see what he smelled like was just weird.

"I know," he said. Her thoughts had run so far along their own path she wasn't sure what he was talking about and she must have looked momentarily blank because he laughed again. "I know I was a bully," he said.  

"You have some kind of excuse you'd like to offer?"  she asked. "Abusive parents, deep-seated insecurities, fear of failure, need for attention?"

"I was a spoiled little shite?"  he suggested and that made her laugh. She couldn't fault him for his honesty.   "I do like attention, though," he added and he pulled down a second mug and poured her some of the coffee he'd been making. "Sugar in this too?"

She nodded, and he sweetened it before bringing it over.   "Plans today?" she asked.  He was careful not to touch her, and the spell his smile had cast over her slowly ebbed away into just a general sense of health and energy as she sipped at the coffee. 

"Blaise is coming over," he said.   She must have failed to hide her response to that because he quirked his brows up in his customary mockery.   He didn't even need to articulate his thoughts:  if he had to put up with her friends, she had endure his.  She looked down into the coffee and sighed.   He and Harry had managed to interact civilly, and even Ron had mostly kept his rage about the whole thing to himself, at least in the flat.  On the way over he'd railed about how unfair it was that of all people in the world, she had to be bonded to Malfoy.  I bet he loves it, he'd said furiously. I bet it tickles him right in the dark fancy to have you under his thumb.

So far, he didn't seem to love it all that much.

"Blaise makes me look humble," Malfoy said, "But he'll be polite enough whenever you're together so if it's not too much trouble to be nice, I would appreciate it."

"I do know how to be pleasant," she said, "But I was thinking I might go out."

He stirred at that and she looked up in surprise. Surely he didn't want her Muggle-born, Veela self around when his friends were over.  He shrugged. "We might as well get it over with," he said.   "He'll be caustic, you'll put him in his place, and then… I assume you don't plan on moving out, so we'll have to explain this to all our friends eventually."

"Mine already know," she said.

"Mine, peculiarly enough, do not."

That, of course, made sense, and she gave a tiny, unhappy nod to acquiesce to his request.  The coffee was good.  There were croissants in the kitchen he'd arranged to have delivered every other day, and she had at least three books she hadn't read on the history of creature rights on the continent. The subject had become less enjoyable now that she was the creature.  The shift in perspective changed everything.  She opted to reread a history of the Goblin Wars while Malfoy showered and returned, his hair obedient to his will again.  She'd curled up in her chair, lost in the mechanics of magical warfare, when an imperious knock heralded the entrance of Blaise Zabini.

"I heard you had a new pigeon," Zabini said without any kind of introduction.  "Rumors are everywhere."

 "I like to think of her more as a dove," Malfoy said. 

Zabini looked at Hermione and she bristled under the inspection. His eyes ran over her hair, and the stretched-out jumper she had pulled on that morning, and she had never felt quite as inadequate. "More of a sparrow, I'd say," he said.   He flung himself down into a chair and stretched his feet out. His shoes gleamed with workmanship that made even Malfoy's look cheap and Hermione itched to knock what was left of her cold coffee onto them.  "So, spill it," he said. "What's going on?" 

Hermione could remember the way he used to sit at the table during the little dinners Slughorn liked to hold at Hogwarts for the impressive and important. He'd look around as if everyone there were beneath him, but still moderately amusing in the way a children's play you'd been forced to go to because your cousin was in it might be.

"Well," she said before Malfoy could answer, "I managed to get infected with a magical virus that effectively makes me addicted to Malfoy, and, without him, I die." 

"I heard you were a Veela," he said.  "Clearly all the rumors aren't true."

"Oh, she is," Malfoy said.  "It's a different sort."

"There's a not beautiful sort?"  Zabini asked.  

This time it was Malfoy who spoke before she could get out any of the retorts crowding their way to the tip of her tongue.  "She hasn't been well," he said. "No one looks their best while recovering from a months-long bout of illness."

"Still," Zabini said. "Trust you to manage to get yourself entangled with the plain sort of Veela."

"It's funny," Malfoy said.  "But I had no idea you had a death wish."  When Zabini tilted his head to the side in a parody of polite inquiry, he added, "You'll be civil to her, Zabini, or you'll find yourself with an acute case of something unpleasant and incurable."

Instead of any reaction Hermione might have predicted, Blaise's eyes turned speculative at the threat.  He didn't address it, though.  He just turned to her and asked something that surprised her with its insight.   

"What's the high like?" 

She didn't answer at once.  She wasn't sure how to explain it, or even if she wanted to, but when she glanced uneasily at Malfoy she could tell he had no intention of intervening on this one.  He was probably happy to see her cornered into an answer.  She chewed on the inside of her mouth and searched for a way to explain and both men sat and waited.  "You're awfully direct for a Slytherin," she said at last, trying to dodge.  

Zabini shrugged. "I've known my share of you lions," he said.  "You only answer the question direct, not the subtle probe."

"Who?" she asked, suddenly curious which of her Housemates might have had a fling with the man, but he just smiled enigmatically and she supposed he was at least enough of a gentleman not to share his conquests. 

"The high?" he asked again.

"Have you ever seen a full Veela?" she asked.  "The regular kind, I mean?"

He nodded. "At the World Cup," he said.  "They were the Bulgarian mascots."

"How did you react?"

Zabini seemed to contemplate and said, after a moment's thought, "I would have done anything to get closer to them.  I'd never seen anything so enchanting and the world narrowed down to only them.  As I recall, I had to be held back from climbing over the edge of our box and running into the field.  If one had told me it would please her to see me slit my throat, I would have died in bliss at her feet."

"Physical contact intensifies the effect," Hermione said.  "It's euphoric and mindless and… but that's as good a description as any."  She glanced over at Malfoy and his face quickly shuttered, but not before she saw something dark in his eyes.   Pity, maybe, or pleasure.  Either way, it left her feeling far too vulnerable.   She folded her feet under her more tightly as if that could protect her from Zabini's too knowing, too amused eyes.

Chapter Text

Draco rubbed at his head.  He'd been at this for the whole of the afternoon and, other than developing eye strain and a throbbing that sat behind one eyebrow, he'd accomplished nothing.  Seven thin folders.  Seven surviving Veela who'd done the proper thing and registered themselves as creatures with the Ministry for Magic.  Seven cases to study.

The way the disease spread was well documented.  Each Veela had dutifully described how she'd been contaminated, and, while Draco wondered idly who Hermione's source had been, it didn't really matter.  At least, he thought it didn't matter.   What he wanted - what his father wanted - was to figure out how she'd latched onto him.   How did any of this stain of Veela select their mates?  There didn't seem to be a common thread.  Two had already been married to theirs.  The other five had known theirs, but with such varying degrees of intimacy, it made no sense.  Some had been lovers.  Some had only known their mates casually before the disease grabbed them in its claws.  One had had the bad luck to have been in a building Muggles had tried to burn, her only connection to her future mate that he'd been there as well.  They hadn't known each other before that day and had no contact again until she'd somehow figured out he was her savior.

They'd ended up married and, if the file was to be believed, happy.  The nine children they'd had spoke to at least an enthusiastic sex life, though Draco suspected a lack of skill with contraceptive charms as well.  He hoped they'd been happy at least.  He didn't see how it was possible with that many children, but he wished the long-dead couple well anyway.

He shoved the sheets of parchment away and curled his fingers in frustration.  Nine children.  No information on what she'd thought or felt, how the disease had affected her, or why she'd latched onto a near-total stranger, but she'd felt compelled to list the names of all her offspring instead of anything that might have been at all useful.

Worthless morons, he thought as he closed the files.  He wasn't sure if he meant the Veela, their mates, or the Ministry hacks who'd taken the information down and filed it away.  Since the creatures weren't dangerous, or even especially interesting, no one had cared to be thorough.   He considered asking his father to see if there were more records in other countries but decided that would be a waste of time.  The French didn't like to share, and MACUSA was an absolute nightmare.  They'd just send back missives filled with refusals justified by how Britain had nurtured Voldemort, as if they hadn't had their own Shaman Uprising to contend with.  Not that anyone was supposed to know about that.

He pushed back from the table and decided to lie down.  The narrow bed pushed against one wall sagged a bit under his weight, and he stared across the room at the unadorned white paint.  He hadn't hung anything personal, hadn't brought in a single thing from home other than clothes.  The wooden table near the room's sole window was the only piece of furniture other than the bed.  The room was large and stark.  He liked it that way.   It felt clean.

Granger had gone out after breakfast.  She already looked better.  Barely a week in his presence and the bags under her eyes had gone from black caverns to the faintest of smudges.  Her skin didn't seem as grey, and she'd mustered the energy to put at least a little effort into controlling her curls.  She'd never be a beauty but she no longer reminded him of a patient freshly released from St. Mungo's.   And all this had happened without so much as a touch to her hand since her confession to Blaise.  All she needed was his presence.

He supposed it was nice to be needed.

Mindless euphoria, huh,  Blaise had said later as he'd walked him down the stairs and passed the obsequious, still-employed doorman.  The sex must be something.

Draco had snorted and Blaise had gone on his way.    He wondered where his little bird had flown off to. More books, maybe, or lunch with Potter and Weasley?  Perhaps she hadn't really ended things with Weasley and, now that she had the energy again,  they planned to meet up for sex.  If the information in his handy folders was right, she'd been in for an unpleasant shock.

On the other hand, she'd only air-kissed Potter so he guessed she had to already know.   It had been months, he thought.  Almost a year.   She had to have figured it out by now.  So not sex.  Books, then.  Research was her hedge against the fear she'd be stuck with him forever, but she didn't own a single book you couldn't find in a shop and she wasn't likely to pick up anything especially useful out in Diagon Alley.   The real information would only be found in far less savory volumes.

He lay with his eyes closed for a while and waited for the headache to dissipate.   At some point it did, and sometime after that, he could hear the door open and close.   She'd come back to her cage.  At least he'd given her a nice one.  

He rolled off the bed and went out to greet her, careful to shut the door to his room.  The cold emptiness of it would surely make her ask questions, and the folders would make her ask still more.  He didn't feel like giving anything up today.  

"Have fun?"  he asked her.  She dropped a bag on the table and stepped into the kitchen to put the kettle on.  "I don't suppose it's too much to hope for that you bought yourself something more attractive than your usual run of stretched-out jumpers in red and gold."

She didn't turn though her shoulders tensed at that and he laughed.

"You're so obvious, Granger," he said. 

"And you're a jerk," she said. 

"True enough," he acknowledged.  "Make me some while you're at it?"

She scoffed but was too polite to do anything but pull down another cup.  "Earl Grey acceptable?" she asked, but she was already measuring the leaves out into the pot.   The temptation to tell her no tugged at his brain, but that would be just pointless antagonism when what he needed to do was make headway with her.  If she'd trust him, even a little, she might open up and tell him something that would make all the pieces fall into place.   If seven too-thin folders were frustrating, living with the only one of her kind and making no progress in understanding how she worked was more so.  

"You know I'm just being a shite, right?"  he asked as he settled onto the couch.  "Wear what you like."

"I know you're considerably more used to girls - women - who doll themselves up for you," she said.  

She stood at the counter and waited for the water to boil and didn't look at him but Draco knew an opening when he heard one.  "Some women have to," he said.  

"Have to what?"

"Doll themselves up."  He waited for her to figure it out in silence and the smile on her face when she handed him the brewed tea suggested she had, though she didn't dig for more.  That was refreshing. Pansy would have snuggled into his side and said, "Do I?" and forced him to reassure her that, no, she was one of those special women who were beautiful and interesting even without spending an hour in front of the mirror every morning.   He wasn't sure he'd seen Pansy without makeup in years.   He'd never seen her not pulled together.  

Granger, of course, didn't snuggle. She took care not to touch him and then sat down in her own chair.  Lynx was on her lap in an instant and he smiled at the picture the two of them made.  Woman in a dull gold jumper with an orange cat.  He appreciated the way they matched.   "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said.  "I have a proposal."

The way she looked nervous and clutched more tightly at the handle of her cup made him have to consciously keep from grinding his teeth.  He'd done nothing but bend over backwards for her since she'd arrived at Malfoy Manor and she still automatically assumed the worst.  Some day that was going to push him into doing something they'd both regret.

"Let's have a party," he said. "Housewarming type thing."  When she looked doubtful he added, "It would get all the rumors out of the way at once.  Yes, you're a Veela, yes, we're living together, no, we aren't dating."

"People think that?"  The level of horror in her eyes was one more insult.  "They think we're dating?"

"Some people have suggested I've lost my mind," he said,  "Slumming it with you, and all." He glanced down at his hands as if to convey boredom. "It's getting tedious having to tell everyone I'm saving you."

"Slumming it?"  She glared at him and he felt a twinge in his gut he couldn't quite identify.  He couldn't possibly be sorry for having hurt her; he didn't particularly like her - he never had -  and he'd never been considerate of even his friends' feelings.  Was he upset she was so riled over the idea people thought they were dating?  It was a logical assumption, and he was considered a bit of a catch, after all, or had been until he came with a dependent Veela in the spare room.  That, he decided, had to be it.  He was insulted that she thought dating him would be beneath her.

Her presence in the smaller bedroom was another benefit to being the man her condition had decided was the one.  He'd be spared the witches who wanted a walk on the wild side with a former Death Eater, and spared the witches who were willing to overlook his past for the Malfoy galleons.  He'd be spared witches in general, other than this one.  He was tired of witches.  None of them were good enough.

"A party?"  he asked.  "We can clear that all up with one night.  If we invite Pansy, she'll write one of her gossip columns whether we want her to or not, and everyone will know."

"Everyone will know," she said softly.

He wondered if she'd registered with the Ministry the way she was supposed to, creature that she was.  He'd have his father check on that and, if she hadn't, get that fixed and backdated.  "You aren't ashamed, are you?" he asked.  The words came out more gently than he'd expected.  "It's not as if what happened to you was your fault."

"No." She straightened up. "Of course I'm not ashamed.  It's nothing to be ashamed of.   A party sounds great."

Chapter Text

Hermione'd worn long sleeves to avoid accidentally touching anyone and, as the flat filled up with people and got steadily warmer, she began to feel overheated.  She'd greeted more people at the door than she could recall, almost all of them Malfoy's friends.  She'd had no idea he was so popular but she supposed money could do that for a person.   She nodded tightly at Blaise Zabini when he came in, had to snatch her hand back out of the way before Theodore Nott, who she only vaguely remembered from advanced potions could kiss it,  and just goggled at Greg Goyle.   She'd had no idea he and Malfoy were still friends, but he looked exactly the same save for the receding hairline.  

Malfoy's comment about her jumpers the other day had hurt more than she'd let on, and she'd decided she was going to shine at this party.  She'd combed some tonic through her hair to calm the worst of the frizz, but she'd be damned before she straightened it. Instead, she'd used a wide band to hold it back from her face and left it springing wildly in every other direction.   She'd fished the one bra that time and laundry hadn't stretched into distortion from the back of the drawer and found a deep blue skirt that went with her favorite golden yellow jumper. The stiff satin made it festive and, she'd thought, paired with the sweater it didn't look too fancy.  Malfoy's eyes had widened just a moment when she'd come out of her room.  "You clean up decently," he'd said.  

She'd thought no one would accuse him of overdoing the compliments until the guests had started to arrive.   He called Pansy even more gorgeous than usual.  He told Ginny Weasley her looks set the world on fire. He told Daphne Greengrass, who sniffed when she saw Hermione as though something smelled bad, that she must be divine.   For her,  he laced insults through his half-compliments.  

She wished again she'd somehow bonded to Ron or Neville or Dean or someone - anyone - who was simply nice.

The heat of the room drove her to grab a cold drink and stand by an open window.  As she swallowed the iced lemonade Malfoy always had on hand, Harry leaned up against the wall next to her, careful not to touch her.  "How's it going?" he asked.

"It's fine," she said.  At his doubtful look, she said, "It's better."

"I can see that," he said.  He studied the party and the milling guests, and took a long drink from the beer in his hand.  He'd arrived late and the festivities had been going on for over an hour by the time he got a drink and found her standing outside the worst of the fray.  She suspected he'd been waylaid by people who wanted to be able to say that'd talked to The Boy Who Lived.  That happened to him a lot, even now, years after the war.  "You look less dead."

"Thank you," she said rather dryly.  "I'll see if I can get Parkinson to use that in her gossip column.  Hermione Granger looked less dead at her party."

Harry laughed.  "She's a piece of work," he said.  "And watch out, she's on her way over."

"Lucky us," Hermione said.

Malfoy followed her over and moved to Hermione's side when she pulled herself off the wall and forced a smile for the woman who was, after all, a guest in her flat.  She appreciated the support.  "You look nice," she said. "How's the writing job."

"It's good."  Parkinson eyed her hungrily.   "So, Granger.  You're a Veela."

"It's not a secret," Hermione said.  

"You registered?"

Hermione could feel her stomach clench.  She'd been putting that off even though she knew it was legally required.  She just hadn't wanted to fill out the forms that made it official she wasn't a person in the eyes of the wizarding world but a sentient creature instead.  And she'd thought being a Muggle-born had been bad.

"Of course she is," Malfoy said easily.  "Were you planning on trying to do an expose, Pans?"

The ugly flush that stole up Parkinson's cheeks suggested that was exactly what she had been hoping to do.   "Well, give me something," she said.  "Tell me a tidbit about your existence, Granger."  Her smile got very toothy.  "I've talked to Zabini.  He says whenever you touch Malfoy here, it's the best high ever."

"Well," Hermione said, trying to maintain her composure, "I haven't tried every intoxicant out there, Parkinson, so I can't really give you a fair answer to that."

"But it gets you high?"

"Parkinson," Harry said in warning, but Hermione gave a shrug as if it didn't matter.

"It's certainly better than the bit where I am in pain whenever he's not around," she said.   

"How long can you be apart?" Pansy Parkinson had moved into full reporter mode now though she hadn't taken a notebook out.  

"We haven't tested it in detail." Hermione cast around for something to give the woman that would satisfy her without revealing too much.  She didn't want to talk about how she'd spent days in bed, too filled with aches she couldn't alleviate to even read.  She didn't want to talk about how she'd cried when she realized Malfoy was the answer, sure he'd condemn her to death.  She certainly didn't want to talk about how he almost seemed to glow when she looked at him or how she had trouble not crawling into his lap.  That was all too intimate to share with Pansy Parkinson's greedy eyes.    "I can't bear anyone else's touch.  You might find that interesting given your sudden fascination with the whole subject."  

Pansy Parkinson immediately lay her hand across Hermione's wrist and watched her face.  It was all she could do not to shudder in revulsion.   She'd described the sensation to Harry once as the feeling you get when a bit of seaweed wraps around your ankle at the shore and for a brief moment you think it's a cold, dead hand reaching up to drag you below the waves.  

Harry slapped the hand away at once.  "Don't," he said.     "She just told you she doesn't like it."

"Just checking to see if it's the truth," Pansy said.  "Looks like it is.  Either that, Granger, or you're one hell of an actress."

"Well," Hermione said.  "As long as you don't decide to check anything else, we're good.  I hope you're enjoying the party, but I think I should go check on Ginny, so if you'll excuse me?"

Before she could move away, however, Pansy stepped in her path.

"Oh, c'mon Granger," Pansy said.  "It's a party.  Live a little."  

Then the woman gave her a hard shove and she stumbled directly into Malfoy.  When he caught her so she wouldn't fall, his hand brushed against her exposed wrist, the same place Pansy had touched just moments earlier, and she was lost.  The touch was electric.  It was euphoric.  She'd been trying not to touch him, not even through fabric, and now she couldn't remember why.   She looked up at him and smiled in delight to see those grey eyes squinting down at her.  They were such an unusual color.  She'd never seen anything quite like them.  She swayed so she could press herself against him more thoroughly and was dimly away of grating laughter behind her.  Draco wrapped one of his perfect, perfect arms around her waist and looked over her shoulder as she rested her cheek against his shirt.  His fingers slipped under the jumper and pressed against her skin and she could feel his manicured nails curving into the flesh above her hip.  She could also feel his shirt.  He had the best shirts.  The linen was so soft she wanted to wrap her entire body in it and when she inhaled she caught the mixed scents of whatever soap he used, the whiskey he'd been drinking, and something indefinably, wonderfully him.  

"Get out," he said.  His voice was so hard and cold that she shivered and looked up again, worried she'd displeased him, but he wasn't directing his venom against her so she decided she didn't care what had upset him. She just snuggled her cheek back against his shirt and sighed with pleasure.  

"I was just having a little fun," she heard someone say.   "It's not like she minds.  Look at her."

He pulled his wand out of his pocket and she almost cooed.  He was so good at magic.  He'd sorted her books for her when she'd moved in and hadn't that been just the most thoughtful thing ever.  Thoughtful and powerful and he smelled so good.  She knew you weren't supposed to admit some people were just better at magic, but some were.  He was.   "I think I told you to get out," he said.  

She heard a huff from someone.  "When did you get to be so dull?" that someone asked, then yelped as Draco shot a voiceless curse at her.  

"The next one will hurt a lot more," he said.  "Blaise, Potter, get everyone out.  I'll deal with this one."

He scooped her up and she pressed her face into his neck, then licked it to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.  He did, maybe better.  "All right, Granger," he said.  "Let's get you tucked in before you do something you'll regret in the morning."

She pouted when he deposited her onto the bed.  "Want to be in your room," she said.

"I'm sure," he said.  "That, however, is my private space, and you will have to sober up in your own bed."

He'd stopped touching her skin when he set down and a glimmer of rationality floated to the top of her brain as the euphoria faded and she sucked in her breath.  What had she done?  Had anyone seen?  

"The party," she said in horror as thought returned.  "Parkinson."  

"I'll deal with it," he said.  She'd known Draco Malfoy since she was eleven years old.  She'd seen him petty, cruel, vindictive, and scared out of his mind.   She didn't think she'd ever seen him this furious.  

"I'm sorry," she said.  She'd made a spectacle of herself.  She'd thought her reaction to his back rub had been humiliating.  That was nothing.   This was the humiliation.

"Don't be sorry," he said.   He reached out a hand as if he were going to offer comfort and then thought better of it and shoved it into his pocket.   "You have done nothing wrong."

She took a deep, shaky breath and then said, "Thank you."  It might have been the first truly sincere thing she'd said since they'd moved in together.  It was certainly the most unguarded.  

"Don't come out until you're feeling more like yourself, okay?" he said, and then he shut the door and left her alone.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling as she listened to the party guests leave.   The ceiling was high, as properly befit this expensive apartment.  The ceilings were high, the floors were wood, the view was excellent, and she wondered if she'd be able to face any of her guests ever again.  Or anyone.  What would Pansy's gossip column read?  She could kick herself for ever agreeing to Malfoy's suggestion of a party.   Maybe she could just retreat to the Muggle world and never shop in Diagon Alley again.  It wasn't as if she could get a wizarding job.  No one would hire a creature, especially not one prone to melting into love-struck idiocy any time she brushed against her flatmate.

When the living area had been silent for a while, she decided it was safe to go out.   When she peered warily out of her room, the flat was almost empty. Only Malfoy, Zabini, and, improbably, Harry remained, all sitting around the table.  A bottle of whiskey let her know what they'd been doing to pass the time as she recovered.  "Want one?" Zabini asked.

"More than anything in the world," she answered honestly.  

He poured her a glass and she took it.   They'd left her chair empty and she sank into it and looked around at the three men.   

"Well," Zabini said. "That was fun."

Malfoy almost snarled and Zabini held his hands up in mock submission.  She didn't believe he really felt the tiniest bit sorry for the comment.  He'd enjoyed every moment of the evening's drama. Hell, he'd been the one to tell Parkinson about the effect Malfoy had on her. She should be angry at him, but all she really felt was tired. 

Harry slouched lower in his seat.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I should have caught you before you toppled into him."

"It's not your fault," Hermione said automatically.  She'd said that a lot since this had happened.  She'd said it to Fleur, who'd introduced her to her cousin.  She'd said it to Ron, who felt he somehow should have protected her.  She'd even said it to the too-beautiful cousin she'd gone out on the one date with.   Dinner had been nice.  The sex had been fine.   She'd had a good, if unspectacular, time.  She hadn't planned on a second date and probably wouldn't have even seen him again if he hadn't made her into this odd, half-Veela thing.  He hadn't known he was carrying the infection, hadn't known he could give it to her.  He was asymptomatic, Fleur had said as she'd wrung her hands.  It's a Veela-specific condition.  He didn't know.

It's not his fault, Hermione said, though she was pretty sure it was.   He'd only needed a course of potions to clear it up for him, regular Veela that he was.  She tried not to be bitter about that and took a long swallow of her whiskey.  It was, predictably, the good stuff.  As long as she stayed with Malfoy she'd never have second best of anything.

"Let's play a game of truth or truth," Zabini said.  "It works like this, I ask you a question and you answer it honestly."    Before she could say no, he traced his finger around the edge of his glass and added, "Unless you're scared."

"You just saw me drape myself over Malfoy like he was chocolate cake and I was starving," Hermione said.  "I doubt you can come up with something worse."

"Do you like it?"  She gaped at him and he smiled like a self-satisfied cat.  "When you're high on Malfoy, do you like it?"

"Of course she doesn't," Harry snapped.

She took a deep breath and braced herself.   "Yes," she admitted.  Zabini looked triumphant.  Malfoy's fingers tightened on his glass until his knuckles turned white, but other than that he didn't respond.  "While I'm in the trance, it's wonderful."  She took a sip and coughed when it tried to invade her lungs.

"Your turn," Zabini said to Harry.

"Why did you take her in?"  Harry asked Malfoy.

"Because I'm not a monster," Malfoy said.   He set his glass down on their table with a loud clunk and the remaining whiskey sloshed up one side.  Hermione stared at it, unwilling to meet his eyes for this question.  "I've known several of them, and I choose not to be one."  He added what sounded like forced joviality to his voice with, "And it's hardly a burden to share a flat with a reasonably pretty woman.  I've suffered worse."

"Still," Harry said.  "This was a lot to do on just her word."

Malfoy let out a harsh laugh.  "Please, Potter," he said.  "By the time the sun rose, we had all her medical records in our hands.   Did you really think I just trusted her?"

"Those are private," Hermione said.

He looked at her and rubbed his thumb and fingers together.  She understood at once.  Enough money meant nothing was private.   She hoped the details of the various scars she bore, courtesy of Death Eaters, had given him at least a frisson of guilt.  She hoped he'd read about how she still woke up with nightmares now and then, thanks to his aunt, and felt miserable.  She hoped he'd felt terrible that she couldn't bear to have her neck touched now because it brought back the knife at her throat with paralyzing clarity.

The knife and all that had happened after.

When she risked a look at his face, he was looking back at her.  It was his turn in Blaise's little game.  "Why didn't you tell me that you can't touch anyone else?"

"It wasn't your concern," she said.  "Did you know anyway?"

"Yes," he said.  That simple answer shook her because she knew it hadn't been in her records.  She'd hated having the nurses touch her but, most of the time, they'd worn gloves which mitigated the effect enough she could hide it.   He'd gotten more, somehow, than just her folder from St. Mungo's.  

"You need to touch each other more," Blaise said.  Before she could explode at him that hadn't he just seen what that could do to her and was he under the impression she wanted to be that helpless even more, he held up a hand for her to stop. "You haven't done your research."

That was even more outrageous, but this time it was Malfoy who managed to get a word in. "There isn't much information available on what she is."

"Ah," Blaise said, "but there is plenty on the usual, beautiful strain."  Hermione took a long swallow of her drink instead of throwing the heavy glass at his head.  The whiskey kissed and burned as it went down.  Alcohol,  she knew, worked as a disinfectant.  Pity it couldn't burn her free of this contamination the way it could kill less magical infections.  

"What do you mean?"  Malfoy asked.

"Unless you want her hanging off your arm like Pansy at sixteen every time you so much as brush against her, she needs to develop a tolerance," Blaise said.   "Normal people, when they spend time around Veela, become less affected.  Stands to reason if you two stopped flinching away from contact, she'd mellow out a little."

Hermione looked at Malfoy feeling a flare of hope. "That might work," she said.  Anything to avoid a repeat of tonight was what she meant.  

Blaise stood up and made a show of brushing non-existent crumbs from his trousers.  "Now that that's settled," he said, "I was promised the ride of my life if I behaved at your little party, so, if you will excuse me, I'll be on my way."  

He let himself out.

Harry, Malfoy, and Hermione all stared at one another.  "I don't like this," Harry said.  "I don't like any of this."

"I had no idea your tastes were so discriminating," Malfoy said.  Harry frowned at him, not following.  "That's small batch whiskey, aged in an oak-barrel for over 24 years, Potter.  If that's not to your liking, I'm not sure what more I can offer."

Hermione had to bite back a laugh that felt almost traitorous.

"I don't like that she's at your mercy," Harry said.  Draco's mouth set in a tight line at that and Hermione felt the urge to defend him.  She resisted. "Once you touch her, she's just helpless.  You could tell her to do anything, do anything to her.  I don't like Zabini telling her to do it more."

Hermione could tell Draco had to force the condescension into his voice.  "Yes," he said, "the whole situation's a bit of a sadist's wet dream, I admit.  How fortunate for her that I don't personally enjoy seeing people suffer.  Much."

"I hate you," Harry said.  "I don't trust you at all."

"I know," Malfoy said.  "That's what makes this so fun."

"Can we just try it?"  She had to stop them before they pulled out their wands and reverted to their boyhoods.   "If he oversteps, you can just hex him, okay Harry?"

"You want him to watch?"  Malfoy asked. "I had no idea you were so liberal, Granger."

"Fuck you," Harry ground out.  "You don't have to do this, Hermione."

She moved over to sit next to Malfoy anyway.  She didn't want to do it, she lied to herself, though her fingers already itched to stroke his skin. This was just an experiment.   "If Zabini's right, I do," she said.  "I can't just go into a fit every time I touch him by accident."

"And if he's wrong?"

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," she said.  "Gryffindor courage, right?"

Malfoy pulled his wand out and tossed it across the table to Harry.   "So you feel more at ease," he said.  "Hero over there is armed and I'm not."

She expected that to make her feel safer, but it didn't.   She wasn't sure if that was because she didn't trust him at all, even without a wand in his reach, or because she knew he wouldn't hurt her.  "You ready," she asked him.

"Anytime, Granger."

She set her palm against his.

Chapter Text

Her hand trembled against his and Draco had to force himself to look at her.  Where moments before there had been a wary, brilliant war heroine now sat a wide-eyed ingenue who gazed up at him with rapt adoration.   She scooted over closer to him, and let her whole self snuggle against him.   He tried to control his grimace.  This reminded him far too much of the Imperius Curse.  He told himself it was wholly different.  His victims hadn't been fascinated by him, and all she had to do was pull her hand away and wait a few minutes for her head to clear, but it felt eerily similar all the same and he didn't like it.

She, however, had disappeared into a state of utter bliss.  He almost envied her that.   Her brown eyes watched him as if he were the most wonderful thing in the world and the burden that put on him felt heavier than he could bear. 

He laced his fingers through hers and ran his free hand over her hair. "We'll figure this out, Granger," he said.  

Her trusting smile lanced his soul.  He wanted to go back to his barren room and lie down on the narrow bed and listen to himself breathe and think of nothing.  Instead, his penance was worse, and he looked across the room at Harry Potter, hero and all-around beloved figure.   He had his wand in his hand, pointed right at Draco, and by the grim set of his mouth, he assumed the worst.  "I'm just sitting here," Draco said.  "Could you put that thing down?"

Potter's grip on the wand didn't loosen.  "I don't think so," he said.  "Just to be wholly clear, she doesn't need you happy to survive, right?  She only needs you around?"

"Apparently," Draco said.  He hadn't been happy, and she'd been improving, so that seemed like a reasonable assumption.

"Then keep in mind that Ron and I won't hesitate to keep you locked in the basement like her own personal pharmacy if you put one toe out of line."

"Be careful in fighting monsters lest you become one," Draco said.  He could tell by the blank expression on Potter's face he didn't recognize the reference or understand the implication.  Savior of the wizarding world and he was less well-read than Zabini.  It was sad, really.   Potter also didn't seem to realize he couldn't exactly make the Malfoy heir disappear without an investigation, and unless he wanted to keep Granger under lock and key as well, his family would know that where she was, he had to be. A brilliant strategist Potter wasn't.

"I didn't know you read Nietzsche," Granger said.  Her voice sounded dreamy, and her eyes were unfocused, but when he snapped his attention back to her she tilted her head back and smiled.  "You're so pretty."

"Most men prefer to be called handsome," Draco said.    He tried to find some evidence she was still in there but her glazed expression didn't offer a lot of hope.  

"Nope," she said.  "Pretty.  And the abyss gazes back."

He sucked in his breath.  "Granger?" he asked.  Under that addled haze, was she really following him?

"Everything's fuzzy," she said.  "And you're so pretty."

"You've mentioned that," Potter said with disgust, but Draco could hear him set the wand down.   It would seem he'd passed whatever test Potter the Noble had in his tiny brain, at least for the moment. How she stood her idiot friends he had no idea, though he supposed she'd probably say the same about Goyle.  Shared history made for odd bedfellows.

"Did it gaze back into you?"  she asked.

The fingers he had laced through hers spasmed.  She was following him.  She followed so closely it hurt.  "It did look back," he said quietly.  He wished with all his heart that Potter weren't here for that admission.  That he would have no idea what it meant offered scant comfort at best.  No one liked to be stripped bare in front of a long-time enemy, even a petty one.  He knew Potter wouldn't hesitate to use that against him if he figured it out.  The man had already threatened to lock him up as Granger's captive health care.  

"I'm sorry," she said.  

"It wasn't your fault," he said.  For some reason, she seemed to find that funny, and she began to giggle.  The laugh grew until she was gasping and if he hadn't spent far too much time around Zabini and Goyle and their post-war attempt to categorize the effects of as many drugs as possible 'for research' he'd have assumed she'd lost her mind.   As it was he just sighed and waited for the moment to pass.  

When she'd calmed down and caught her breath she tried to lie down so her head would be in his lap, and Draco decided that was quite enough for one night.  He jerked his hand free and stood up, using the need to put what was left of the whiskey away as an excuse.  He did top off both his and Granger's glasses on his way to the kitchen.  Potter's he left as it was. Maybe the man would take the hint and leave.  When he turned back to face the seating area, she had her glass in hand and was sipping from it as though nothing had happened.  He wondered what that self-control cost her.  He admired her for it.

"Any different this time?" he asked her.

"Maybe?" she said.  He thought that sounded more hopeful than certain.   "Maybe it was just that it wasn't such a shock, though."

She didn't allow herself to sag and Draco eyed the satin of her skirt, now crumpled.  It was the only evidence that anything had gone amiss in the evening.   He'd have to get an owl off to Pansy tonight before she turned in what was sure to be salacious copy and make it clear that he protected his own.   Maybe she'd thought he wouldn't include Granger in that category just because he didn't especially like the woman.  If so, she'd thought wrong.   One mention of Granger's trance and Pansy would find herself out of a job and blacklisted if he had to buy the Prophet to do it.  

Money, as he'd told Granger, solved a lot of problems.

He'd have his father slip Pansy some of their stockpiled blackmail material on some politician or other.  There was always somebody who'd accepted a favor he oughtn't to have, or who'd been caught with his hands in the till.  He'd throw one of them under the oncoming dragon.  That would make Pansy happy, and keep Granger out of the spotlight.  He needed to write his father anyway.  The effect was stronger than either of them had assumed.  She hadn't given any indication of that kind of lovesick adoration when he'd slapped her out of her fainting fit at the Manor.  Had she been too ill to respond, or did it not work on the unconscious?

That was worth investigating.

"You still here?" he asked Potter.  

The man drained what was left of his whiskey, stood up, and said, "Just leaving.  Floo me if you need anything, Hermione."  Then he was gone and they were alone.

"I am sorry," he said again.  "I had no idea Pansy would cross that line."

Granger shrugged and tilted her head so it rested along the back of the couch.  It left the line of her throat bare and his eyes followed it to where her skin disappeared into her jumper.   "She was curious," she said.  "It's an odd thing, what I am."

"She was cruel," Draco said.  It took some effort to control how angry he still was that she had done that.  He wanted to go to her flat and pound on her until she looked as broken as he knew his veela felt under that controlled exterior.   Instead, he took a long swallow from his drink.

"Thank you for defending me," Granger said.   "You are an endless well of surprises."

"Predictable people are boring," Draco said.  That made her laugh, and it sounded like genuine amusement instead of the drugged giggles she'd collapsed into earlier.  He wanted to make her laugh again but, as he was the demon in this story, that seemed unfair.   "Do you want to try again?"

"You're determined," she said.  "But I'm tired and I want a shower."

"Conveniently, I have an idea," he said.

She lifted her head.  "The last time you had an idea, it was to have this party.  I'm not currently a fan of your ideas."

"Statistically, this one will have to be better."

She laughed again.  "Okay, Malfoy.  What?"

"I think we should sleep together."

She almost flung herself across the room in her need to get away from him.  Her wand was out almost at once, and he didn't think she'd hesitate to do something far nastier than the approved hexes they'd all learned at Hogwarts.  He didn't think it would slow him down much if what he really wanted was to grab her.  He'd endured enough cruciatus curses to be able to work through pain, but he held his hands up to show he had no plans to attack and said, "I don't mean sex."

Her hands were shaking but she was listening.

"If it takes prolonged contact to help you get used to the effect, the easiest way to do that might be to share a bed.  Seven to eight hours a night of contact, most of it while we're both unconscious.  It would be better than sitting on the couch, holding your hand, and watching you make googly eyes at me for five minutes at a time."

"Dressed," she said.  It wasn't a question.

"I don't sleep nude," he said.  

She lowered the wand and he knew he had her.

"I need a shower first," she said. 

"And I have to send off a few notes," he said.  "I'll meet you in your room when you're ready."

Chapter Text

Hermione didn't usually wear socks to bed, but she decided to make an exception for this experiment.  She didn't relish the idea of drifting off to sleep only to be jolted awake if her foot brushed Malfoy's and she became consumed with how pretty he was, or how much she'd like to lick him.  

She still couldn't believe she'd licked him. She hoped no one had seen that. With the way the night had gone, however, Pansy had probably managed a photograph and it would appear as the lead item on the gossip page.  War Heroine Catches Rare Veela Virus.  Pansy would manage to make the article sound sympathetic rather than vicious so people didn't feel too dirty as they pried into the most private details of her life.   They'd tell themselves they were her fans, that they were just concerned.  They were just interested in her because she was a public figure.  The less charitable would say it was what she deserved for consorting with Veela at all. Lie down with Kneazles, get up with fleas, someone would say. 

She wondered if Molly would still be sympathetic after she read Pansy's article.  History suggested no.  

At least Malfoy hadn't seemed too disgusted by her salivating over him.  He'd been remarkable, all things considered.   She didn't especially like owing him, and every day this went on she owed him more.  She owed him her life, she owed him her pain-free existence, she owed him this lovely flat and the croissants she had for breakfast every morning.  It seemed she even owed him for covering her failure to register at the Ministry.

And what did she do in return?  She licked him.

He'd tasted good, too, though she was pretty sure that was just the Veela insanity.  She pulled her hair back into a bushy plait and stared at herself in the mirror.  "Could you not be crazy?" she asked herself. "Please?"

Her reflection had nothing useful to contribute to the conversation, and she decided that was just as well.  The last thing she needed now was a magic mirror spelled to offer psychological advice.  She didn't think she'd like whatever such a thing had to say.  Don't trust him, maybe or, perhaps worse, Why are you so afraid to trust him?

When he peered around her half-open door, she saw that Malfoy had adopted a similar clothing strategy to hers.  She didn't know what he usually wore to bed, but she was grateful he'd opted for pajama bottoms that dragged to the floor and a long-sleeved shirt.  He'd bared as little skin as possible.  As always, he was all in black.

"You look like a crow," she said.  

He pulled at the hem of the very black shirt and regarded it as if he'd never considered that before.  "Crows are smart birds," he said.  "I've been called worse."

She knew.  She'd called him worse.  But then, he'd called her much worse, so she supposed they were even.

"Shall we do this?"  she asked.

He gestured toward the bed and she climbed in.  She knew she held herself with uninviting stiffness as he followed, but seduction wasn't her goal.   She just wanted to be immune to him or, at least, inured.  She'd settle for inured.   

She could feel his breath on the back of her neck and it made her heart race, but he kept his hands over her clothes and slowly pulled himself against her until she could feel the warmth of him pressed all along her back and legs.  They lay in tense silence for what felt like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than a minute, before he asked, "Are you okay?"

She considered the question seriously.  Her sense of distrust and caution slowly drained away, and, the longer they lay there, the more content she felt.  She didn't, however, have any urge to lick him and she decided this was good. She still had her wits about her, and if she had an almost unreasonable urge to trust Malfoy, well, he hadn't behaved in any way to suggest she shouldn't since this whole ordeal had begun.   Maybe she should listen to the imaginary psychology mirror in her head and just have a little faith that he meant if not well then at least well enough.  She felt suffused with relaxed pleasure, the way one might on the first morning of a summer holiday.  She had no cares, nothing important to do, and she stretched rather lazily against him.  If this was the whole of his effect on her, she could handle this.   She could love this.  "I think so," she said.

"How do you feel?" he asked.  

"Good," she said.  "I feel good."  She rolled over onto her back and looked at him.  "Do I think you're gorgeous because of the Veela thing, or are you really that attractive?"

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. "You're not especially good for my ego, Granger," he said.  "I'm really this attractive."

"I didn't think so at school," she said.  "You must have aged well."

"I was fairly unpleasant to you," he said.  "You'd have had to have been a masochist to pine after me."

She could tell he was still waiting for an explanation of how his presence was affecting her, and she tried to find a way to put it into words.  "I'm not quite as mindless as I am when you touch my skin," she said.

"You're managing a conversation, so I'd figured that out," Malfoy said, but he sounded amused and pleased rather than annoyed at her floundering and the traitorous Veela part of her soul squirmed with pleasure at that.  "Though you did better than I thought you would earlier."

"It's hard to care through the haze of being lost in how amazing you are - " she began.

"And I am amazing," he agreed, but now he sounded as if he were suppressing laughter.

" - but I can still hear," she said.  "I'm a little surprised you read Muggle philosophy, is all."

He pointed at the red smoke photograph. "Art is art, Granger."

She didn't know what to say to that.  It launched a thousand questions but she doubted he'd answer any of them.  You hated Muggles, she wanted to say.  When did that stop, or do you still and just appreciate brilliance no matter where it comes from?  Is this some kind of gross exceptionalism, or have you really shed those prejudices like a snake moving on?   And do you despise me for being Muggle-born, for being a creature, for being this dependent?  All she said was, "You do keep things interesting."

"I try," he said.

She rubbed her foot against his and sighed with pleasure.   This could have been Ron, she thought, who never read anything outside of required manuals for work and Quidditch magazines.   "This is nice," she said.  "It shouldn't be, but it is."

"Care to elaborate?"

"I just feel well," she said. "Really, gloriously well.  I could kiss you for making this better."

"Don't."  The word was sharp and she jerked back from him as if it were a slap. "I don't like my women drugged," he said.  It sounded like an apology for the knee-jerk response to her suggestion of a kiss, even just as an expression.  She decided to take it as both apology and reassurance.

"That's good, I guess," she said.  

"Go to sleep, Granger," Malfoy said.  He sounded worn out by her, by this, by everything. "We can test whether you're quite as dazed in the morning after a full night together."

"I just want to savor this," she said.  The words were too soft to count as conversation but she had the sense he was listening avidly.  "I was in pain for so long, you know.  You stop noticing after a while.  People would ask how I felt and I'd say, 'fine' because the pain wasn't bad enough to keep me in bed that day.  And then I bumped into you in a shop and for a few seconds all the pain disappeared and I remembered what it felt like to be normal.  And then you were gone and it all came crashing back and I could barely stand.  I started to cry at the shock of how much I really hurt.  Harry had to side-along me home."

"So that's how you found out," he said.

"Dumb luck," she said.  "I didn't reason it out or find the answer in a book or deduce it with logic and research. I just ran into you."

"Lucky for you," he said.  His voice was oddly tight and she felt a creeping sadness under the languor.   Lucky for her, maybe.  Unlucky for him.  No one in his right mind wanted to be in his position.  He was just as trapped as she was, and he didn't even get the high.

"I suppose," she said.  She turned back onto her side and he wrapped an arm around her with more care than she'd expected.   She sank down into sleep and when she dreamed she was standing in a field of crows, black against white snow.  They all cawed at her, but she didn't understand any of them no matter how hard she tried.  At last one of them set a hand against her cheek and some part of her brain wondered when crows had grown hands but that was dream logic for you.  The crow watched her with his steady, grey eyes as if waiting for a response but instead of giving him one she drifted more deeply into sleep.  

When she woke up in the middle of the night the room was still dark but Malfoy was gone.  When she set a hand on the side of the bed where he'd slept it was cold and she knew he'd left her hours earlier.  

She wished that didn't make her feel so alone.

Chapter Text

"How are you feeling?"

Hermione perched herself on the edge of the chair at Ron's bedside and hid a smile at his groan.   "I'm miserable," he said. "I think every bone aches."

"At least you missed the party," Harry said.  

"I'm sorry," Ron said.  He looked up at Hermione, bleary-eyed, and she could see him trying to figure out a tactful way to ask how it had gone.   Right until the day before the event he'd been saying he'd keep Malfoy's pratty friends in line, and he'd learned a thing or two in Auror training at the Ministry.  Then he'd come down with a fever and rash, and despite Molly popping over to the townhouse with potions and soup, he couldn't drag himself out of bed.   Somewhere in the back of her brain she heard a voice whisper she hoped Malfoy was a better sick person because after a year of pain she didn't have a lot of patience for this. 

She squelched that thought.  The day had already been uncomfortable enough.  She and Malfoy had smiled at one another over breakfast.  They'd tested her reaction to him, and she'd gazed at him in slightly less rapt adoration and they'd agreed it was worth continuing to sleep together, albeit only a few nights a week.    Neither had mentioned the way he'd left in the middle of the night.  Neither had mentioned the party.

"You didn't miss much," Hermione said to Ron.  "And I'm sure you'll get to read all about the highlights in Parkinson's gossip column."

"Ugh," Ron said. "Was that cow there?"

"She was," Hermione said grimly.  "She and Malfoy are friends."

"Or were," Harry said.  She looked at him, curious.   They hadn't had a chance to talk about what had happened after Malfoy had dumped her on her bed to sober up, and, in truth, she rather wanted to forget the whole thing.  That 'were,' however, had to have a story behind it.  "You didn't see the look on his face when he tossed her out," Harry said.  "I thought he might kill her on the spot."

"Really?"  Ron pulled himself to a seated position, let out a dramatic sound to let them know he suffered, and, with a roll of her eyes, Hermione adjusted his pillow so he could lean up against his headboard in comfort.  She'd become a master of pillow arrangement and she might as well use the skills.  "What happened?"

"Pansy shoved me into Malfoy and I went full Veela," Hermione said.

"Full Veela?" Ron asked. He sounded almost excited and she wondered what he thought that entailed.   Did he think she'd turned as pretty as Fleur?  That Malfoy had become mesmerized by her instead of the other way round?

"Full Veela," she said.  She could still feel the mesmerized adoration like an echo or a song lyric you couldn't quite forget no matter how you tried.  It didn't help that she liked the song.

"Did you get the wings and fireballs and singe the little bitch's hair?"

Hermione stared at him for a moment and then began to laugh.  So that was what he had meant.   "That would have been nice," she said.  "Can you imagine the look on her face?"

"I'm imagining it now," Ron said.  "It's wondeful."

"She just got all dopey for Malfoy," Harry said.  "Told him he was pretty."

"Eww," Ron said.  

"He is pretty," she said.  The both stared at her and she shrugged. "I'm a bit wired to see him that way, you know."

"You could still spare us," Ron said.   Before she could tell him to bugger off, an owl appeared at the window, tapping imperiously.  It sniffed with as much avian disdain as Hermione had ever seen at the treat she offered before it flew off, The Daily Prophet left on the windowsill.  Harry grabbed it before she could and flipped to the gossip column.  She watched his face to see how bad it was but he scanned the page once,  and then again.  He looked confused and he shrugged and handed it over to her.

Wizengamot Member Having Affair read the title of Pansy's article.  She skimmed it rapidly then read it again more slowly, trying to understand.  Some insignificant politician she'd never heard of had been caught with a witch young enough to be his daughter, one who was very much not his wife of seventy-eight years.  The photograph that ran with the story showed a young woman giggling at the side of a man with heavy robes and unattractive facial hair.   The article didn't just did a toe into the pool of salacious oversharing, but dove in and took a swim.  She almost felt ill reading it, but there was no mention of her.   The party, the trance, the way she'd licked Malfoy:  none of that rated a mention.

"He squashed it," she said out loud. Both Harry and Ron stared at her as if she'd lost her mind but she knew it was true.  Somehow Malfoy's plan to handle the whole thing hadn't just included getting his friends out of their flat and letting her recover in peace.  He'd also kept Pansy from running her article.

"Maybe she just already had this filed," Harry said doubtfully.  "Or you got bumped by this story and she'll run yours tomorrow."

"Maybe," Hermione said, but she knew that wasn't it.  "I should go," she said.  "You need to rest."

Ron slid back down into bed and she let herself out.   She walked down the worn steps of Grimmauld Place, and put one foot ahead of the other as she made her way through the city, but all she could think was Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy.  She stopped at a Muggle florist and stared in, almost blankly, at the flowers.  Carnations, roses and lilies burst out of pots and begged to be taken home but it was the irises that she liked.   Most were bright colors, but she wanted the single black one.   The girl behind the counter wrapped it up, saying, "Not many people like those, but we've got a few bulbs if you've a garden what to plant them in."

"No garden," Hermione said.  "Real estate's too dear in the city."

"Tell me about it," the girl said, and then she was walking again, her impulse buy clutched in her hands.  By the time she'd reached their flat and passed the sneering doorman she'd begun to regret that impulse.   He'd surely think she'd lost what little of her mind remained and she decided, as she pushed the door open, that she'd just put the flower in water and say she'd thought it was pretty if he asked.  She didn't need to tell him she'd bought it for him.

Malfoy spoiled that excellent plan by being home and raising a brow she was sure he plucked at the sight of the florist's paper.  "People giving you flowers now, Granger?" he asked.  "Fans of your heroism stopping you on the street with tokens of their gratitude?"

The hint of bitterness behind his bland mockery made her thrust the stem toward him.  "Hardly," she said. "I got it for you."

He covered his surprise almost immediately, but she'd seen it.   A moment of vulnerability had trembled behind the shield of the raised brows and the accompanying mocking twist of his mouth and that made her glad she'd admitted it was for him.  For a man with enough friends to pack their flat, he was oddly shocked to be given anything.   He pulled himself to his feet with  exhausted, put-upon grace, and took the flower.  "If you don't put it in water, it will die," he said.  "Sometimes I wonder why they called you so clever at school, Granger."

"It was a dull year," she said.  She dropped onto her chair and watched him reach into the cupboards for a vase.  Of course there was a vase.  And, of course, it looked to be crystal.  "I didn't have a lot of competition for top student."

"I was in your year," Malfoy said. 

"I remember," she said.  She could feel what would have to described as a smirk pull at her lips as he filled the vase with water. The florist had included a little packet with powder designed to increase flower life and he looked at it curiously before opening it and dumping it in.   The flower tilted against the side of a vase a little too wide for just one stem with forlorn, elegant black petals.

"Shall we have another session?" Malfoy asked.

Her fledgling smirk faded away and she sighed, but when he sat next to her she wrapped her hand around his wrist and let the euphoria wash over her.  He was just so wonderful.   She couldn't believe he'd protected her from Pansy and that unexpected kindness just made her adore him that much more.  She lay her head against his shoulder and inhaled.  

Wonderful.

"Why did you do that?"  The words fell out of him almost unbidden.

"Because you smell good," she said.   "Like - "

"No," he said before she could go into rhapsodies about the way he smelled, which was really very good and she would be happy to explain why.   "The flower."

Oh.   That.   That was so much less interesting than his smell.  "To say thank you," she said.  "For Pansy."  She didn't want to let go of his wrist, but she used her free hand to stroke at the black of his trousers.  "Why do you always wear black?"

"I'm in mourning for my life," he said dryly.

He was so clever.  So very clever.  When had he started reading Muggle playwrights?  She'd have to ask him sometime, but not now when the soft cotton of his shirt beckoned.  She nuzzled her face against that cotton and said, "Chekov.  The Seagull.  Masha."

He pulled away and squinted at her.  "Your brain still working in there, Granger?"  

She hit him on the thigh.   That she adored him didn't make her stupid.  "You're a nice kind of loyal,"  she said.  "Harry.  Love Harry, but he does this kind of abstract thing where he saves everything.  It's hardly ever personal for him."

Malfoy grunted, though whether in agreement or derision she wasn't sure.  It was true, though.  Harry had saved them all out of an almost abstract understanding that evil couldn't be allowed to flourish.  It was incredibly noble and brave and selfless.  Malfoy had tried to save his parents because he loved them.   Selfish. 

"I was always just loyal to Harry," she said.  "He was my friend."   She looked up at Malfoy and willed him to understand. "You're like me."

He jerked away from her.   "I think that's enough for now," he said.  She stared at him as the Veela fog began to clear.  What had she said to upset him so much?  "I'm going to go to my room and lie down.  I think I have a bit of the headache.  If you'll excuse me?"

He picked up the vase and disappeared into his room, door, as always, shut behind him.   

Chapter Text

It was Draco's third whiskey of the night and the parchment in front of him had begun to blur.  Seven folders.  Seven witches, or, he supposed, eight if you counted his.  Eight Veela and he couldn't find the answer to the puzzle of why him.  It shouldn't matter that he'd made no progress.  As his father had pointed out the day he'd handed the information over there was no deadline.  No monster stood behind him ready to kill him if he didn't produce quickly enough.

The few weeks he'd been working on this were of no account.  It didn't matter if this project took years; she certainly wasn't going anywhere and it wasn't as if anyone else were going to beat them to the punch.  He was the only one alive with a little Veela of his own to study.  A Veela who was probably curled up on the couch right now, pouring over the Daily Prophet as if that rag would have the answers to all her life's problems instead of advertisements for a sale on hair tonic and mostly untrue gossip about celebrities.  

He was the only monster now.

She'd become a little more used to him.   The nights they spent together had, like fingernails peeling paint off an old board, scraped away at her Veela gloss and each morning when he held her wrist she seemed less dazzled.   She might still look at him as if he were the sun to her flower, but he had become a common thing. He'd become expected.  He rose every day, still miraculous but also ordinary.

He, however, had become less used to her.  She itched at him, the puzzle he couldn't solve, the girl he'd never liked, the mind that watched him even through even the worst of her haze and thought he was worth knowing.

He pushed the folders away in all too familiar frustration.   Maybe the book the owl had dropped off that morning would offer a hint.  He knew from experience he just needed one thread to grab on to and his brain would unravel the whole knot.  The trick was finding the right thread, and so far he hadn't.   A step to the door, a finger on the dried flower still propped in its vase, a click of the latch, and he was out of his room and walking toward her.   He'd had enough to drink that the way the light caught her curls seemed to hit a thousand highlights.  Who knew there were so many shades of brown? 

"I know you're there, Malfoy," she said.  "I can hear you breathing."

He forced a laugh and picked his book up from where he'd left it with the morning's post.  "You've been missing my august presence, I assume."

"Not really," she said, but she put a marker into her own book and her smile belied her words.  "I thought you'd gone to bed."  It wasn't a night they'd planned to share, so it was a reasonable assumption.

"I was just reading," he said.  "Boring stuff.  Thought I'd look at the book my father sent over."

"A Briefe and True Report of Magical Zoonoses, by Feder Plume," she said.  He hadn't realized she'd looked at it, but of course she had.  She managed to keep her voice fairly light but he heard the question under it anyway and he tossed the volume over to her lest he look like he was trying to hide something.  She almost dropped it and gave him a filthy look, not happy with his abuse of what she probably thought valuable.   It might be.  He didn't know.  

"I have a sudden interest in the subject," he said.   He gave the book a bit of a disdainful sneer.  "Thought I doubt anything from 1882 will have much useful information on our situation."

She flipped through it and he sat down next to her, leaving, as his mother would say, room for virtue between them, and stretching his legs out. She slowly settled down against him and he pretended not to notice and instead looked at the scrawling text of the book.   It had been handwritten rather than printed, and looked to be the collected notes of one, obsessive researcher.  At least whoever he'd been, he'd had a neat hand.  Some of the books Draco had poked at in the family library were nearly illegible.  

"My mother wants to have lunch," he said.  He knew it was a little abrupt but thinking about the family library had reminded him she'd asked several times now and he'd been putting her off.  "Is that okay?"

Hermione made an unhappy assenting noise.  He didn't blame her.  Narcissa Malfoy wasn't always pleasant to people outside her circle.

"Thank you," he said.  "I appreciate it."

"How I became a Veela," she said, ignoring that as she looked for anything in the book about her kind, "and how you can too."

"I don't think you're contagious," he said.  He was happy to move on from the idea of lunch.  He knew his mother would be polite, or reasonably so, but Granger had no reason to believe that.   "I've yet to start to waste away.  I don't think I get to be what you are unless I find the more usual  of your sort and convince her to date me."  

"It wasn't even a good date," she said.  Something in Draco's gut coiled but he forced himself to stay relaxed.  He even made a small, encouraging sound to try to get her to go on.   "Maybe he thought he didn't have to try," she said.  "He was so beautiful."

"Veela usually are," Draco said.  His hands wanted to curl into fists.

"Not that the sex mattered, really," she said.  "I probably got this from the blood."

"What blood?"

"He cut his finger when we were making dinner," she said.  "I thought I'd be all sexy and suck on the wound, hint at other things."

Draco devoutly did not wish to hear about those other things.  The thought of Granger coyly taking some man's finger in her mouth and wrapping her tongue around it made the edges of his vision begin to fuzz.  "A bit unappealing," he said with what disgust he could muster.  "Licking blood.  What are you, a vampire?"

"Well, it was a bad idea," she said.   "The licking, the sex, the whole thing."

"Obviously."  He turned a page in the book, hoping to distract her from her vile, disgusting reminiscing.  He needed to go make a note that her transmission might have been blood borne instead of… the other.  He didn't want to think about the other.

"Even Ron was better."

She was still going on about the other and Draco controlled his cringe.  There were things he didn't think a woman should go on about to her male, straight flatmate.   "Dare I ask how many of these memories I'm going to have to sit though?" he asked. "I don't mean to be uninterested, Granger, but I am."

"Just the two," she said.  She sounded a bit glum.  "The books Lavender and Parvati had at Hogwarts gave me a very unrealistic idea of male competence."

The urge to say something about Weasley and competence burned at him, but Draco managed to keep his mouth shut.   It wasn't as if she could do it again.   Her sad experiences were all she'd have, unless - 

He stopped that thought in its tracks. There was no unless.  There would be no unless.  It would be assault, and she clearly didn't think of him that way.  If she did, she wouldn't be sharing these horrible bits of her past.  And, anyway, he most certainly didn't think of her that way, and, unlike her, he wasn't magically restricted from enjoying someone else's touch.

"How about you?" she asked. "How many conquests in your past?"

He shifted a little so she'd curve into him a little more easily, and she lay her head on his shoulder as she traced her finger along the lines of the book's introduction.   Plume had quite a bit to say about the violence of dragons, and some probably spurious, but definitely lurid, ideas about the habits of people who contracted Dragon Pox.   Draco was fairly sure some of the things the man described were anatomically impossible.  He was unsurprised several Dragon Pox sufferers had taken it upon themselves to attempt a few rounds of fisticuffs with the researcher.  Plume appeared, if his words could be believed, to have been the victim of any number of violent encounters during his life's work, and he'd come out the worse of every encounter.   

"Hmm?"  Granger nudged him with her elbow and he sighed.

"None," he said.  He tried to make that sound a little less pathetic by adding, "The war kept me a little busy, you know, trying not to die."  

"But after?"  she asked.  

After the war had been worse.  He hadn't had to be afraid of monsters anymore.  He'd only had to know people looked at him and saw one.  "I don't care for the kind of women who find former Death Eaters a turn on," he said.   That skimmed over several unpleasant evenings where he'd been asked to show his Mark by witches who didn't bother to hide the way they licked their lips at the thought of being with a bad boy.   Granger slowly set her hand over the thick sleeve - always thick enough to obscure any hint of the dull grey snake beneath - and inhaled.   If he didn't know it wasn't possible, he'd have thought that the sound of a woman trying to control her rage.  Her hand felt hot on his arm, even though the cotton.

She pulled it away and sat up.  "Right," she said. "Well, the world is full of fools,  and anyone who thinks that's all you are is one."

She stalked off toward the shower and, he supposed, bed.  He continued to look through the book and, right when he despaired of finding anything about Veela at all, one paragraph emerged, nestled in a chapter of birds.

"Though the Lesser Veela be small and note muchly violent, you shall take greate care when approaching one for when I layed my hand on her arme, her husband did smite me with his fists until I most certainly fear'd for my lif."

Draco slammed the book shut and tossed it down.   Every encounter Plume had seemed to have ended in violence.  He must have been the most irritating sot alive who antagonized everyone who had the misfortune of meeting him.  Worse, there was only the one paragraph about Granger's strain of Veela in the whole thing.  This book wasn't going to be any help at all.

Chapter Text

Hermione looked at herself in the mirror and sighed.   She'd done what she could, but no amount of fussing could make her look like the proper type of Veela.  Still, her hair was held back, she'd found a great black suit in a thrift store, and she even had a lady-like pin found on another thrifting adventure.  That it happened to be rhinestones and glass shaped like a peacock feather was her own little joke to herself.  Cosmetic charms applied, one last look at herself, and she pushed open the door and went out to the living area where Malfoy waited.  He'd managed not to yell back that she was taking too long, and they'd be late, and she felt the usual, annoying surge of emotion that he was simply wonderful.

"You look good," he said as he stood up.  "Health agrees with you."

"Thank you," she said.   She tried not to lick her lips at the sight he made.   Black, of course.  Black trousers, black shirt, black jacket.  "So do you."

He held the door and said, wry amusement in his voice, "Yes, Granger, but, as you have been very careful to point out, your judgement regarding my appearance is skewed.  I could be a troll and you'd think I was - "

"Hideous," she said. "I like to think there are limits to how delusional I am."  He started down the steps and she frowned at his back.  "Isn't the woman supposed to go first?"

"Peasant," he said without turning around.  "A gentleman goes down stairs first on the off chance the lady tumbles so he can catch her."

"And up stairs second, I assume, for the same reason?"  

"Good to see you can learn basic etiquette," he said.  

"Bite me, Malfoy," she said.  

He waited for her at the bottom floor, then held out his arm for her to take.  Apparently etiquette also demanded the gentleman side along apparate the lady, and Hermione had to control a sniff of disdain.  These antiquated rules always seemed to assume the woman needed help to do even the most basic things.  Still, she took his arm and smiled at the slow creep of well being that soaked into her.   Before he whisked them away, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "I can't bite you, Granger.  You'd like it too much."  Too quickly for her to let him go, or hit him, or even hiss out a furious reply, he sucked them both into the void.

They appeared again outside a restaurant that screamed 'you can't afford me' with every understated detail.   A man stood outside and held the door for Malfoy without waiting to be asked if they had a reservation and Hermione felt the uncomfortable sensation of money-with-emphasis creep along her spine.  The doorman slid his eyes over her, the well-known Muggle-born, and, while his lip didn't quite curve into a sneer, it flirted with the idea.  Malfoy stiffened at her side and she looked at him curiously, but then they were being led to a linen draped table where Narcissa Malfoy sat.  

Draco bent down to brush his lips across his mother's cheek before he held a chair for Hermione.  "Mother," he said.  "You look tired."

She frowned at him before turning to Hermione and saying, "Miss Granger.  I'm sure you've discovered Draco's appalling habit of telling women he respects what he actually thinks of them."

She tried to force a smile.  "He's done that for years.  I'm glad to know I'm not special."

Narcissa let out a tinkling laugh.  "Oh, but you are, my dear."  She raised a hand and snapped her fingers.  A waiter appeared at once. "Champagne," Narcissa said. 

"What are we celebrating?" Draco asked. 

"The future," Narcissa said.   She studied Hermione with such narrow eyes that Hermione had to fight to keep from twisting her napkin in her hands.  The inspection seemed to evaluate every part of her, from hair to robes to blood status.  Malfoy, damn him, declined to intervene or even say anything to fill the long silence.  "Yes," Narcissa said at last.   "The future is here, and if it's not what I would have wanted, I am not such a fool as to ignore the obvious."

"I beg your pardon?"  Hermione asked, but the waiter had reappeared with the bottle and poured flutes out for all three of them.

"I took the liberty of ordering before you arrived," Narcissa said.  "The menu is in French and I wasn't sure you'd be able to read it."

"Thank you," Hermione said.  She couldn't decide if this lunch had already made her furious, or if she wanted to memorize all of it to laugh about with Harry and Ron later.   Compared to his mother, Malfoy was practically an egalitarian.  How dare Narcissa just assume she couldn't read French even well enough to handle a menu?  "I'm sure your choices will be lovely."

"To you," Narcissa said.  She raised her glass.  "If the path that brought you here wasn't one you would have chosen, nevertheless, you are well come to my family."

"I… thank you," Hermione said.  She looked over at Malfoy but he was slouched in his chair watching his mother with an almost sullen half-frown.  

"Yes," he said.  "She is."  He tipped the flute into his mouth, drained half of it at once, and refilled it as he spoke.  "Granger is family now."

"With all that entails," Narcissa said.  Hermione had the uncomfortable feeling the two of them were speaking in code about things she couldn't follow.  The undercurrents threatened to pull her down, so she took another sip from her own glass.  Malfoy's gaze never wavered from his mother, but he pressed his foot against hers under the table and that deliberate touch reassured her even before the magic buoyed her.   "Neither your father nor I have ever suggested you treat Miss Granger with anything but the utmost respect and kindness since this…situation… began."

Hermione was sure she had to be imagining it, but there seemed to be a slight emphasis on her name.  Malfoy slouched lower in his seat and continued to drink.

"It must have been a shock to you," Hermione said.  "Me, I mean, and that Mal… Draco planned to move in with me in order to help me."

"Yes," Narcissa said with the cruel candor of a woman who'd never been at the bottom of any hierarchy.  "But magic has always been one of the foremost interests of the Blacks and Malfoys both, and you, my dear, are magic."

"I was magic before I was a Veela," Hermione said.

Narcissa shrugged and took a dainty sip.  "You were a witch," she said when she set her glass back down.  "Barely."

"Mother," Malfoy said with a warning in his voice.

"And now she is magical," Narcissa said.  "And she's stopped dressing like one of the Weasleys.  Chanel, 1970, if I don't miss my guess.  And that lovely little pin is art deco, probably early thirties.  Very nice.  I approve.  Did Draco give you that?"

Hermione touched a finger to the showy little rhinestone feather she'd found at an old thrift store.  "No," she said.  "I got it at a Muggle shop that had trays of cheap junk like this."

Narcissa laughed with what Hermione realized with a growing sense of unease was genuine amusement.  When she glanced at Malfoy, he looked to be fighting a smirk of his own.  She glared at him and he said, as if she were an idiot, "Those are diamonds, Granger.  Do you not know the real thing when you see it?"

She could almost feel the horror creep over her.  "I paid five quid," she said.  "It's costume jewelry."

"Five what?"  Narcissa shook her head as if it didn't matter. "It's not worth quid," she said.  "Whatever that is. The piece is quite valuable, my dear, of that you can be sure."

Hermione had her champagne flute halfway to her mouth, confused and stunned and needing a drink, when a man in a dark suit came and whispered something in Narcissa Malfoy's ear.  He looked apologetic, and Narcissa frowned at him, and then he said, more loudly, "It's just the way things are."

"I beg your pardon," Malfoy said.  He tossed back the whole of his glass and set it down on the table with a loud thunk.  "Is something the matter."

"We don't want any trouble," the man said.

"If you're out of whatever my mother ordered," Malfoy said, "just substitute something.  I'm sure it will be fine.  The food here is always good."

"That's not it," the man said.  "There are restaurants that would be happy to serve the young lady."

"Excuse me," Narcissa Malfoy said, and her voice dripped with such withering contempt that Hermione's eyes widened. She'd been on the receiving end of a fraction of that aristocratic condescension, but now that she saw the full force Narcissa could bring to bear, she understood how this woman had lied to Voldemort.  How the man at her side didn't shrink away into nothing, ashamed to have bothered them, she didn't understand.  He held his ground, however.

"This is an establishment for the right sort," he said.  "The Blacks and Malfoys have long been welcome here, but - "

Narcissa stood up.  "You're quite right," she said.  "Now that I understand what craven sorts make up the current management, I see we should take our patronage elsewhere."  

Malfoy pushed his own chair back and made a show of helping Hermione up.   After he'd escorted both women to the door, he stopped when the manager made the mistake of letting out a small, smug sniff.  Then he dropped Hermione's arm and lunged at the man.  Before he could dodge out of the way, Malfoy had his hands fastened around his throat and had begun to squeeze.   The man struggled but he was no match for the vicious pressure that had hold of him and, before a full minute was up, he sagged into unconsciousness.  Malfoy let the body drop and kicked him with a violence that surely broke several ribs.  Then he brushed his hands against one another, examined his nails, and held the door.  "There is a wonderful curry shop around the corner," he said.  "We might be a little overdressed, but the service is much better."

Hermione's hand, when she laid it back against his arm, was shaking.  He brushed one finger against the back of her neck for only a moment, but it was enough, and she relaxed against him, all worry forgotten, as he led them to what was, indeed, an excellent curry shop. 

Chapter Text

Hermione sat on the couch turning her feather pin back and forth in one hand. Lynx had curled in her lap the moment she'd gotten home and started to purr.  The orange fur would be a nightmare to get off the black fabric, but she couldn't bring herself to shove the little cat away.  Thank goodness, she supposed, for magical cleaning.   "Malfoy," she said.

He looked up from the book he'd been pretending to read.  They hadn't spoken since they'd returned from lunch.  She'd kicked her heels off, sat on the couch, and contemplated.   She''d thought about his mother, his violence, the curry.  She'd thought about the sneers and the prejudice that never went wholly away, and she'd thought about the pin she was holding now.

"Granger," he said.  

"What happened today?"

He set down the book whose pages he hadn't turned in at least twenty minutes, and said, "We had lunch with my mother.  She was more pleasant than usual.  Does your Veela thing come with dementia?  Because I'm not sure I'm really up for reminding you that you need to change your socks."

The description of Narcissa as 'more pleasant than usual' distracted her from what she'd meant.  The woman had been condescending, smug, vague, and had eaten curry standing at a bar with utter grace.  She was as infuriatingly opaque as her son.   "What's less pleasant like?"  Hermione asked.

"When we were eighteen she would have refused to sit at the same table as you," Malfoy said as though the answer were obvious.  "She might have refused to eat in a restaurant that employed you lest you somehow contaminate the food."

"Charming," Hermione muttered.

"That's the Blacks for you," Malfoy said.  "Charming."  He looked at the pin she was still fiddling with and asked, "Did you really think that was costume jewelry?"

"It was five quid," she said helplessly.   Yes, it had been very pretty but at that price thinking anything else would have been insane.  It had been filthy when she'd found it, and she'd used a scouring spell on it to make it sparkle.  She'd been so pleased with herself for finding what she'd assumed was a good fake.  She'd smugly thought it was probably worth a couple of hundred pounds, a real thrifting find, and now she learned it was real diamonds instead of good imitations.  She hadn't even thought to check.

"It suits you," Malfoy said.  "You should wear it more often."

"I think I'm scared too now," she said.  "What if I lose it?  Or it gets stolen?"

He raised his brows. "Then you've lost five quid.  You'll live."

"I won't if you go to Azkaban," she said.  

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you go to Azkaban for choking that man - " she began, then stopped.  It wasn't how she'd wanted to start.  Why did you do it, she'd meant to ask.    What on earth possessed you to do that.

"I won't go to prison," Draco said.  He tossed her a sheet of paper, which left his hand, folded itself into a bird, and flew across the room to her. The showy display made her smile, and she almost felt bad about ending the little magical bird's life, but she spread it out and read the sheet anyway.  It was a note from Lucius Malfoy.

I had to have thirteen people obliviated and your mother ruined her shoes by stepping on something at the wretched curry shop you took her to.  Please find a better class of restaurants to patronize.  ~  L.

"Oh," she said.

"Oh," Malfoy mimicked.  "I'm not going to Azkaban, Hermione."

There was a long pause where they both stared at each other.  At last he added, almost defensively, "We sleep in the same bed some nights.  We should be on a first-name basis."

"Right," she said. "Draco."

It felt strange to call him that.  It felt as if she were talking about someone else.  Draco wasn't the bully from school who'd grown up into a reasonably decent, if secretive, man.   Draco wasn't the near-perfect illusion she idolized when she was in her haze.  Draco sat somewhere between the two of them watching her as if it seemed as odd to him to hear his given name on her lips as it felt to her to say it.  "Is it Draco or Draconius?"  she asked.  "I've never been sure."

"Just plain old Draco," he said.

She looked at him, still in his fancy clothes, wadded up the note from his father, and threw it back at him.  It fell halfway between them and sat on the floor, mocking her lack of athletic prowess.  He'd never been plain old anything, not even as a horrid little boy.    "Hermione's my full name too," she said.  

"Thank Merlin," he said. "I can't imagine how awful your name would be if that monstrosity were the shortened version."

"Why did you choke him?"  She decided to just ignore that rude comment and fire back with a direct question.  

Draco looked at her, then down at his hands.  "I'd had too much to drink, I think," he said.  "I am sorry if it made you worry I'd end up going to Azkaban, but it's fine.  It's all been hushed up.  My mother just leaves me on edge these days and I find a glass or three helps.   And I've never been the good guy, you know.  I broke Potter's nose our sixth year, almost killed several people."

"But - "

"Hermione," he said, and the words sounded desperate.  "Let it go, okay? I'm sorry.  I won't do it again."

She nodded slowly, though it went against every grain she had and made her feel like a cat being pet the wrong way.  Had the man even been okay?  Lucius Malfoy hadn't seen fit to include that in his little note, though she supposed it might have been harder to sweep a murder under the rug than an assault.   "You know," she said, half-unsure whether she wanted to share this, "it was kind of nice."

Draco Malfoy accioed the note from his father to himself and uncrumpled it.  "It was?" he asked.  "I had no idea you had such a yen for violence, Gran… Hermione.  Though I guess given how you took a swing at me that time, I shouldn't be so surprised."

She looked down.  She hated admitting this, but some streak of ruthless honesty kept her talking.  "Having you… when they made us leave I was… and then you… it felt good.  It felt… it felt brilliant."

"I'm glad," he said.  He stood up and set the book down.  "I'm going to get changed into something more comfortable and read in bed for a bit, maybe take an afternoon nap.  Care to join me?"

"To help with the immunity," she said.

"Of course," he said.

He didn't comment on the rather ratty Gryffindor trackie bottoms she had on when he joined her, or on the way Lynx had taken over a corner of the bed.  He just sat up against her headboard and opened the book he hadn't been reading earlier and proceeded to not read it again.  She glanced at the title - Rickettsial & Mycotic Zoonoses - and decided it had to be painfully dull as well as much too close to home.  Instead of asking about it, she curled up against his side and let the sense of well-being wash over her.   She snuggled in more closely and he let out a little laugh that made her hit him.  "It's not my fault you don't get the good part of this," she said. "I'd share if I could."

"I'm touched," he said.  He continued to try to slog through the book but one hand crept down to her hair and twisted a single curl around and around one finger before letting it go, only to wrap it around himself again.   The feel of him playing with her hair made her sigh with pleasure and she wrapped a foot over him.

She hadn't worn socks.

Neither had he.

Her foot brushed against his skin and she opened her eyes and started up.  He jerked and looked at her, guilt in his eyes. "I didn't think," he began.

He stopped, maybe because she was staring at him.  His grey eyes tried to look steadily back, but the nerves filling them made it hard.  "I can still think," she said.  It was hard.  It was so, so hard.  The majority of her mind just prattled on that he was wonderful, so wonderful, and she was so lucky he was right here, in her bed.  The urge to sniff him crept along her thoughts, but through all of that she had a small tunnel of rationality.  He'd attacked someone today for her.  He'd been suddenly, intensely violent on her behalf and that made no sense at all.  Living with her to keep her alive might be the behavior of any decent person, even one who didn't like her personally.  This continued contact made pragmatic sense.  No one wanted her to go off into a drugged, Veela trance in public.  But getting violent to defend her honor didn't fit into any of that.  It wasn't something Draco Malfoy would do.  "Draco," she said.  "Something's wrong."

"Oh Salazar," he said, "don't tell me the curry's making you iffy.  If you sick up on me, I swear, I will never forgive you."

"It's not that," she said.  

He felt her forehead with his hand.  "You aren't warm," he said.  His expression shifted from worried to dismissive.  "Go to sleep.  Whatever thought's entered your empty Veela head, Hermione, it's fine.  I'll take care of it."

She curled back up against him, her foot still pressed against his.  "I'll figure it out," she said.

"You do that," he said.  She was fairly sure she heard him mutter, "mental", but she ignored it to turn the question of what was driving him over in her mind.  She hadn't come to any conclusion other than he was wonderful but that wasn't explanation enough when she fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Draco laced his fingers through Hermione’s for their daily morning test of how loopy she was.   She let out one of the adoring sighs he hated and looked up at him with those sparkling brown eyes as if she were a puppy and he’d just suggested a walk.   “Still nuts, I see,” he said, and kept his fingers in hers while he opened the paper with the other hand and flipped the pages until he found the Quidditch standings.  He might have to help her fight her glazed, Veela nonsense, but he didn’t have to torture himself by looking at her while he did it.    Knowing she only liked him when she was high hurt.

“Talk to me,” she said.  

He flipped another page of the paper.  “Orders, now?” he asked.  “Yesterday's lunch with my mother rubbed off on you more than I would have thought.”

She hit him.  That was one of the things he’d noticed about Hermione.  She hit when she was frustrated.  If she ever put power behind the blows, he’d be covered in bruises.  As it was, he just found it amusing he managed to rile her up past insults into violence.   Someday he’d have to ask Potter if she were like that with him and the impoverished weasel.  He suspected she was.  He folded The Daily Prophet over so he could look at the scores, which was tricky to do only using one hand.  He held it up to his eyes with a sigh and squinted at the cursive script.  He wished they wouldn’t print these in such small type or with such an annoying font.

“Draco,” she said.  “Please.”

The please did him in.  He looked back at her, telling himself his favorite team’s standing was only going to depress him anyway so he might as well pay attention to the witch. She looked as gratingly adoring as ever, but under that was a hint of desperation he recognized.  He’d seen it in his own mirror too many times to be able to pretend he didn’t see it.  “Yes?” he asked.

“It helps,” she whispered. "When you talk, it helps me stay focused."  She sounded guilty for asking more of him, and he felt the familiar self-loathing creep up over his heart.  Such a simple thing, conversation, and he’d made her beg for it.

“What do you think of the Chudley Cannon’s chances this year?” he asked.  He didn't want to talk about anything that mattered and this seemed safe enough.  "They've drafted a new beater, which you'd think would help, but so far he seems like a dud."

“Quidditch?” she asked.  “You’re talking to me about Quidditch?”

“You have something against the sport?”  He remembered her taunting him about getting on the team, and she'd always watched her wretched friends play.  She even used to watch tryouts.  Of course, so did he, but he'd wanted to suss out the Gryffindor talent so he'd know how to beat them.  He'd assumed she, however, was a fan.

“Why does every man in my life love Quidditch?”  Her voice had gotten steadier and the frighteningly blank look in her eyes had faded, if only a little.  “You, Harry, Ron, Viktor.  Honestly.  Why don't I know men who like cooking, or ballet, or anything other than Quidditch?”

Something in him he didn’t want to think about too much turned over when she included him in the list of ‘men in her life.’   He put that away in one of those mental boxes to think about later, meaning never, and focused instead on Viktor Krum, one of his boyhood idols and once her date.   “You’re still in touch with Krum?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”  She shifted to press a little more closely against him and Draco tried to decide if he wanted to pull away because she was almost smothering him, or whether he wanted to bury his face in her hair. He opted to do nothing and sat, stiff and unmoving, on their couch as she went on.   “We’re friends.”

“Friends.”  He let out a laugh that was only a little bitter. “You don’t even like Quidditch and you’re friends with the greatest Seeker of all time.  How is that fair?”

“He knows I like him for who he is as a person?” Hermione suggested.  “He’s not just a Seeker you know.  No one's just one thing, not even you.”

That sat there.  He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t, and he looked back down at the paper.  The Holyhead Harpies were doing well this year.  Blaise had bought season tickets so he must be pleased.   

“I miss Quidditch,” Draco said.  It was a much too honest confession, and he regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth.  Sharing anything with her was a bad idea.  Sharing with anyone was a bad idea.  People left, people died, people fled.  People looked at you with pity or contempt because you’d done what you had to, and they thought you’d made a choice.  They blamed you for making one they liked to tell themselves they’d have had the moral fiber to refuse.  Liars, all of them.

Except the damn witch holding onto his hand, who’d done every brave thing even when any sensible person would have not.  She watched him.  She saw him.    It was beyond unfair to be saddled with her as his own personal hair-shirt.

Too bad the Veela haze made a liar out of her too.

“So play Quidditch,” she said as if it were that simple.

“It’s a team sport,” he said.  "Who do you think I could play with?"

“Play with Harry,” she suggested.  “One on one.  Seeker versus Seeker.”

Draco was about to tell her that was the dumbest idea she’d ever had.  Saint Potter would not meet up with him to play Quidditch, but he’d only opened his mouth when he closed it again and considered the idea seriously.   She wouldn’t have suggested it if she didn’t think the bastard would say yes.

“We could go to the Manor,” he said slowly.  “There’s a park.  It’s not a proper pitch, of course, but there's plenty of space.  You could come watch.”  He added the last to tease her.  He couldn’t imagine Hermione Granger doing anything quite as girlfriend-ish as watching… whatever he was to her… play a sport she obviously thought duller than cooking or ballet, both of which were as dull as watching paint dry.  She wasn't his girlfriend or even his friend.  She was his… Veela?  Not a relationship that involved cheering for him.

“Sit on a veranda and watch you while trying to make polite conversation with your mother?”  Hermione asked.  “I think I’d rather die.”

“How about my father?” he asked, really teasing her now because Narcissa might be able to grit her teeth and be civil, but Lucius wouldn’t be able to control the curl of his lip at the sight of her.  Mudblood.  Creature.  An interesting experiment, surely, and filled with potential, but still personally repugnant.  

No, he wouldn’t let his father around her at all.  

“Draco,” she said with familiar exasperation and hit him again.  He laughed and picked up the offending fist and kissed it.  She froze and, as soon as he realized what he’d done, so did he.  Then he let her go and clenched and released his fists before picking up the paper so he would have something to do with his hands.  

“They’re both in France right now,” he said.  He kept his voice as level as he could.   “I wouldn’t ask you to put up with either of them alone and, more seriously, you could explore the Malfoy library while we played.  Shelves of books just waiting for you.”

Hermione took a deep breath and released it and stood up.  He wondered what she was thinking, or if she was just fighting her way through the remnants of the haze. She’d managed a conversation while they touched, and part of him felt proud of her.  He was sure it would be easier to just succumb.

One of the Veela in his files had done that.  It hadn’t worked out well for her.  

“I think I would like that,” she said.  “The library, I mean.  I’ll owl Harry and let him know.”  

“Will you be okay alone in the Manor?” he asked.  “After… everything?”

“I managed to go there to see you,” she said.  “I’m sure I can do it again.”

He nodded and then, knowing if he stopped to think about it he’d lose his nerve, he said rapidly, “I’m more sorry than I can say about what happened to you with my aunt. She was… she was not well, and please believe me that if there had been anything I could have done….” He stopped because it seemed so inadequate.  How do you apologize to someone that they’d been tortured in your home?  He was sure not a single etiquette book in Narcissa Malfoy’s extensive collection covered that.  Which spoon to use for some obscure and unpleasant fruit?  Absolutely.  How to tell a wizard you weren’t interested without starting an international incident?  Yes.  This?  No.

Hermione Granger surprised him again when she took a ragged breath and said, “I know.”

Something stung in the corner of Draco’s eyes.

“You know,” she said, “it helped.  You helped.”

“How?” he asked.

“Just… you stood there and there was horror on your face and you watched and… I thought, ‘Even Malfoy knows this is awful, and he hates me’ and, somehow, that kept me from losing my mind even in that maw of agony she threw me into.”  Hermione let out an uncomfortable laugh.  “Sorry, that sounds pathetic, but it really was comforting in some strange way that I can’t explain to know you hated what was happening.”

“I just stood there,” he said.  It hadn’t been enough.  

“It was enough,” she said.

He fled at that like the coward that he was, The Daily Prophet with its normal, boring Quidditch scores abandoned along with the woman he’d seen tortured.  He lay on his narrow bed, shaking, and closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing.  Just nothing.  He could handle nothing.  In the void there were no monsters, no mad aunts, nothing hiding in the shadows.  The  void didn't have agendas and plans.

The void didn't have Hermione Granger, and he breathed in and out and tried to feel nothing and think of nothing.

It didn't work.

Chapter Text

Harry met them at the gates.  He'd asked Hermione if she'd lost her mind when she first proposed they play Quidditch, but the urge to beat his old rival had proven as strong as she'd known it would.  Tyrants could fall and the world could change, but some things remained constant and their need to compete was one.  

Draco had woken that morning thrumming with more energy than she'd seen him have since they'd moved into their flat.  He'd grinned at her when she turned to look at him, his hair its usual morning disaster, and asked, "You planning to root for me today?"

She'd made a face and avoided the issue of which of the pair she'd cheer on by poking at a blond tuft of rebellion that stuck out to the left side.  "How does your hair even do this?  It's so fine it shouldn't be able to stand up like this."

"You don't have room to make hair jokes," he'd said, and yanked on one of her curls before springing out of bed and heading off into his own shower.  Neither stale croissants nor watery coffee had been able to dim his cheer, and they'd gotten here thirty minutes early because, as he'd pointed out several times, Potter couldn't get through the gates without him, and he didn't want to make the man wait because, while it was possible a peasant like Hermione didn't realize this, that would be rude.  She'd managed not to answer that and had even kept her mouth glued shut as he prattled on about Quidditch and strategy and basic feints as if she hadn't been best friends with two fiends for the sport over half her life.  She may not be a giant fan, but she knew a lot about Quidditch.

At last, Harry arrived to save her.  "You have the most pretentious home," he said to Draco as a white peacock strutted by the other side of the gate, one long tail feather hanging embarrassingly, hilariously askew.   

Draco just unlocked the gate with its elaborate 'M's in wrought iron scrollwork.  "It's not my home," he said.  "I grew up here, that's all."

"Still pretentious," Harry said.  "The flat's your home now, I guess?"

The question was so artless Hermione stopped crunching her way up the gravel drive to stare at Harry.  He seemed to have no idea that anything he said might be the tiniest bit fraught, however, and just kept walking.  Draco hesitated for only a moment before answering.  "I think the cliche is home is where you hang your hat."

They started arguing about brooms after that and she had to keep from rolling her eyes. They each had opinions about what made for the best trade off between speed and maneuverability, and if this one was too slow, that one became unstable at high altitudes, and by the time they'd reached the front door she was grateful they weren't really friends because if she had to listen to this Quidditch nonsense all the time in her own flat, she'd have to get high on Draco just to stand it.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the image of herself cutting this tedium off by manhandling Draco and making them both cope with her dopey adoration.  Draco would be reduced to uncomfortable guilt and Harry would simmer with horror.    A woman took her weapons where she found them.

Draco glanced back at her and narrowed his eyes at the smirk on her face.  She tried to replace it with a look that said, 'I'm innocent of all wrongdoing, what are you looking at?' but the creases around his eyes only deepened so she suspected she'd failed. 

Well, she was a Gryffindor.  Slytherins were supposed to be good liars.

"Where did you say the library was?" she asked as he opened the front door.  She tried not to think of the other two times she'd been here.  Neither had been pleasant.  

He pointed to an arched doorway off to the right and said, "Follow that corridor, turn left at the portrait of the woman with the peacock under her arm, and the library will be the first door on your right.  There's a door that opens out to the back lawn where we'll be."

She squared her shoulders and headed off.  The route was long enough that she'd started to think she'd somehow missed the painting when she heard a horrible screech and stopped, her heart pounding with sudden fear.  It sounded like a baby screaming in pain. Her hands shook and she couldn't breathe and she backed up until the wall braced her and a picture frame jabbed into her neck.  The sound came again and it was right above her head. She spun, mindlessly terrified, and a painted peacock fastened a beady eye on her and let out another raucous cry.  The woman holding the bird struggled to keep it in her grasp and smiled somewhat apologetically at Hermione before hissing what might have been, "Bad bird.  Bad."

"Right," Hermione said.  She let out a shuddering breath.  "The peacock."

She turned left, then went through a door, and closed it to block out the sound of the horrible, screaming painting.  Sometimes, if she was being really honest with herself, the magical world made no sense.  Who'd want a shrieking, horrible bird hanging on a wall in their house?

No wonder Draco had opted for a Muggle photograph to hang in their flat.  If she'd grown up with talking, screaming paintings, she'd have really appreciated the silence of the Muggle way too.

If she hated the elder Malfoys' idea of art, however, she loved their library.  She turned in a slow circle and looked around as a smile took over her face. The room stood two stories high with windows and the doors Draco had mentioned along one wall. The rest held floor-to-ceiling books. A freestanding card catalog flirted with her, and she ran her fingers along the oak with utter pleasure.   A flash along the window pulled her eye, and she looked out to see the boys fly by.  They soared along against the sky, one swooping down to the ground in a sudden drop that was probably far more dangerous than either would admit, only to pull up at the last minute.  She doubted that had had anything to do with catching the Snitch.  They were trying to outdo one another.

"Veela," she said out loud, and a drawer in the catalog slid open.  "Books on Veela."  Several dozen cards lifted themselves out of the file and jostled for her attention.  She picked one out of the air.   The title was My Year of Sexual Delights.  The card was sticky.

"No," she said out loud, trying to hide her disgust as she wiped her hand along her trousers. "No sex manuals."

Four of the cards seemed to sulk as they returned to their place in the catalog.

She picked another one out of the air.  Recessive Veela Traits in Continental Pureblood Families.  She squinted at it a bit because the possibilities of that were endless, but then she decided it was probably not relevant to her situation and sent it back.   The seventh card she read finally seemed promising, as did the eleventh and the nineteenth.  The 21st offered up a sensationalist romance novel and she was about to say no when it occurred to her that maybe it would be a fun read.  "These, please," she said, and the cards flew up, spun in the air as if with delight, and sought out their books.   She couldn't keep a smile of wonder off her face as each card found its book, led the book back to her, and returned to the catalog with smug pleasure.  

Magic could be amazing.

She gathered her finds and went out to watch the boys.  A chair waited, and a table, and she took advantage of both and began to read as she waited for them to be done.  The book absorbed her so much that she missed the end of their match and when she looked up again it was to see both of them standing in front of her.  Draco picked up the novel from the table.  "The Veela Vixen?" he asked. "I had no idea your taste ran to such trash."

"It was in your library," she said.  

"Don't be a dick, Malfoy," Harry said.  Whatever accord they'd come to while flying dissipated in the face of Draco's teasing.  "Your job is to keep her alive, not judge her books."

"Harry," she began, but he held on to his glare.  

"Hurt her, Malfoy, and I'll make you regret it."

Draco was still breathing hard from their game, but he threw his broom to the side and balled up his fists.  "Harry," she said again, this time louder and with enough fury in her voice that she stopped them both, albeit only briefly.  "I'm not a child," she hissed.  "I don't need you to step in to defend me."

Harry didn't seem to want to listen, and when he dropped his own broom, Hermione decided she had had it.   She drew her wand and pushed him back until he stumbled and fell, his arse landing on the stone pavers with enough force that he'd probably end up sore.  "You were the one who told me Draco wasn't such a monster he'd let me die.  What is wrong with you?"

Harry blinked a few times and shook his head.  "I'm sorry," he said.  He sounded confused, as though a fugue had come and gone, and when he held his hand out, she extended her own to help him up, controlling her grimace at the sensation touching him produced.   She'd made a point since this had begun to keep hugging Harry.  He was her best friend and she'd been determined not to let any magical condition keep them apart.  He gave her one of those quick hugs now, then took a few steps toward Draco and held his hand out again.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "You've gone above and beyond.  I don't know what got into me just now."

Draco, looking a bit nonplussed, took the hand.  "No problem, Potter," he said.  "Happy to do it."

"So," Hermione asked, looking from one to the other, "which of you caught the Snitch?"

Chapter Text

They were laughing when they reached the third floor of their building and opened the door to their flat.  Hermione was adamantly denying she was interested in the romance novel for any reason other than research when she stepped into their living room and saw Blaise Zabini on their couch.  He’d helped himself to some of the lemonade Draco always kept around, and his impossibly long legs were stretched out with his pointed shoes resting on their table.  She had to fight the urge to shove his feet to the floor.  Her parents had been adamant that you just didn’t do that, and she sniffed to herself that his upbringing, however drenched in excessive galleons, had missed basic manners.

Of, more likely, he knew you weren’t supposed to put shoes on furniture and just didn’t care.

Lynx, little traitor, had curled up on his lap and was audibly purring.
.
“I don’t recall giving you a key,” Draco said.

“Don’t be insulting,” Zabini said.  He didn’t get up.  “Alohomora isn’t a tricky spell, and you don’t have wards up.”

“I suppose I just assumed my friends would respect the request to stay out,” Draco said.  “I thought the locked door would have made that obvious.”

Blaise just snorted.  Hermione waited for Draco to explode in one of his peculiar fits of rage the way he had at the doorman in the restaurant, or even, to a lesser extent, at Pansy, but he seemed, at most, slightly exasperated.  “Could you be any more of a shite?” he asked, and flung himself down into what Hermione still thought of as her chair.  “I’d offer to get you something but it seems that’s unnecessary.”

“Probably,” Blaise said, “and I’m good, thanks.” 

Hermione wasn’t sure what to do.  She felt suddenly out of place and uncomfortable when only moments before she’d been laughing about the book.   Blaise openly smirked at her as he took a drink from his glass and she drifted over to stand behind Draco, settling one hand down on his shoulder.  Warmth eased up and through her.

“Pansy’s upset with you,” Blaise said.

“What’s new?”  Draco asked.  He examined his nails in a show of indifference to Pansy’s feelings and that made an unpleasant smugness cuddle around Hermione’s shoulders. It wasn’t that she was jealous of Pansy.   She just had never liked her, and the feeling had always been mutual, and even if she’d been indifferent before, the woman’s cruel stunt at the party would have fixed her place in Hermione’s opinion.

Low.  Pansy’s place in her opinion was low.

“Pansy’s been mad at me for one reason or another since we were five,” Draco went on.

“You pushed her into a swimming pool in February,” Blaise said.  “She might have had reason to be a little upset.”

“She insulted my flying,” Draco said.  “And she was fine.  The water was heated.”

Blaise shrugged and let his hand trace over the back of the cat on his lap. “Well, she’s meaner now, and she’s furious you won’t let her publish her little expose on your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Draco said.  “She’s my flat mate.”

“Whatever,” Blaise said.  “Though, calling rocks biscuits doesn’t make it so.”

Hermione’s hand convulsed involuntarily on Draco’s shoulder.  She was not his girlfriend.  They were friends, maybe.  Barely.  She didn’t have romantic dreams about the man, at least not when she wasn’t doped to the gills on being a Veela, and she was certain he didn’t think about her that way.  He’d despised her very existence only a few short years ago.   Reaching the point where he could see her as a person was impressive enough.  It would be illogical to hope for more.  Unreasonable.  And she wasn’t an illogical or unreasonable person. 

“Pansy can just go on being angry,” Draco said.  “I already told her if she published one word against Hermione, I’d ruin her.  Problem solved in my opinion.”

“Not that solved,” Blaise said.  “She says you’re under a spell, that Granger here had to have imperioused you or you’d never be living with her in this den of not nearly enough sin.”

“I don’t do Dark magic,” Hermione said stiffly.

Blaise eyed her.  “That’s not what I heard,” he said.  “I heard you had a special hex for your little training group back at Hogwarts, and that’s why the Edgecomb girl’s face is all scarred now.”

“She deserved it,” Hermione said.  She had, too.  She’d betrayed them.  She wouldn’t feel regrets for doing what she’d had to do to defeat Voldemort.  You didn’t win wars with clean hands.  Draco, she was sure, understood that.

“Maybe.”  Blaise took a long sip.  “But I bet she would have preferred a week or two under the imperious to a lifetime of disfigurement.”  Before Hermione could tell him where to go, mostly out of her flat, he held his hand up. “But I didn’t come here to argue.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “Why are you here?”

“To invite you to a party, of course,” Blaise said.  He looked at the obvious bafflement on Hermione’s face and laughed. “Even you, Granger, though I doubt you’ll have a good time.  Goyle is having one of his things, and if you don’t show, Malfoy, you’ll end up with Pansy filing a statement of concern at the Ministry that you’re the victim of foul play at your little pet’s hands.”

“A complaint I will promptly squash,” Draco said.  “Along with her career.  She shouldn’t try to play games with the Malfoys.”

“Does that mean you won’t go?”  Zabini asked.

“Let me guess,” Draco said. “Friday at eleven at that decrepit warehouse of his father’s.”

“And it’s a costume party,” Zabini said.  He stood to go, easing the cat off his lap with unexpected care.  “Don’t drink anything there, Granger, unless it's still in a sealed bottle.  It’ll all be spiked with something.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said.    “Will your mystery girlfriend be there?”

He smiled at her, a hint of approval on his face.  “No,” he said.  “She hates Goyle.”

“I assume Pansy will be there and I’m supposed to appease her?”  Draco asked.  “Maybe snog her in public to show I’m not mad for Granger?”

Hermione’s hand tightened on Draco’s shoulder again, and he reached his own hand up as if to rest it on hers in reassurance, then thought better of it and reached over to try to get Lynx’s attention instead.  The cat ignored him to lick at a paw and wash her face.

Zabini watched the entire scene with an inscrutable smile playing along his mouth.  The Veela Show, Hermione thought bitterly.  Watch Hermione Granger’s public humiliation play out for your amusement. She wondered if he were waiting for her to make a spectacle of herself again the way she had the last time he’d been here.  She was quite sure that was why Pansy wanted her at this party.   When the cat rubbed against his ankle, Zabini finally spoke. “No,”he said.  “She’s got some new boyfriend she wants to show off, so no snogging for you.   She picked him up on her last trip to Paris along with a terrifying number of heels.”

“She doesn’t do well in relationships, and should stick to buying shoes,” Draco said.  “But tell her we’ll be delighted to be there. Or don’t and she can find out when we arrive. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Zabini nodded. “What have you been up to, anyway?  I hardly expected to have to let myself in.”

“Quidditch with Potter,” Draco said.  

“I assume he won, as usual?”  Zabini asked. 

Hermione began to giggle because the entire thing still tickled her, and Draco snorted.  "If you want to call it that," he said.  At Zabini's raised eyebrows he added, "He was stupid enough to pry the Snitch from the mouth of an aggressive peacock."

"So, a technical win," Zabini said.  "Still counts."

"Barely," Draco said.  "I'll get him in the rematch."

“I look forward to seeing you at the party, Granger,” Zabini said, dismissing the entire matter with a roll of his eyes.  “You too, Malfoy. Ever since you caught this one in your net, you’ve become dull.  Duller than before, and I wouldn’t have thought that possible.  Quidditch with the Chosen One.  What next?  Working in a soup kitchen?”  

Before Draco could answer, Hermione narrowed her eyes at the smug tower of male beauty standing like an unwelcome bit of the past near her door.  “Go out with your friend, Draco,” she said.  “I was going to lie down for a bit anyway.  You two can talk about the Holyhead Harpies or something.”

She bent down and made a point of brushing her lips against Draco's cheek.   The rush was immediate and his lap looked so inviting.  She wanted to crawl into it and curl up and let him pet her hair all afternoon.  Instead she made herself straighten back up and look at Zabini with a cool smile.  “Good to see you, Zabini.  Thank you for stopping by with the invitation.  That was very cordial of you.  I appreciate it.”

He clapped slowly as he met her eyes.  The haze wanted to eat her alive, but she kept it on a leash and didn’t let it free.  She just smiled at Blaise Zabini as he applauded her.  “Well done, Granger,” he said.  “I’ll see you at Goyle’s.  Dress pretty.  She’ll be looking for you to be a dowd and you might want to disappoint her.”

“Thank you for the tip,” she said.  “I look forward to being her own, personal disappointment.”

“Anytime,” Zabini said.  He eyed Draco.  “Come with me to get a drink?”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Draco grumbled, but he got up anyway and the pair of them left.

Once the door shut behind them, Hermione sank down onto her chair and began to shake. “I did it,” she whispered to herself.  Lynx jumped up and began to knead at her stomach.  They were still sitting there when Draco returned hours later.

Chapter Text

“It’s okay to get attached,” Lucius said.   

Draco didn’t say anything in return.  He didn't know quite what to say, truth be told.  He’d come over to the Manor to find costumes, return some of the books Hermione had borrowed about Veela and pick up texts on werewolf mate selection.  Hermione had suggested it, and while he doubted it would turn out to be the same principle it was a lead to pursue.  He suspected it would come to nothing.   So far, everything had. Still, werewolves were creatures who could infect humans and turn them into werewolves, and they had mates in a rather wolfy, rather than human, way.  Maybe the Veela situation would be somewhat similar.  A stack of books sat on the table and he’d been just about to go when his father had arrived in the library, his arrival heralded by the screaming peacock painting.

Draco wished his mother would consider redecorating.  Who cared if that painting depicted some important Malfoy wife from the past? It was obnoxious.

“I had a kneazle as a boy,” Lucius went on and Draco made a vague noise that could have been interpreted as encouragement.  “I loved that little creature more than I would have thought possible.  She slept on my bed, and followed me everywhere.  I carried her around, and brushed her hair, and she wouldn’t let anyone touch her but me.  I would have killed anyone who hurt a single hair on her golden head.”

“What happened to her?”  Draco was almost afraid to ask but his father just looked sad.

“She died of old age eventually,” he said.  “I cried for days and insisted she had to be buried in the family plot.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. He supposed he should have noticed a pet marker in the small cemetery tucked away in a grove on the grounds, but he hadn’t been the sort of morbid child that did gravestone rubbings. All he'd ever wanted to do was fly and have friends.  The romance of death had never appealed to him.   

That thought made the Mark on his arm itch and he had to fight to keep from rubbing at it.  His father would notice that lack of self-control, ask if he were okay, and he didn’t feel like explaining how much he hated the faded skull and snake he’d wear forever.  He’d never let Hermione see it.  He didn’t let anyone see it.  He’d learned the trick of never looking down when he didn’t have a shirt on so even he hadn’t seen it since the war.  It didn’t matter.  He could have traced every line.  He could have drawn it in his sleep.  He’d never be able to forget it.  He’d never be able to erase it, or undo it, or expiate it.  The sins of the father had been burned, quite literally, onto him.  Worse, he’d welcomed it.

Was there anything quite as stupid as a sixteen-year-old boy who thought he was right?

“My point,” Lucius said, “is that even if you haven't yet, I’m sure you’ll come to care for this girl.  It’s perfectly fine.  She’d bound to you with magic, you live with her.  You’d be a monster if you didn’t develop feelings for her given all that, and, son, I know you aren’t.”

“Thank you,” Draco said.  He wanted to escape this conversation.  He wanted to go lie down.  He wanted to have a drink so stiff it didn’t even require a glass to stand up.

“Just remember that she’s a creature,” Lucius said.  “She’s not a person, not like you are.”

“She’s a diseased Mudblood,” Draco said.  The words felt like ashes in his mouth and he wanted to spit them out.  His stomach clenched, and he reached for a glass of water that wasn’t there.  “I understand.”

Lucius turned away.  “I’m sorry,” he said. “This isn’t what I would have wanted for you.  I wanted you to have what I do.  I wanted you to have a wife you can respect and love, a worthy son to follow after you.”

“I appreciate that,” Draco said.  He was going to choke.  He was going to strangle on the words he was swallowing. “I didn’t choose to… I’m trying to make the best of the situation.  And she’s not… not wholly unpleasant.”

“You’ve made so many sacrifices for our family,” Lucius said.  “Now this.  I’m glad at least she’s pleasant.” He took a deep breath.  “Like her, son.  Get attached.  It’s fine.  We all love our pets.  There are probably even some benefits.  Things she’ll do you could never ask a proper lady… but the less said about that the better.”

“Indeed,” Draco said. It was all he could say, the only word his mouth would form.  He wasn’t sure what would possess his father to suggest what that sounded like, so he decided he had to misunderstand the implication.  He’d told himself for years that his father hadn’t been like some of the cruder Death Eaters.  He’d seen some of them do things during that last year that he wanted to forget, however much they were burned into memory, but he’d never seen his father engage in the worst.  He’d been a man in a trap, not a man reveling in his basest urges.

Draco had respected that, especially since not having restraint in such matters probably would have elevated him in Voldemort’s eyes.  Lucius Malfoy had chosen to stay true.  Had chosen to stay pure.

Purity always conquers.  That’s what they’d told him.  Fool that he was, he’d believed it.

“We can find a girl with good lineage, probably continental, to act as a… to ensure you have a pureblood child when the time comes.”  Lucius said.  “With this Veela situation, you can just adopt the child and send the mother on her way.  She’ll be well compensated, and you’ll never have to see her again, but it would be a solution to your untenable problem.”

Draco closed his eyes and considered apparating home.  “I think that worrying about my own heir is a little premature,” he said into the darkness his eyelids afforded him.  “You are still alive and well.  In your prime.  I can worry about a child once this situation is more settled.”

“Wise,” Lucius commended him.  It felt like condemnation.   “I just wanted to reassure you in case you felt trapped.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Draco said.  He hoped the words didn’t sound as tight as they felt coming out his mouth.  He hoped his father didn't see how far he'd fallen.  He'd never understand.

Purity always conquers.  It felt like a bad joke.  Purity hadn't conquered anything.  Love had, and valor, and friendship.  All purity had managed was mindless slaughter.

“You’re my son,” Lucius said. “I love you.”

Draco opened his eyes and smiled wanly at his father.  “I know,” he said.

“Just… be kind to her, of course,” Lucius said, “and don’t worry if you come to care for her.  Your mother said she was very well behaved in the restaurant, and dresses well.  You won’t need to be embarrassed to be seen with her, at least.”

“No,” Draco said.  It felt as though he were a puppet and someone else pulled his strings and he just said the things that were expected of him.  “She was a bit peaked at first, of course, because she’d been so ill, but she looks much better now.”

“Good,” Lucius said.  He shifted uneasily on his feet and then said, brightly, obviously happy to be done with what he’d come in to say.  “Your mother said you’ll be going to a costume party?”

Draco nodded.  He’d gone up to the attics and poked around through generations of Malfoy cast offs to find things for them to wear.  Pansy would surely be in as little as possible and claim to be dressed as a mouse or some such.  In her mind, costume parties were an opportunity to be as sexually provocative as possible with no consequences and, as much as he’d love to see Hermione in one of Pansy’s previous ‘costumes’, she’d end up miserable every time anyone brushed against exposed skin so he’d thought that a more conservative approach might make her happier.  

“Find anything?” Lucius asked.

“I’ll just wear some feathers on my face,” Draco said. “Getting all dressed up isn’t that interesting to me.”

He’d found a black feather mask and, given that Hermione had told him he looked like a crow, he’d decided to say that was what he was dressed as.  Black shirt, black mask, and done.  He’d gathered a few things to have sent over for her to look at.  The Malfoys saved everything and the debris of lives were up there in trunks and boxes and he’d be damned if he let her look anything less than stellar, especially if Pansy were waiting to pounce on any weakness.

“I never enjoyed it either,” Lucius said.  “Women do, though.”  Draco eyed his father’s black brocade waistcoat, thought about the silver mask his father had worn for years, and decided not to say anything about either.  

“I should go,” was what he said instead.  “It was good to see you.  Take care of yourself.”

Lucius patted him on the shoulder.  “Take care of your little Veela, Draco.  Figure out how she latched onto you, and then we’ll see how that whole process can be controlled.  I’ve already got a man isolating the thing that causes the disease, and we should be able to create a way to infect someone without having to have a willing Veela around to sleep with our victims.”  He let himself smirk a little. “Though I doubt anyone would mind.”

“It’s getting the Veela that would be tricky,” Draco said stiffly. “You need one of the original sort, and he’d have to be infected, not one like Her… like Granger.  She’s not contagious."

Draco studied his shoes to avoid meeting his father’s gaze.  He could already feel rage stirring in his gut, and with it the urge to pummel his father into the ground.  The only problem was he’d have to pummel himself as well.   

“You just figure out how she latched onto you, and we’ll be able to offer little Veelas just like her to the right sort of people,” Lucius said.  

“The sort you want in our debt,” Draco said.

“Or the sort with enough money,” Lucius said.  He patted Draco again. “Treat her well, Draco, and learn her secrets.”

Chapter Text

When Draco came back from the Manor, he looked a bit wan and Hermione could feel her brows pull together in worry.    The worry just increased when he dumped five books onto the counter of the kitchen and turned to look at her, shifting from one foot to the other with uncharacteristic vulnerability.   Draco didn’t show emotions.  Not like this.

“Have a nice visit?” she asked.  It seemed better to be cautious and try to work up to asking what had left him so miserable.

“Yeah,” he said.  

The mumbled lack of formality sent off warning bells and now she sat up, marked her place in the Veela romance, and set it down. The heroine had just, predictably, gotten into an argument with her lover over a misunderstanding that even the most basic of conversations would have cleared up.   It seemed ridiculous to her.  Why didn’t people just talk to one another?   

“My father was there,” Draco said.  “He told me some long story about a pet cat he’d had as a boy.”

“Odd,” Hermione said.  She wouldn’t have thought of Lucius Malfoy as a cat lover.  "Nice though, I guess."

“It was,” Draco said.  "Odd, I mean."  He let out a strained laugh.  "Odd's a good word for it."

“Did you find any books likely to be useful?” she asked.  She agreed with Draco that the werewolf mate process probably bore little resemblance to whatever had driven her infection to see him as the answer — it was a strong-willed symbiote, she'd decided, with a mind of it's own — but research thoroughness demanded that stone be turned and whatever was under it examined.

“I guess,” he said.  He looked at the pile and made a face she couldn’t decipher.  “Does it matter?”

“Draco?”  He’d been trying to figure this whole situation out since it had started. They both had. From Feder Plume’s adventures with magical zoonoses, to Veela romances, to werewolf mating behaviors, they’d poked into every nook and cranny they’d thought might explain how they’d ended up bound together.   At first she’d wanted nothing so much as to find a way to end it, and understanding it had been a logical first step.  Now, if she were being honest, she was driven by nothing so much as curiosity.   Why end this? 

“It’s just,” he began, then stopped and swallowed so hard she could see his throat bob from where she sat. “Does it matter?” he asked, starting again.  “Maybe we shouldn’t spend so much time trying to determine why you ended up with me and just… there probably isn’t even an answer, right? It’s probably just random.”

Hermione doubted it was random. Magic never seemed to be.  “I just hate that you’re stuck with me,” she said.  “I know you’d rather not.”

“It could be worse,” he said.  A weak echo of his usual arrogant smirk appeared.  “I’m magically bonded to the smartest witch of our year, who’s not half bad to look at.  Imagine if it had been Pansy?  She’s always demanded more attention than any five witches, and that’s without a magical virus making her need me.  She’d be a vine that clung so tightly she squeezed the life out of me.”

“Could have been Zabini for me,” Hermione said, half-teasing, half-horrified, “or, worse, Goyle.”

For a reason she couldn’t follow, Draco’s half-smirk disappeared and he looked ill.  “Zabini wouldn’t have been so bad,” he said.

She tried not to make a face at that.  She didn’t exactly hate the arrogant prat, but he was even more irritating than a sick Ron, and that was saying something.  

“No,” Draco said. “He’d have been offended at the idea he’d be so uncivil as to let anyone die in your situation.  He would have been fine.  You might have gotten tired of fine dining, because I don't think he ever eats in, and he'd be a bastard about the way you dress, but he'd be fine.  He'd make sure you were alive and happy.”

“Like you,” she said.

Draco’s grin ghosted back. "Well, it would be beneath either of us to let someone in your position suffer.  Pureblood pride and all.  Noblesse oblige.”

“And Goyle?”

The grin disappeared.  “He would have kept you alive.”

“Like you and Zabini?”  

“No.”  Draco’s answer was too blunt and too short and she opened her mouth to ask what he meant but before she could, he said, with almost panic in his eyes,  “We’re friends, right?  You know I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t take advantage.”

Hermione felt pulled to her feet.  She hadn’t meant to stand, but he looked so lost, and she crossed over to stand near him as if proximity would answer all the questions she didn’t know how to articulate. When she searched his grey eyes, however, she only fell deeper into confusion.  He was chewing on one corner of his bottom lip, perfect teeth pressing into the pink flesh, and she couldn’t stop looking at that mouth.  “We’re friends, aren’t we?” he asked again.  “I know we weren’t when this started, but are we now?”

Friends, she thought, her eyes on that mouth.  “Friends,” she said.  

He must have taken that half-forlorn word as confirmation because his shoulders sagged in what had to be relief, and he set his hands on her waist and pulled her against him, careful to keep from brushing against bare skin.  “I’d never let anyone hurt you,” he said.

She pressed her cheek against his shirt and inhaled before saying, “I’m a pretty formidable witch, you know.  I don’t need you to go around defending my honor.”

“Still,” he said.  “This situation is so… I just wanted to say it.  That I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of you just because you’re sick.”

Hermione wondered what Lucius Malfoy had said after he finished reminiscing about his cat.  She had a feeling it had brought this on but she knew Draco would never come right out and complain about the man.  He’d idolized him for too long.  She settled on just saying, “I appreciate that,” rather than asking what this was all about.

“I did find some robes up in their attic for you to look over,” he said without letting her go. “Mum’s going to have them couriered over.  Just pick whichever you want, or none, but you seem to like old clothes and there are some nice things up in their storage.”

“Nice like Bellatrix’s corsets?”  Hermione asked.  She was proud of herself that she was able to say the woman’s name without shaking.  That hadn’t always been true. 

“No,” Draco said with utter condemnation in his voice.  “Her lack of judgment extended to her trashy clothes.  No, I found old couture for you.”

“Muggle couture?”

“Art is art,” he said.   She laughed and he pulled her into a hug that no one could deny was an embrace and not, perhaps, exactly the sort of hug you gave a friend.  “Didn’t you wonder how my mum recognized Chanel?”

“I decided not to ask,” Hermione said.

“She may think Muggles are filth, and my grandmother and great grandmother and so on might have agreed, but for good clothes they’d squint a little and develop a temporary case of equality.”

“Nice,” Hermione said.

He moved his hands up her back and reached the low cut of her shirt.  His hands touched her skin, and she felt the rush flood through her.  He began to apologize, and release her, but she reached her hands up and lay them on each side of his face.  He froze and she thought she could see tears glisten at the edge of his eyes.  “I trust you,” she said.   Then, again, “I trust you.”

“Can you fight the haze?” he asked.

“I can,” she said. “It just exhausts me.”

“Then don’t,” he said.  “I’ve got you.”  His voice shook a little as he said, “You can trust me, Hermione.  We’ll just… sit on the couch and I’ll read.”

“The werewolf books,” she said.

He let out a choked sound. “I don’t care how this works.  I don’t care why me.  I don’t want to find out. I just want to sit with you and read about Quidditch.”

She let herself go at that.  It had gotten easier to fight the urge to slip into mindless delight at his touch, but there was a sense of unutterable relief at just letting the thrall take her.  Some part of her mind whispered this was dangerous.  He could do anything to her when she was like this and she’d just coo at him that he was wonderful, but she did trust him.  She trusted him not because of this disease that had somehow altered her very being into a creature told her to, but because she knew he was, at his core, utterly reliable.  He’d served the Death Eaters and Voldemort to save his parents even though it had almost broken him.  He’d do anything to save her.  He would never, ever hurt her.

He scooped her up and she just lay her cheek against his shoulder and let him carry her until he sat and she cuddled up against him, awash in happiness and pleasure.  When he stroked her hair with an almost idle movement she wished she could purr.

“The Harpies are doing well,” he said.  His voice sounded far away.  She didn’t care what he said.  She just liked the timbre.  “Your friend Ginny seems to be a good addition to their team.  We should go see them sometime.”

She rolled over on her back so she could keep her head in his lap and look up at his perfect face.  She didn’t know why, but he had a tear running own one cheek. She reached a hand up to wipe it away.  “It’s okay, Draco,” she said.  “You’re wonderful.”

“I wish that were true,” he said.  He kissed her palm, which sent thrills through her whole being.  What would it be like to kiss him for real?  What would sex be like?  She suddenly wanted to find out more than anything in the world.  She’d had such dull, forgettable experiences, but with Draco it couldn’t possibly be anything but wonderful because of this amazing, incredible Veela gift.  It would be ecstasy.  “But you can trust me,” he went on.  “We’re friends, and I’ll take care of you.  No matter what.”

Friends.  Right.  Flatmates.  Companions.  Not people who had sex.  That was, now that she considered the possibilities,  a little disappointing.  More than a little.  Maybe she could convince him that friends was a good start, but they could be so much more.

She pulled her hand back down and curled against him and drifted off to sleep as he read about Seekers and Chasers.

Chapter Text

Hermione pulled the gloves up and spun one last time.  She hated to admit that the Malfoys had taste because they were all, with the exception of Draco,  awful, but this dress was amazing.  The black brocade skirts flared around her and she’d had to tear herself away from admiring the way the structured neckline framed her face.  She hadn’t felt really beautiful in a long time.  She’d been ill, and before that had been the war, and before that, well, she hadn’t ever really felt pretty as a girl.   She hadn’t known how to do her hair, and her teeth had been horrible, and her parents had emphasized that books mattered, not looks, and, as a result, she’d looked down her nose at anyone who used her time to fuss with makeup charms and fashion magazines.

In retrospect, she couldn’t really blame Lavender for not liking her.  She closed her eyes and wished she believed in any sort of god so she could offer up a prayer.  So many dead.  She could still see Lavender’s arm flung out, pink nails moving slowly until they weren’t.  “We won,” she said to the ghost of a memory.  “It wasn’t in vain.”

“Talking to yourself?” Draco asked from the hall, and she turned to look at him, dead resolutely shoved back into the past.  He’d poured himself into a tight black shirt tucked into flowing trousers.  His only concession to a costume was the feather mask strapped over his eyes and, oddly, a pair of black gloves on hands currently holding a small box.  

“At least I know the answers will be clever,” Hermione said.  “Gloves?”

Draco smiled at her and walked over to set his hand against her cheek.  “Gloves,” he said softly.  The warm ease of happiness stole over her without the rush she had to fight off and she leaned against the pressure of his touch.  “I thought it would make the evening easier.”  

He opened up the box and pulled out a thread of glitter she didn’t realize was something substantial until he was fastening it around her wrist.  “Draco,” she said, not sure what she was looking at but quite sure it couldn’t possibly be what she thought. “Is that real?”

He picked up her hand and admired the bracelet of diamonds he’d put on her.  “Look at that,” he said. “You’re learning to recognize diamonds. Give me a few years and I'll turn you into a proper aristocrat.”

“That’s… you can’t give me that,” she said.  She stared at the stones.  That had to have cost the earth.  

Draco made a dismissive sound. “Let’s not let Pansy discount you, shall we?  She’ll expect you to be draped in rocks, so draped in rocks you are.  You heard my mother.  She assumed I’d given you that pin.  It's just what we do.”

Hermione started to fumble with the clasp.  Her gloved hands made it impossible to undo and she ended up staring at him helplessly.  “I can’t wear this,” she said.  

“You already are,” Draco said.  He cast a tempus charm and made a show of examining the time.

“Draco,” she said again but he ignored her protest.

“We’ll be late,” he said. “Argue with me later.”  He laced his fingers through hers and she sighed but the bracelet twinkled up at her and she knew he could afford it and, really, she had to admit it would be a pleasure to flaunt it in Pansy Parkinson’s face even if it implied the pair of them were in a relationship they most assuredly weren’t.

They were friends.

A quick apparition and they were outside a ramshackle-looking warehouse.  “It’s better inside,” he said, though she could tell he was trying to hide a grimace of distaste as he helped her over a puddle that shimmered with spilled oil.   

“Malfoy!”  A man she didn’t recognize ambushed them as soon as they passed through the door.  A name tag reading ‘Salazar’ seemed to be his only costume, though Hermione doubted the historical founder of Slytherin had ever smelled quite as strongly of cheap cologne. “You made it.”  He let his eyes roam over Hermione in a way that made her fingers twitch to reach for her wand.  Draco must have felt the same urge because the hand on her lower back curled in until his fingers were digging into her spine.  His voice remained bored and unaffected though, and his slouch as insouciant as ever.

“I hope the bar is better than it was at the last one of these I came to, Bletchley.  Not all of us like to get our intoxicants in tablet form.”

“Yeah,” the man who must be Bletchley said.  “It’s not bad.  Don’t drink the wine, though.  Tastes like horse piss.”  He pointed at Hermione. “Are the rumors true?  You really fucking the Gryffindor ice queen?”

Draco moved so quickly that Hermione had barely registered that he’d taken his hand off her back before he’d grabbed Bletchley, spun him around, and pinned him against the wall.  His wand dug into the man’s bobbing throat.  “You want me to ensure you can never again shove whatever passes for your endowments into any woman stupid enough to let you near her?”  Draco asked.   He didn’t raise his voice or sound at all agitated but the muscles of his arms bulged under his tight shirt as he held Bletchley in place.  The man made a tiny whimpering sound and Draco nodded.  “Then apologize to my guest at once.”

Bletchley managed to choke out, “My apologies, Miss Granger,” and Draco let him go.   He sagged down and rubbed at his throat, his eyes on his shoes.   Hermione knew she shouldn't feel as viciously pleased as she did, but as she scanned the dark warehouse teeming with people eager to find out what she was, she felt a bit of tension ease out of her shoulders.

“Slytherins have a number of excellent qualities,” Draco murmured into her ear as he took her by the arm and led her through a group of people trying not to be too obvious about their staring.  “But some of my fellows can be a little — caught up, shall I say? — in school rivalries they should have outgrown.”

She thought she should complain.  She should reprimand him.  He could have really hurt someone who’d only been guilty of a nasty comment.   It was excessive and, besides, she was more than capable of handling her own honor.  When she caught his eye, however, something dangerous still glinted in the depths, and she shivered.  Maybe she'd mention he'd been a little over the top later.  “I told you I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you,” he said quietly.  “That includes insults.”

He turned to the man behind the bar and ordered them both bottles of a local beer.   “Unopened,” he specified.  The bartender nodded and Hermione remembered Zabini’s warning that everything was likely to be laced.  Gregory Goyle liked his parties wild.

She'd no sooner thought of Blaise Zabini but he appeared.  Draco and Bletchley had kept their costumes minimalist.  Zabini had opted to risk erring in the other direction.  He'd dressed as a pirate, with a diamond in one ear and a small parrot on his shoulder.  Black satin pantaloons should have looked ridiculous but the gleaming torso he flaunted stole the eye away from the billowing fabric.  Blaise Zabini exercised.  She suspected he'd rubbed oil into his skin.  “My eyes are up here, Granger,” he said, and she could feel her face burning as she met them.

The parrot let out a squawk and flew off to sit in the rafters.  She wondered briefly if it were a real bird or if he'd transfigured something to complete the costume.

“Blaise.”  Draco sounded amused.  “Did you steal that outfit from a circus?”

“Your Veela likes it,” he said.  “Maybe you should consider something less a little less 'omen of death'-ish and she’ll look at you like you’re an ice cream cone she wants to lick too.”

Hermione hadn't realized how hot her skin could get.

“Oh, wait,” Zabini said.  “Don't you already lick him?”

Hotter.  She skin could get hotter.

“Blaise.”  This time the tone was much less pleased and Zabini held up a hand in mock surrender.  

“You know I wouldn't touch her,” he said.   A hint of truth lurked under the too-casual words, and Draco shook his head but he relaxed and took the bottles the bar tended handed him, twisted off the caps, and passed one to Hermione.  Zabini took a glass filled with something orange and bubbling and smiled at the pair.  “Live a little,” he said before taking a long swallow.  His eyes glazed almost immediately and his mouth turned up into a chemically relaxed grin.  The drug erased the mask that made him seem merely mocking and revealed a man spoiling for trouble.

“You'll hurt tomorrow,” Draco said.

Zabini shrugged and took another swallow.  “I live in the now,” he said.  

“You were neutral in the war,” Hermione said.  

“No such thing as a neutral Slytherin,” Zabini said.  “But if you mean I wasn't a Death Eater like your owner here, then, my sweet bird, you are correct.”

“I don't own her,” Draco said. “We talked about this.”

Zabini smiled.  “Not your girlfriend.  Not your toy.  Maybe you should figure out what she is.”  He finished his drink in a series of gulps that appeared to leave him exhilarated before he wrapped his arm around Hermione and pulled her to his side.  She froze until she realized he'd been careful not to touch any exposed skin.  Draco didn't even twitch and, though Zabini’s breath was hot and sweet, he didn't do more than make her smile in delight as he tightened his hold.  He was a prick, sure enough, but it felt good to be flirted with. It felt great to be flirted with by a man this attractive.  “Come dance with me, little bird.  I’ll show you a good time and keep the dogs away.”

“She doesn't need you to keep her safe,” Draco said.

“In this crowd, everyone could use more than one friend,” Zabini said.  “We’re friends, right Granger.”

She pulled back.  Under the glaze, his expression was briefly serious and she wondered how high his tolerance was for whatever he’d had.  “Of course we are,” she said.  “Lynx likes you.”

“Your cat has excellent taste,” he said and plucked the beer from her hand.  “Hold this,” he said to Draco, and then pulled her to the dance floor where bodies writhed and lights flashed and, almost against her will, she laughed with pleasure as he spun her around, then pulled her close and thrust his pelvis into her.  It felt so good to be well enough to just have fun.  One song bled into another and Blaise Zabini kept her moving, endlessly flaunting his beauty, endlessly careful that neither he, nor anyone near them, brushed against what little skin she had exposed.  She could feel Draco watching them.  He stood at the bar, casually drinking his beer, and never let his eyes wander.  He was hers.  Hers! Her heart beat in time with his.  Her blood pounded with his.  She danced, her gloved hands sliding up Zabini’s bare arms, and let the dark Slytherin show her off to her own partner.

Chapter Text

Draco took a long, slow drink of his beer and watched his Veela.  Her dress swirled around her like smoke, and the eyes she'd shaded with dark paints flashed whenever she looked at him.  Blaise kept her spinning, heedless of the resentful glances cast her way.  A woman who'd been a few years ahead of him at school made a point of pulling herself out of Hermione’s way as though her touch would contaminate, and Draco memorized her face.  She'd find herself unemployed by Monday.  By Wednesday her landlord would apologize profusely as he gave her an eviction notice.  

“I thought you didn't let her near other people.”  

Draco looked at Pansy.  He'd seen her working her way around the room out of the corner of his eyes but hadn't acknowledged her yet.  She’d poured herself into corsets and heels she probably thought were enticing,  and a headband with grey ears that sat half askew topped her head.  

“What are you supposed to be?” he asked though he knew.  She was nothing if not predictable.

“I'm a mouse,” she said.  “Duh.  You loaning her out now?”

Draco dismissed Pansy and returned to watching the dancers.  Blaise smirked at him for a moment and he rolled his eyes at the dare that he step in.  Blaise could dance with her all night and she'd still be his.  She was dancing for him to see, and they all knew it. She couldn't even touch Blaise.  She didn't want to.  She wanted him to watch and he could barely tear his eyes away.  He could feel every pulse of blood pounding in Hermione’s veins as she moved.  Seeing her alive and happy like this made his breath quicken and his mouth dry. The music stopped as the set ended and her dance stopped but his heart didn't even slow its insistent rhythm.  Blaise held her gloved hand and she curtsied to him and they both looked back at him, laughter in their eyes.  He raised his bottle toward them in a toast and their smiles grew.  If it were anyone but Blaise, or maybe that wretched Potter, he'd be planning murder.  If it were anyone but Hermione, he'd be making his excuses to Goyle and taking her home.

“What are you?” Pansy asked, still trying to get his attention.

“A crow,” he said.  Hermione approached and held her hand out for her drink.  He passed it over and tried not to stare at her mouth as she put her lips around the neck of the bottle and sucked down a long swallow of beer. He’d promised himself he wouldn't take advantage.  The moment he touched her mouth, she'd be lost.  It would be wrong.

“Nice,"  said Pansy.  “You've always looked good in black.”

Blaise waved his hand to order another one of his disgusting concoctions.  He swallowed half of it and then made a disgusted noise.  “Who invited the Veela?” he asked.

Draco could feel his hackles rise almost instinctively, but he knew the other man couldn't mean Hermione and so he followed Blaise’s gaze until his eyes settled on a blond man making his way toward them.  He seemed to almost glow and moved with an ethereal, impossible grace.  Almost every woman in the room stopped what she was doing and turned to follow his progress.  They were a field of sunflowers facing an unreachable star.

“Huh,” said Blaise.  “I didn't know that about Theo.”

Draco glanced over at their friend, surprised he was here, though it seemed everyone was.  He'd even seen one of the interchangeable Weasley brothers.  Theo, though, was quiet and solitary.  He hated things like this and had rarely left Nott Manor since the war.  Now he stood, bathed in pulsing light and balancing on the balls of his feet.  He leaned toward the passing Veela, blank yearning on his narrow face.

“Huh,” Draco said in agreement.  He expected to see the same glazed longing on Hermione’s face and braced himself against seeing her that way for someone else, but she was just reading the label on her bottle.  

“Did you know this has chocolate in it?” she asked.  “Maybe that's why it's so good.”

“Hermione,” Pansy cooed.  “You remember Jean, don't you?”

Hermione glanced up and finally saw the approaching Veela.  “Jean,” she said with what sounded like genuine, clear-headed pleasure.  “I didn't know you were in Britain.  You should have told me.”

Jean bowed over her hand before he said, faint guilt coloring his words, “I wasn't sure you'd want to see me.”

“You didn't know,” she said.  “It wasn't your fault.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and studied the Veela with his glow and his French accent and then turned to Pansy.  She was watching the reunion with malicious anticipation written all over her face, but as Hermione and Jean exchanged the pleasantries of people happy enough to meet again despite being mostly indifferent to one another, her glee faded and a sullen, forced smile took its place.  There would be no fireworks here.

“I didn't realize it was a costume party,” Jean said.  “I feel very silly without so much as a mask.”

Draco pulled his off and said, “A gift.”

A trade, he thought.

“Hermione’s not in a costume either,” Pansy said as Jean smiled his thanks and fixed the feathered mask over his face.  That seemed to dim much of his allure and there was an audible exhalation as half the vast room returned to whatever they had been doing before Jean arrived.  Hermione remained unmoved one way or the other.  She'd been more interested in Blaise and even that would have cut off abruptly if he'd so much as brushed a finger against her arm.

Mine, he thought.  Not even a Veela catches her eye.

He felt triumphant until he remembered she was trapped.  She hadn't chosen him.

“I'm an obscurial,” Hermione said.  Her smile was sharper than any knife.  “Wild magic turned into a curse.”

The music began again and this time it wound slowly through the room inviting couples to sway against one another.  His grandmother would have called what people were doing on the dance floor immoral.  His mother would have made a cold remark about how dance shouldn't require a contraceptive charm.   Draco set his beer down and held his hand out to Hermione.  “Would my wild magic favor me with a dance?”

Her bracelet flashed in the light as she took his outreached hand, and Pansy’s eyes fell on it.  Jealousy and fury warred in her voice as she choked out, “Pretty bracelet, Hermione.  Present from Draco?”

Hermione glanced down at her wrist.  “Yes,” she said simply.  Then to Draco, “And yes to you as well.”

He folded her against himself on the dance floor.  She was a slash of dark ink in her dress, cut by the diamonds he'd refused to remove.  “Happy I made you leave it on?” he murmured into her ear.  

She laughed and the sound was pure happiness.  “Yes. I should listen to you. And can you believe she invited Jean?  Poor man.”

Draco could absolutely believe Pansy had, but he didn't answer.  He just inhaled.  Hermione used some kind of rose lotion and the heat of her skin made it stronger than usual.  Her hands were wrapped around him and she swayed into him and he wanted her. He'd watched her dance with Blaise.  He'd watched her talk to that Veela.  Through it all, she’d had eyes only for him and she was so beautiful and he wanted her, he wanted her, he wanted.  Oh, Salazar, he wanted her.  He ached with how much he wanted to tear her skirts off, how he wanted to press her up against one of the steel beams wrapped with fairy lights and take her right there in the middle of this ridiculous party. She had to know.  She wasn't a naïve child, and when she looked at him through lashes he’d never appreciated, he knew she did.  She felt him pressing into her – how could she not – and she didn't shift away from him.   Her tongue licked at her bottom lip and when that lip curved up into a smile that invited, he tightened the fingers he had on her back with such force it had to hurt.  She just pressed herself more firmly against him.  He wouldn't have thought that was even possible but space bent as she fit herself into every line of his body as though she has been made just for him.  Only for him.  She shifted her hips as she moved to the hypnosis of the music.  It threatened to pull them into its thrall and he couldn't stand it.  Everything was her, and the blood pounding through him, and how much he needed her.  She was going to drive him mad and, as thought fled, he buried his face in her neck.  She smelled even better as he got closer.  Rose, and sweat, and her. When his lips met her skin, she sagged and that weight brought him back to reality with a slap.

He couldn't take advantage.

None of this was real.  Not for her.

He stepped back.  “I'm sorry,” he murmured.

She moved closer again until her lips were at his ear.  “Don't you dare,” she said and he realized with a start that there wasn't a trace of her Veela trance in her voice.  She'd fought her way through his unforgivable mistake.  He'd pressed his lips to the perfection of her neck and she’d held on.

He knew that meant she’d be too tired to even stand soon.

Unforgivable.  He was unforgivable.

“You've been very careful to be hands-off all night, my mind is clear, and I want you.  Not the creature.  Me.”

He closed his eyes.  “Hermione,” he began, unsure how to phrase a rejection he loathed having to make.

“I'm not a child,” she hissed, and even in the dark of the warehouse he could see that her eyes were too bright as tears threatened to fall.   “Don't you dare treat me like I'm some fragile, broken creature who isn't capable of knowing what she wants.  Don't.  You.  Dare.”

“It isn't right,” he said.

“Take me home,” she said.  No one who had grown up with Narcissa Malfoy could miss that that was an order but he hesitated too long and saw her get angry.  She pulled herself closer and said, each word a whispered threat, “Take me home or cope with me in full trance mode right here.”

Then she kissed his neck.  First once, then again.  Her body shifted in his arms from angry to pliant but she didn't stop nuzzling him though she made a sigh of utter bliss as she let herself fall into the drugged state that left her utterly vulnerable.

“Fine,” he hissed.  He couldn't believe he'd been out-maneuvered by a Gryffindor. “You win, you witch.  We’re leaving.”

Chapter Text

Draco dumped her on their couch with utter lack of ceremony.  “There,” he said.  “We’re home.  Happy now, you crazy Veela?”

Hermione smiled up at him.  When he was angry his grey eyes sparkled, and it made him even more handsome than usual.  He’d carried her out of a Greg Goyle’s party as she’d tipped her head back and laughed with delight at how shocked he was he could be tricked and trapped and wound around her finger the way he'd wrapped his pretty, pretty diamonds around her wrist.  She picked up her wrist now and looked at them.  They were shiny, like his eyes.

Blaise had raised a glass to her as Draco had stalked past him and she’d seen him mouth the words, “Well done” at her. Draco had missed it.  He'd been too busy sending a death glare at Pansy and poor, hapless Jean. 

She hoped Jean had taken his potions. She'd never followed up on that.  She'd been a little busy being in agonizing pain and afraid she would die.

It really was sweet the way Draco just got all riled on her behalf.  A little much, maybe.  A  little extreme.  She still needed to figure that out.  But, whatever the cause, it really was just one more way he was wonderful.   He was so wonderful.  She beamed at him from where she lay on their couch.  

“Oh, don't you give me that look of dippy adoration,” he snapped. He crossed his arms across his chest and that made the muscles press out against the thin fabric of his shirt again and she let herself coo at them, mostly because she knew it annoyed him and he deserved to be annoyed.  How dare he be so recalcitrant?  He narrowed his eyes at that coo.  “I know you're still in there, despite that idiotic, Veela-driven idea of yours that someone like you could want someone like me.”

The haze seeped out of her as she lay there and, as her sense that he was wonderful drained away, annoyance came to fill the vacuum left behind.  She kicked off her shoes and pointed and flexed her feet.  Heels always hurt.  She'd looked great tonight but now she had to pay the price for that.  “Rub my feet,” she ordered.

He hesitated but her glare eventually did its job and he sat and took one foot in his hands, gloves still on.  As he pressed his thumbs into her flesh and kneaded away the results of her shoes, she considered what to say.  

“I like you,” she said at last.

“I am gratified,” he said stiffly.  “I have tried to be — .”

“Fuck you, Draco Malfoy,” she said tiredly.  He paused his massage briefly but then continued on as if she hadn't said anything.  “I like you.  You're a good man.  Maybe you weren't always, but you are now.  And, as Zabini is happy to point out, I'm not so sweet and innocent myself. You're nice to look at.  I like you, and not as friends, so can we stop pretending that's what we are?  I want to spend the night kissing you until I can't breathe.”

“Hermione,” he began.  “We’re friends, but I –“

“I've been friends with Harry since we were eleven,” she said before he dug himself in so deeply she only wanted to hit him.  “Sometimes, during that year on the run, we slept in the same bed to stay warm.”

Draco looked ill at that idea.  The silly prat was jealous, and of Harry.  She'd be amused if he weren't sitting there being jealous while also refusing to entertain the idea they weren't just flatmates.  Weren't just friends.  “I'm sure –“

“And despite sleeping together, Harry never ground himself into me as though I were his salvation, so I feel pretty comfortable saying whatever we are, Draco, it's not friends. Not just.”

“I refuse to take advantage of you.”

She ground her teeth.  Could a man be any more aggravating?   She'd never have thought of Slytherin House as home of the resolutely noble but here they were.    “I am an adult," she said.  "I am capable of knowing what I want.”

“That can't be me.”

“Why not?”

His hands finally stopped.  “Because I'm a monster who's got a history of taking away people’s free will?”  he suggested.  His face looked bleak as he set aside his mask of superiority and let his self-loathing appear in his eyes and on his mouth.  “Because the moment you touch me you lose the ability to think?  To say no?”

“Draco –“

“If you can't say no, you can't say yes.”

“Except I can say no.”

He froze.

“It's hard,” she admitted.  He knew this.  They'd been working on this since that first, horrible party.  She could barely hold on, but she could when she wanted to, and if that was the sticking point his stubborn, snaky honor was hanging on to, she could assuage that worry.  “I can.  I can stay coherent, though even if I didn't, I trust you —  “

“You shouldn't.”

“ — and you can trust I can stay focused enough to say no.”  She shifted so she knelt in front of him and peeled the glove off one hand.  She lay her bare palm against his cheek and took a deep breath.  It was hard to keep from falling into the well of mesmerization, but she could.  “I can say no,” she said softly.  "I am choosing to say yes."

She let her hand drop back into her lap and watched him.  He looked like a man in a trap and he shuddered and she wondered what he was thinking that had him so terrified.  They all had scars from the war crossing their souls.  What had cut into him so deeply?  "Only kissing," he said at last.  "I don't want to… if you can't hold on to your mind, at least all I'll have done is kiss you."

She nodded and leaned forward again until her lips brushed against his, just the lightest of feather touches, and the shock ran like fire through her.  She withdrew, licked at her lip, and studied him.  His expression remained intent and worried.  "How's your mind?" he asked.

"Sober," she said.  When he looked doubtful she admitted, "Maybe a little buzz, like one glass of wine, but I'm coherent."

He took a breath, a man bracing himself, and then wrapped his gloved hands behind her head and gently pulled her to him.   She held on to one thread of rationality as the fire of his mouth on hers burned through her, a conflagration that burned everything in its path.  She had been choked with brush and weeds.  Layers upon layers of the dead had piled themselves onto her and he cleared it all away and left room in its stead for something new.  He tasted of the same beer she'd had, and salt, and whatever gentleness had existed in the hesitant way he'd drawn her forward disappeared as he began to kiss her with a desperate fervor.    

He suddenly jerked himself back with a motion so violent she sat, shocked, until he asked, "Are you still okay?"

Hermione thought she'd never peel back all the layers that made up the wonder that was Draco Malfoy.  Blood purist.  Bigot.  Under that, a boy who wanted attention.  Under that, a man terrified by what he was asked to do, and still more scared of the consequences if he failed.  Then the man who wouldn't let her die, despite years of mutual hatred.   Now this man, who worried about her ability to stay sober, to stay consenting, to the point that he stopped himself.

No wonder Pansy Parkinson was so bitter at the loss of even the hope of him.  She would be too.  She'd fight for this one, kicking and screaming and dragging ignorant French boys into the fray just in the hope she might win.

She nodded.  "I'm still sober," she said.  "Maybe two glasses of wine.  Not incoherent.  "

He had his lips back on hers before she'd even finished the word, and she laughed against his mouth as he rolled them over so they were lying, pressed up against one another, her half under him, on their couch.  "The dress," she gasped out as he began to press his mouth in a line up her neck.  "It'll get crushed."

"It'll be fine," he said with such utter dismissal that she laughed again, then twined her fingers in his hair to drag his mouth back to hers.  "I don't care about the damn dress."

He kissed her and kissed her until she was, as she'd said she wanted to be, breathless, and then he pulled back and propped himself on an elbow and looked down at her.  She knew her mouth had to be swollen as his, and she reached a finger up to trace the shape of his lips.  The diamonds on her wrist sparkled and she tipped her head to admire the shine.  She could feel the blood pound in her veins.  She knew her heart had shifted so it beat in time with him, magic tugging them into closer and closer alignment.  

"How many glasses now?" he asked.  

"Maybe three?" she admitted.  

His eyes briefly shuttered, and then he forced a smile to his face.  "Are you going to be offended and start sulking if I say we stop now?"

"Sulking?"  She pretended to be shocked though the combination of the Veela rush and the pleasure of finally kissing him combined to make her face a study in mischief rather than offense.  "That wasn't sulking at the party, Malfoy-mine.  That was me manipulating you to get what I wanted."

"Witch," he said.

"So Minerva McGonagall told me when she arrived on my doorstep that time," Hermione said.  

Draco brushed one of her errant curls away, tucking it behind an ear.   It tried to spring free and he frowned at it as he pushed it back with determination that set her to giggling again.  He'd succeeded in dark tasks set him by a monster, but even Draco Malfoy couldn't get her hair to behave.  "That had to be a strange conversation," he said.  

"It was," she admitted.  "A relief, really.   To hear I wasn't a freak?  That I wasn't alone?  That there were others like me?"

The intoxication faded as she looked up at him.  "Though I guess that isn't true, is it? I really am one of a kind now.  A freak."

"You aren't a freak," Draco said.   He looked angry that she'd even use the term then the lines around his eyes softened as he smiled at her.  "Though you have always been one of a kind."

Chapter Text

Hermione had her feet tucked under her and one of the werewolf books in her hands when the door opened.  She'd been feeling fairly outraged about the way the author talked about werewolves and was happy for the distraction of company.  For all that the book had a lot of useful information about werewolves' mating habits, the tone was enough to make her feel ill.  The writer clearly didn't think of werewolves as human.

She didn't care to be reminded that the wizarding world didn't think of her as human.  Her name was on a list in the Ministry and somewhere, in some filing cabinet, sat a folder where they'd collect any information they bothered to gather on her.  The entire idea of being nothing but data in that folder revolted her.  

At least Veela were considered safe and boring, especially her strain.   The speculation about the mating habits of werewolves, and how similar they were, or were not, to real wolves bordered on lurid.

She looked up from that unpleasant commentary to eye Blaise Zabini, debonair as always.  He paused for a moment, framed by the doorway, and she knew it wasn't because he was the slightest bit unsure of his welcome.  He just knew he made a pretty picture and wanted them to admire it.  She dutifully did.   She'd become more fond of him, despite his arrogance, since Goyle's party.  Hard to dislike someone who, inasmuch as he thought about you, had your best interests at heart.

Draco scowled as Blaise shut the door behind him and loped to the couch where he sprawled out. "Did no one teach you to knock?" he asked.

Blaise cocked an eyebrow up and pretended to consider.  "Yes," he said at last.  "My mother said if I didn't want to walk in on things I'd rather not see, I ought to announce myself by knocking."

"And?"  Draco demanded.

"I stopped going into her bedroom," Blaise said.  He smiled a slow, toothy smile that made Draco look away.  "If I had the slightest concern I'd walk in on the pair of you in flagrante delicto I'd knock, but since we both know you're too much of a coward for that to be an issue, I'll keep not bothering."

Hermione found herself overtaken by a fit of coughing.  

"Don't tell me you're sick too," Blaise said.  He didn't sound especially distressed by the possibility.  "Do you have any more of that lemonade? I don't know where you're getting it and it's much better than what I have at home."

"I get it from lemons," Draco said.  "Try buying lemons.  And don't you have a girlfriend you can bother?" 

"Messing about with actual lemons sounds like work," Blaise said.  "I'll pass.  But I do, as you so charmingly inquire, have a girlfriend.  And she'll be back in town tonight and I was going to invite the pair of you to  join us at that Il Corvo restaurant that just opened in Diagon Alley, but if Granger over here is sick, I'll pass on having her cough all over my wine."

"I'm fine," she said. "Just had something caught in my throat, that's all."

Blaise raised an eyebrow.  "Not Draco's cock, I feel safe in assuming."

"Zabini!"  Draco growled.  Hermione knew she ought to feel shocked or offended but somehow the utter dry arrogance of the way Blaise had uttered his crude comment just made her want to laugh.

"Oh, relax Malfoy," Blaise said. "Everyone knows you aren't going to take advantage of her. I know it, she knows it,  Miles Bletchley — who's fine, by the way, despite the way you tried to kill him over a crude comment — certainly knows it."   He glanced down at his nails as if to say none of this were quite as interesting to him as the possibility he might have a scuff on his manicure.  "Though it does seem unfair to keep her from enjoying the one benefit of being magically drawn to you.  Just because you can't enjoy sex while lost in an adoring haze doesn't mean you should stop her from that delight.  It's selfish of you, really."

"It's okay," Hermione said.  She was going to choke on the laugh she was holding in.  "Better over-scrupulous than not scrupulous enough in this situation."

Blaise looked at her, and she could see the moment he realized what 'not scrupulous enough' might encompass.  He looked very briefly ill.  "Right," he said.  "I quite see your point.  Not scrupulous enough could be… it could be very bad indeed."

"Who's sick?  Draco asked, changing the subject.

Blaise shrugged. "Pansy caught something at Goyle's party.  She's been more of a bitch than usual since, and I am well and truly tired of her.  Probably one of his less savory guests brought something with him and passed it on and now I have to suffer."

"Odd," Draco said.  "She seemed fine at the party."

"It's been two weeks,"  Hermione said with a frown.  "I'd think anything she'd picked up would have run its course by now."

"I think she's had enough Pepper-up Potion to keep an apothecary in business," Blaise said.  "Better living through potions and all that.  Doesn't seem to help if the whinging she's been doing to me is any indication.  Everything hurts, she's tired all the time, she's never going to one of Goyle's parties again."

"You don't strike me as the type to sit at a bedside," Hermione said.  She wanted to ask more detailed questions about what was wrong with Pansy, but before she could articulate them, Blaise waved a hand about.

"Floo calls.  Endless floo calls.  You don't think I'm measuring out her doses and patting her forehead with a damp cloth myself, do you?"

That did seem unlikely, but even as Draco moved on to more practical questions and asked Blaise what time they out to be at the restaurant, Hermione worried.  She was probably being ridiculous and just projecting her own problems onto a woman who wouldn't appreciate the comparison, and surely he'd taken his potions.  He couldn't possibly have been irresponsible enough to neglect to do that and then sleep with another human witch.

"Blaise," she said, thinking aloud, "did she go home with Jean?"

Blaise slouched even more elegantly back against the furniture and closed his eyes. "Even the thought of contemplating Pansy's sex life makes me want to become a hermit," he said.  "At the very least, I now need a nap and a shower wouldn't be amiss."

"Blaise," she said again.

"Jealousy doesn't become you," he said.  "You won the prize, though I've always thought the terms and conditions that came with him seemed not worth the trouble.  Don't sit in the manger and try to keep her away from your glowy ex.  It's petty."

"He doesn't glow," Hermione said.  "And Draco's not a prize."

"He glows," Blaise said.  "All the proper sort of Veela do. It's a kind of odd shimmer."  He opened his eyes and looked at her. "You don't, of course.  You just look like an average, reasonably pretty but not exceptional girl."

"He doesn't glow," she said again.   She'd talked to Jean at Goyle's party and he hadn't had the slightest hint of shimmer which, now that she thought about it, was a little odd because he had, at least a bit, when Fleur had fixed them up.   "And I'm not jealous."

"Then why do you care if dear Pansy had a wild night?"  Blaise asked.   Hermione looked down at the werewolf book in her lap and tried to figure out how to explain what idea had lodged itself into her head.  She already knew she'd have to go see the woman, as much as she disliked her, just to reassure herself that Pansy was fine.

If Blaise didn't know why she was suddenly concerned, Draco, had already followed her train of thought and he looked horrified.  "It isn't possible," he said.  

Blaise looked from one to the other.

"It's probably just some nasty bug exacerbated by too much alcohol," Hermione said, "or whatever else was in those drinks. I'm sure she'll be fine."

"She couldn't possibly be that stupid," Draco said.  "And since when am I a prize?"

"I don't pretend to understand it," Blaise said.  "You're so pale, and those parents, but at least a dozen women have told me they think you're divine and asked if would I introduce them."

"You've never introduced me to women," Draco said.

"As much as it pains me to admit it," Blaise said, "we are friends.  I wouldn't do that to you."

Draco looked put out that he'd missed all these women who thought he was desirable, and it was all Hermione could do not to hit him.  Let him try meeting up with even one of them now.  Just let him try.  Blaise obviously thought they weren't even worth naming.  Draco should listen to Blaise.  She ground her teeth, then shook her head and made herself focus on the important issue.

"Would Pansy be that stupid?" she asked.

Blaise looked at her as though she were the stupid one.  "Try to think back to N.E.W.T. level potions," he said.  "Did you think the O.W.L. exam was that tricky?"

"Well, no," she said.  Snape had been a horrible man, and cruel, and she didn't even care he'd turned out to be a hero.  She never planned to forgive him for that comment he'd made about her teeth.  Despite all that, she had to admit he'd been an excellent teacher.  She hadn't liked him, but after the intensity of his classes, the examination had seemed trivial.  

"Did you see Pansy in that class?"  Blaise asked.

Hermione shook her head.  

"Stupid," Blaise said with finality.  "Even your precious Weasley managed to get a grade good enough to take that class, and we all knew you did most of his homework."

"I didn't," she said weakly.  She should probably tell him that Ron had only gotten an Exceeds Expectations in Potions, not an Outstanding, but Ron probably wouldn't thank her for clearing up that little misunderstanding.  Better to let them all think he and Harry really had managed to pull Outstandings.

"My point," Blaise said, "is that Draco should be fixing me some lemonade because he's a good host, at least in theory, and Pansy isn't the brightest star in the sky."

"So she might have slept with him," Hermione said.  "Oh, Merlin."

"We have to go and check on her," Draco said.  He sounded miserable and she remembered that as annoying as Pansy was, he'd been friends with her since they were children.  

"It's probably just a stubborn cold," Hermione said.  If Pansy had sought out Jean just to try to bother her and ended up getting sick, it would be her fault.    She picked up the werewolf book again.  Maybe there was a clue in it that would help her figure out how the mate selection worked for Veela.  She'd found Draco.  There had to be a reason, and if she figured it out, she could find Pansy's.  Hell, they could go out in public and have her just start touching people. Someone would feel good.  

"I'm sure it is," Draco said.  His eyes stole down the corridor toward his bedroom.  "But we'll go over later and check just to make sure."

Chapter Text

"Go away."

The words resonated with all the churlish power of a sulking child and probably would have sent most people away, half-justifying their action with the thought that it was what she'd asked and half-annoyed they'd gone to the trouble to come over only to be yelled at through the door.  Draco had known Pansy since they'd been stealing cakes, however, and claiming to have no idea what had happened, so he just pulled out his wand, cast alohomora, and let himself in, Hermione at his heels.

Pansy sat on her couch, a sea of dirty tissues turning into an upholstered island, and glared at him. "Did you have to bring the freak?" she asked.

Hermione slammed the container of takeaway soup down on a table cluttered with the post and copies of Witch Weekly and said, "Nice to see you too, Parkinson.  Zabini said you were sick."

"Blaise needs to mind his own business," Pansy said, then bent over as a spasm shuddered through her.  Draco could feel his bones ache just watching her.  "I'm fine," she got out before she began to cough.  She reached for another tissue, coughed into it, and tossed it toward the bin.  She missed and it joined its companions on the floor.   

"I'll clean up a bit," Hermione said.  "You talk to her."

Draco had rather hoped Hermione would handle the part of the visit that involved inquiring about Pansy's amorous activities.  Instead, she pulled out her wand and began going through a truly impressive repertoire of cleaning charms.  He wouldn't have expected she knew quite so many ways to scour, scrub, and sort.  

Had to be the Weasley influence.

Unfortunately, that left him to figure out how to broach the delicate subject of Jean.  "So," he said, floundering into territory one should never enter with a past almost, "you had a new date at Goyle's thing."

"Jealous?" she asked, the hope too obvious.

Hermione didn't help matters by snorting audibly as she used her wand to scoop up all the rubbish on the floor and send it sailing to the bin.  She even knew some charm to compress it down so it all fit with room left for more and Draco briefly escaped from the horror of asking Pansy if she and Jean had exchanged bodily fluids by admiring Hermione's prowess as a witch.  She really was quite extraordinary.

"Concerned," Draco said.  "Sometimes you can be a little impulsive, and it doesn't work out well for you."

"Are you still mad I threw your Quidditch collectible at your head when we were eight?"  Pansy asked, trying to laugh despite clearly being weighed down with pain.  "I think you need to get over that, Drakey."

"Could you not call me that," he asked with unthinking automation.  He despised that nickname and always had.  She had a bad habit of refusing to just use his name, as though by changing his name into something cute she could change him into someone else, someone who liked nicknames, someone who, at least, wanted her.

"Only the little Veela gets to call you that now?" she asked.

"Pansy," he said.  "Please."

She scowled at him.

"Blaise said you weren't well," he said. "I was worried.  We came over to see how you are."

She smiled at him.  It was a ghastly thing.  "It hurts so much just to roll over and sit up so I can walk to the toilet, I spend twenty minutes having to mentally prepare myself," she said.  "My gut feels as though I ate a small dragon and it's trying to dig its way out.  I can't sleep because I hurt too much.  Oh, and my ex just came over with his current little magical tramp to see how I am and she's cleaning up my flat, so, really, I've been better."

Draco flinched.

"I'm sorry," he said. He reached a hand out and brushed some of her lank hair out of her eyes and she jerked back from his touch.

"Pansy?" he asked.

"One of the delightful symptoms of whatever foul disease I picked up at Goyle's little thing is that I'm just ridiculously sensitive to touch.  So, don't."

"Does it hurt?"  Hermione asked in a low voice.

Pansy's scowl deepened. "Not as if you care, little miss know-it-all, but no. It just feels vile. Slimy."

Hermione's face became a dreadful shade of grey and she turned away, her shoulders shaking. Draco knew she had to be trying not to cry.

"This is the worst cold I've ever had," Pansy was going on and he could feel something congeal into a lump in his own throat.  He'd half-hoped, half-dreaded that he'd touch her and she'd feel better.  That would have been a mine-field of awful and awkward, but at least he'd have known she wouldn't die.

That thought made the lump grow, and he tried to swallow it down.  Pansy might have been bad at Potions, and only middling at Transfiguration, but she'd always been good at reading people.  "What is it?" she asked.  "Why are you so… it's just a cold, Drakey… Draco.  I'll be fine in a week or so."

She saw the truth on his face, looked at Hermione, looked back at him, and said just one word. "No."

"It's a — "

"No," she said more loudly this time.

"It's a… if he hadn't taken his potions, you could have caught it from him any number of ways," Hermione said.  She seemed to be trying to keep her words as clinical as she could and had leeched all pity from her voice.  "I'd suggest owling him to ask, but even if he says he did take them… there's a test you can have done at St. Mungo's that will tell you if it's… I had to ask for it.  It's not the sort of thing they think of."

"Hear hoofbeats, think horses, not centaurs," Pansy said faintly.  "Of course they don't think to order a test for… but I don't have what you do.  I'm not a fucking creature."  She spit out the last in furious defiance that sapped what little energy she'd had left.  She sagged back against the cushions of her couch, spent.  Draco suspected she'd be crying if she had the strength for it.  She'd always been a pretty crier.  Even at five, she'd managed to make crying into an adorable sniffle and heartbroken wail that ordered people to take care of her.

"If he didn't give it to you, then the blood test will be negative," Hermione said.  "And you won't have to worry."

"And if I do?"  Pansy asked.

Hermione closed her eyes. "It will get bad," she said. "But there will be some days that are not as bad as others."

"And then I will die," she said.

"Not everyone does," Draco said as quickly as he could.  Eight.  Eight cases in all the vast history the Ministry had in its files.  "Hermione," he said, gesturing weakly at her. 

Pansy didn't look as if she found Hermione's continued existence especially encouraging. "And how do I go around finding my magical cure?" she asked.  "What made it be Draco, Granger?"

The bitterness in her voice burned him.

"I don't know," Hermione said.

"So I die," Pansy said.  She tipped her head back and looked up at the ceiling.  "I guess I'm lucky I made it this far and didn't just get shot down by a mob of angry Potter-lovers before now."

"We've been trying to find the answer," Draco said. "Ever since she came to the Manor, we've been trying to find out how and why, and… even my father has people working on it."

"Wants to cure her, I bet," Pansy said.  "Undo whatever filthy mistake made her yours."

Draco looked down at the floor.  There was no answer to that that he could make.

"We can take you out to Diagon Alley and just let you touch everyone you see," Hermione offered weakly.  It was how she'd found him, after all.  

"And to think everyone always said you were the brains behind Potter," Pansy said. "Queue the world up to touch my hand, and then when I don't vomit at someone's touch but instead start to coo like a moronic dove, we've found our guy?  That's the best plan you've got?"

Draco didn't look up.  He didn't want to see whatever was in her eyes.  "We'll keep researching," he said.  "There has to be a reason. There has to be a pattern."

"Hard to find a pattern with only one case," Pansy said.   "I wasn't the sort who took arithmancy, but even I know that."

"We'll do the best we can," Hermione said.  "And Harry has a bunch of pain Potions he developed using a… using a book he had a Hogwarts… and they really are better than things you can just order from the apothecary, so I can come over with him and bring a batch."  Hermione sounded miserable as she added, "They take a week to simmer, though.  I'm sorry."

"I hardly think Potter is going to brew up special potions for me," Pansy said.  "For you, sure.  For me?  Let's not be stupid here."

"He will," Draco said simply.  Pansy probably assumed he meant that he'd somehow coerce the man into doing what he wanted.  That was the Malfoy way, after all, and she probably put a lot more faith into his blackmailing and bullying skills than Potter's innate goodness.  He was happy to let her think that.  Whatever made her sag in relief that, even if it took a week, some form of balm was coming was fine with him.

That Saint Potter would just do it because he was too bloody noble to let a person suffer, even one he had to dislike, made Draco want to crawl into a hole.  One more way Harry Potter was better than he was.  

"Okay," Pansy said.  "If you say so."  

"I'll heat this up," Hermione said, picking up the soup and disappearing into the kitchen. 

Pansy mustered a weak smile but Hermione was barely out of the room before she began to cry.  "He wasn't even any good," she said.  "All this, and he wasn't even any good."

Draco had no idea what to say to that so he sat in silence until Hermione returned, soup in a bowl, bowl on a tray, pain potion that he knew was illegal set beside it.  She gave it all to Pansy without saying a word and all three of them stayed in uncomfortable silence as Pansy ate, then swallowed the potion.  It was strong enough it let her slide down into sleep, and they cleaned up, still silent, and Draco pulled a blanket over her before he left with Hermione.  

He wasn't in any mood to have dinner with Zabini but that was next on the list.  Then back to his folders to find out how this worked before death won another round. 

Chapter Text

Il Corvo reeked of money and pretension. Hermione wondered if she'd ever get used to this money-with-emphasis thing that Malfoy had.  The floors gleamed with wood that had been stained so dark it looked black, and heavy black draperies folded along every wall, the velvet muffling conversations as well as proclaiming to anyone who knew to look that this establishment could afford a cleaning staff dedicated to keeping dust and doxies away.   White table clothes almost shone in the dark room, dark tapers on each one, and the tables sat as isolated rocks on the dark sea of that wood.  No one was packing diners in here, determined to make every inch of floor space turn a profit.  She stood, almost dumb stuck in the foyer, before she leaned over to Draco and whispered,  "It's so dark in here, how are we supposed to see the menu?"

He snickered.  "Only peasants need light to read," he said in as pompous a voice as he could manage.  A year ago she'd have been furious as that tone, convinced it proved the man using it was an elitist jerk.  Now she could hear the way he mocked the pretension of a nearly black restaurant.  "Besides, if you could see what you ordered, you might decide to send it back."

That made her swallow a snicker of her own.  

The maitre'de led them to a table where two forms slowly took shape as they approached, coalescing into people lit by the flickering candles.  One was Blaise Zabini.

Hermione stared at first Blaise and then at his date and a giant smile spread across her face.  After the horrible revelation about Pansy and Jean — what was she going to do about him? — she was prepared to find delight in anything.  She'd been delighted that Draco had been just as amused as she was by the inane lighting choices of Il Corvo.  But the discovery of the identity of Blaise's mystery girlfriend, the one who despised Goyle and seemed to be away a lot, did more than delight her.

"Ginny Weasley!" she said.  "You… you never told me!"

Draco held out her chair and, without thinking, she settled down into it and let him tuck her into the table as she beamed at Ginny.  "You sneaky witch," she said.  

Ginny grinned back.  "Well," she said, "You know how Ron can be.  At first, I just didn't want to hear it about how I had another boyfriend — "

"He's never gotten over you and Harry breaking up," Hermione said, not sure why she was apologizing for Ron but doing it anyway.  "He had this fantasy Harry would become his brother."

"Honestly," Ginny said in exasperation.  "They live together.  They work together.  How much more togetherness does he need?"

"You don't suppose…?"  Draco let the insinuation trail off as he sat down and Hermione laughed.

"Harry's straight. Oblivious to almost everything," she said, "but I asked him once, and he stumbled his way through a 'that I don't fancy you doesn't mean I don't like girls in general, Hermione' answer."

"I wish I could have heard that," Ginny said with obvious relish.  "Anyway, at first I didn't want to hear how I'd moved on again, and then I didn't want to hear his complaints that I was seeing a Slytherin — "

"Merlin forbid," Hermione said.  

"And then it seemed weird to go home and say, "So… I've been dating this guy for over a year now…"

"Your mother would have the wedding invitations printed before you'd finished that sentence," Hermione said.

Blaise's shudder was visible even by candlelight, but before they could say anything else a waiter, naturally clad in black, glided up to the table and handed menus to the men and asked whether they would prefer flat or sparking water, and did they need to consult with the sommelier, or did they already know what wine they would prefer.  The waiter managed to sound condescending even with those simple questions, and as she lowered the hand she'd had outstretched to take a menu back into her lap, she watched Blaise and Draco grin at one another before switching to a rapid conversation in French that the waiter clearly couldn't follow.   At last, sounding put out he had to order in English, Draco requested a particular vineyard and vintage, "If you have it," he said, uttered in a tone that made it clear he doubted they did, and sent the man away with a flick of his fingers.

"Why don't I get a menu?"  Hermione asked once the waiter was out of range.  "Do women in this pompous world not read?"

"They don't make decisions," Blaise told her.  He handed his menu over to Ginny.   "Or so we pretend."

Draco scanned his menu quickly before passing it to her.  

"I'm having trouble imagining your mother letting your father choose her dinner," Hermione said.   

"I suspect they'd just give Narcissa a menu," Blaise said.  He made a mean sound that might have been a laugh before adding, "And maybe let her order for Lucius."

"Her French is better," Draco said mildly.  

"So how was Pansy," Blaise asked.  "Did she whinge that life was unfair enough to give her the sniffles and keep her from getting her weekly manicure?"

Hermione could feel the amusement she'd been feeling at the absurdities of this restaurant flicker out.  Even by candlelight, Ginny could see the change in her expression and she reached a hand out, only pulling it back when she remembered how Hermione couldn't bear touch any longer.  "What happened?" she asked. "Was she horrible to you? Because I can go give her a piece of my mind."

Hermione shook her head.  

"She slept with Jean," Draco said.

"Well, that was more information than I needed,"  Blaise said.  "Where is that waiter with our wine? "

Ginny, however, blanched. Blaise saw, and his eyes got darker.  He looked from Draco to Hermione and saw Pansy's fate in their averted eyes and he opened his mouth, but closed it as the waiter approached and began the ritual of presenting the bottle for him to inspect.  Blaise said, "It's fine.  Pour it for everyone."

The waiter looked shocked, but when Draco almost growled he hurried to do just that.  Blaise picked up his glass, drained it, and took the bottle to pour himself more.  Then, after he drank half of that, he looked at Hermione.  "How'd you find him?" he demanded.  "Draco.  Was it research?  Did you know something?  Have some kind of schoolgirl crush that coalesced into your connection?  What was it?"

"I don't know," she said.  "I just… I just bumped into him and all the pain disappeared and I knew it was him."  She looked down at the silverware.  The light flickered off the flat blade of the table knife and she kept her eyes on the hypnotic reflection and tried not to think of what would have happened if she hadn't decided to go shopping that day, if she hadn't let Harry bully her into leaving Grimmauld Place because maybe she'd feel better if she got some air.  "It was just luck."

"Then we get luck for Pansy," Blaise said. "Will she live long enough for felix felicis to work?"

Hermione looked up at him in shock and he rolled his eyes. "I'm an excellent brewer,  Granger.  It's tedious but I'm more than up to it.  We make the golden potion, we give it to her, and let luck lead her right to her… Merlin, the word 'mate' is rather unappealing.  It's like you're a krup I want to breed or something."

"I just can't believe I didn't think of that," she said.  

"I'm smarter than you are," Blaise said.  "I just wasn't a dreadful grind at school."

"Does she have six months?"  Draco asked.

Hermione wished she could say yes.  "I made it that long," she said.  "Longer.   But I don't know."

"So we brew and while it cooks, we try other things," Blaise said.  "We'll get everyone we know to visit her and touch her dainty hand to see if anyone takes."

"She's already expressed her opinion of that plan," Hermione said.  

"So?"   Blaise said.  "You, I assume, didn't know that touching your one true love would make it immediately obvious who the poor bastard was?"

She shook her head.  Thanks to research, she'd known her…mate… would make her well, would keep her alive, but she hadn't realized the effect would be so instantaneous.  

"Then we have an advantage you didn't and we're going to use it.  Pansy can keep her idiot opinions to herself, or mumble about them all day long. Whatever makes her happy. She thought that mouse costume was a good idea so we won't be following what passes for her judgment on this."

"I'm not her one true love."  Draco had been sitting at the table, silently watching the pair of them, and when he interjected at last they both looked at him. 

Blaise just snorted. "Whatever lies help you sleep," he said.

Hermione hoped her hurt didn't show on her face but, since he reached a finger out to brush against her arm, it probably did.  The rush had become far more muted with the amount of time they'd spent in physical contact since Goyle's party and she just narrowed her lips into a tight line.   "Not because of this," he said softly and that made her relax.

"What if it's someone like Goyle?"  Ginny asked.

Blaise and Draco looked at one another.  

"Let's fly that dragon when it comes," Blaise said at last.  He drained his second glass of wine and looked around.  "Where is that waiter?   Honestly, the service here is terrible.  You can barely see, they didn't print enough menus, and I want to place my order."

Ginny studied Hermione and said, as Blaise made a show of glowering in the direction the waiter had disappeared, "It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?"  Hermione asked.  "She invited him here to try to… if it weren't for me she'd never have — "

"No one made her fuck a Veela," Blaise said. "Try not to make everything about yourself, Granger.  It's unattractive."

Draco took her hand and squeezed it.  She let the warmth spread through her because she wanted the comfort.  "We'll find him," he said. "We'll figure out why it was me for you so we can find hers, and it will be fine."

Hermione smiled a bit wanly and used her free hand to lift her wine to her mouth as the waiter appeared.  She let Draco order for her. She didn't care what she ate. She just kept drinking.  

Chapter Text

Hermione perched on the table in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place and watched Harry consult his purloined Potions textbook.  That she owed much of the pain-free time she'd spent pre-Draco while afflicted with the Veela strain to Severus Snape annoyed her.  Blast the man for being brilliant.   She preferred to be able to just hate him without having to acknowledge he'd had good qualities as well.

Harry pulled ingredients out of the stockpile he still had and set to chopping.  He'd never really been good at Potions, but he was good enough, and with Snape's annotations he could mix up pain medication that left the legal options, and even the illegal ones, in the dust.  "I never thought I'd have to mix this up again,"  he said. 

"Me either," Hermione admitted.  She let her feet swing as he worked.   Draco had gone over to see Pansy that morning and the story he brought back was too familiar.  She hurt.  Everything hurt.  She'd been okay long enough that morning to take a shower, but that had exhausted all her reserves and she hadn't even been able to change her sheets.

Draco had changed them.  

He'd also taken a few of his friends over and had them poke at her. She'd hissed at him, called him a fool, but the morning had determined they weren't looking for Greg Goyle, Theo Nott, or any of four other Slytherins Hermione doubted she'd be able to name.   When he got home, he'd kissed her hard enough to leave her shaken, stared at her as though he wanted to memorize her, then disappeared into his room. He hadn't emerged by the time she'd left.

"I wish I knew why Draco," she said now as Harry slid chopped bits of this and that into his cauldron.  "It can't be random.  Magic doesn't work that way."

"If you say so," Harry said.  He began to grate what looked like a turnip save for the glaring eyes on the stem of the plant.  She hoped it wasn't sentient.  "I was never good at the theory stuff.  Reading and research was your speciality."

"You were better than you gave yourself credit for," Hermione said.

Harry laughed. "Maybe it's Draco because he's the least likely person?"

"That would have been Greg Goyle," Hermione said. "Or even Pansy herself.  Can you imagine?"

"Imagine what?" Ron asked.  She twisted her head and grinned at him as he dumped his bag onto the floor and pulled off his shoes, leaving them in the middle of the doorway.  His wide face smiled back at her, and she felt her heart warm at the sight. 

"Imagine if my magic cure had been Goyle," she said.

"Oh, Merlin," Ron said.  "As if Malfoy weren't bad enough."  He leaned over as he passed to give her a kiss and she twisted out of the way. 

"Ron," she said.  It irritated her that he always forgot to stay hands off.

"Sorry," he said.  At her glare he sighed.  "It's hard to remember I can't touch you, all right?  Habit of a lifetime."

She grunted but let it go. He meant well.  Ron peered into Harry's cauldron.  "Is that more of the Hermione Special?" he asked. "Did Malfoy run off or something?"

"It's not for me," Hermione said.

"It's for Parkinson," Harry said before Ron could ask.  

He looked from one of them to the other, sure it had to be a joke, then, when their faces made it clear it wasn't, he whooped in delight. "Pansy Parkinson?"  he asked.  "The little bitch who made  everyone's life miserable for years, tried to turn Harry over to Voldemort, and then wanted to run an exposé on you in her horrible gossip column?"

"That's the one," Hermione said. "And your mother likes that column."

Ron waved of his mother's reading habits. "It's Christmas," he said, unable to stop grinning. "It's my birthday. It's the most perfect, beautiful revenge ever."

She stared at him in horror, sure he hadn't thought this through.  Being an unpleasant bitch  didn't mean the woman deserved what had happened to her.  "Ron," Hermione said slowly, "I know you don't like her.  I don't like her either. But this isn't like she got a detention and has to sort old records.  She's going to die."

That sobered him up.  "But you'll find her whoever is her Malfoy, and she'll be fine, right?"  

Hermione shrugged. That would be nice.  That would be ideal.  She just didn't want to raise any false hopes.  There were a lot of wizards in the world and they didn't even know where to start looking.   Right now the best plan seemed to be to keep her going with as much pain control as they could manage and hope Blaise's felix felicis helped her stumble into the right person.

"Hey, maybe she got Goyle,"  Ron said.  He was clearly floundering, trying to find a way to make up for his glee that Parkinson had gotten sick.  "That would be funny, right?  I could have a laugh at that, couldn't I?"

"Draco took him over this morning and tested him," Hermione said. "He was a fail."

"Draco?"  Ron asked.    He searched her face and took a step backward.  "You fell for him," he said accusingly.  "You went and fell for the ferret.  Hermione, how could you?"

"He's nice," she said.   She knew it sounded weak but she didn't know how to explain Draco Malfoy to herself, much less to Ron.

"He was a Death Eater."  The statement had the flat condemnation of utter certainty. "He stood there and watched his crazy aunt torture you and did nothing!"

"And Parkinson tried to give Harry over, but he's standing here stirring ingredients into a potion for her," Hermione said.  “The war is over.  They were scared.  We all move on.”

“I was scared too,” Ron muttered.

“And look at me, here talking to you despite the way you took off,” Hermione said.

Ron flushed a deep red that crept up his neck and slowly stained his freckled cheeks. “I’ve said I was sorry about that,” he said.  "I thought we were over it."

“And Draco has similarly apologized,” Hermione said.

“But to fall for him?”  Ron could barely conceal his disgust.  “Fine, forgive the rotter.  He’s been right fair about the Veela thing, I’ll give him that.  Maybe he’s not a total… but to… Merlin.”  A horrible idea seemed to strike him out of the blue.  “You aren’t snogging the bastard, are you?”

Hermione stared at him.  Ginny’s decision to keep her relationship with Blaise a secret began to make more and more sense.  “Not that it’s any business of yours,” she began.

It was all Ron needed to hear. “You are,” he said.  He pointed a finger at her and it shook with the force of his outrage.  “That bastard is taking advantage of you.  We all know you can’t control yourself the second he touches you, and – ."

“Enough!”  She had to almost shout the word but Ron heard the danger in her tone and stopped.   “This may come as a bit of a surprise to you, Ronald, but Draco and I have been working to build up my tolerance to the effect he has on me.”

“I just bet he has,” Ron muttered.  He stopped again at her expression, but mulish thrust to his jaw suggested he hadn’t changed his mind, only given in to her obvious demand that he be quiet.

“I am quite able to keep my wits about me when he kisses me, which he does, often and thoroughly,” she said.  She could feel herself churn with rage and the heat of her ire seemed to want to escape through her pores.  She could feel her hands get hot and she rubbed them against the wood of the table without much thought.  

“Shagging?”  Ron demanded.

She ground her teeth together and refused to answer, and he, thankfully, didn’t press the matter.  She didn’t want to admit neither she nor Draco had dared go past heated kisses that left them both breathless and aching.  He’d brushed a hand against the under curve of one breast once and she’d lost her grip on her mind.  He’d known at once – she hadn’t asked how – and had pulled away, apologies falling out of his mouth.

Hard to tell him she just wished he’d let her be mindless.  She knew, after his own bit of the war, that left him far more terrified than it did her.  She trusted him.  Maybe someday he would trust himself too.

Until then, the last person she wanted to talk about it with was the ex scowling at her.

“If you two wouldn’t mind,” Harry said, “this is a bit of a tricky part.”

They both fell silent until he stirred in the last ingredient, counted the precise number of clockwise and counterclockwise turns of the wooden spoon, and set the mixture to simmering.  An hourglass levitated near the stove, the grains of sand ticking off the exact length of time before bottling, and Harry relaxed.  The hard part was done.  Now all he needed to do was let it sit on the low heat for a week, then bottle it up when the timer cried.

For some reason the manufacturer of the hourglass had thought the sound of a crying baby made a good chime, and when the last grain passed through to the bottom of the hourglass the whole townhouse would fill with the wails of an angry, colicky infant.  It was, as Harry had said weakly the first time it happened, impossible to miss.   No one  would let anything overcook with that timer.

“So, other than Pansy Parkinson boffing your ex and giving herself a fatal disease,” Ron said, “how was Goyle’s party?”

“Loud,” Hermione said, happy to change the subject.  “I had a nice chocolate beer, though, and danced with Zabini.”

“Chocolate doesn’t belong in beer,” Harry said.

“Says the man who hoards chocolate frogs against a possible shortage,” Hermione said with a roll of her eyes.

“Did you see Percy there?”  Ron asked.

“No.”  She looked at him curiously because she'd have thought the Weasley red  hair would have stood out. Maybe he'd been avoiding her.  “Seemed mostly like Slytherins.”

Ron shrugged.  “I guess the head of his department got an invite.  These things are pretty exclusive, you know.”

Hermione hadn’t known that, and, based on how many people were there, she rather doubted that was the case.  Ron was probably just put out no one had invited him.

“Yeah,” he said.  “So he asked Percy if he wanted to go, and you know Percy.  Never one to miss an opportunity to social climb.”

"Well,"  Hermione said, "as long as he had a good time."

"I guess," Ron said.  "It's not like Percy the Boring would have taken anyone home.  He probably showed up, had an awkward drink at the bar, then left, having not said a word to anyone."

Chapter Text

Draco paced back and forth through Pansy's main room and listened to the water of her shower run.   So far, she hadn't fallen over. Or, at least, there hadn't been any loud thump that had made him run in, ready to haul her up and check for damages.  He doubted she'd be all that happy with him if he did that. Whatever lingering hopes she might have had he'd fall for her one day had disappeared when he'd touched her forehead and she'd wrenched away from him.

"Don't," she'd said.  He remembered her putting her hand on Hermione, eager to see whether her claim she couldn't bear anyone's touch was true, but he also remembered her wrapping her arms around his shaking shoulders their sixth year and telling him if he ever wanted to talk, she was ready to listen. He hadn't wanted to risk her and so had said it was fine, but she'd always been too clever at people to believe him.  

She hadn't pushed, though.

The water stopped.

There had to be a pattern. He had told Hermione that surely the way the Veela strain selected its savior was random, and she had said that wasn’t the way that magic worked. He hadn't pressed the issue because he hadn’t wanted to find the answer and feel as though he had to give it to his father. Now, he didn’t care about his father.   His father could go hang. He cared about Pansy.  It couldn’t be random.  There was a reason each of those women in his folders had latched onto the man that they had; there was a reason that Hermione had latched onto him. He just needed to figure it out, and then he could reason his way through to find the person for Pansy.

His pacing seemed loud in the small flat now that the water had stopped. He picked one foot up, set it down, the floor creaked, and then he repeated the entire exercise. He could feel his hands curling into fists and then uncurling as he tried and tried to force his brain to find the answer.  He hadn’t even been nice to her. They’d never shared a single moment of kindness between them until she arrived at his parents' house, desperate. He had mocked her for years, but so had so many other people. Goyle had never had a nice thing to say about her. Theodore Nott had snickered behind his hand. He remembered Blaise Zabini looking at her one day in the library their third or fourth year and saying, "I swear, the Muggle-borns get less attractive every year."

And it wasn't as if he had carried some sort of tendre for her, hidden down in his soul. He hadn't liked her but, truth be told, he hadn't really spared her many thoughts at all.  She just hadn't been that important in his world.  His most vivid memories of her were of her slapping him so hard he’d been afraid she’d broken his nose, and seeing her tortured on the floor of his home.  Neither of them seemed like the kind of intimate moment destined to spark a magical bond.

He wondered if Pansy had ever hit anyone. She probably had. It seemed as good a place to start as any other, though several of the Veela in his folders hadn't known their mates before their illness which meant that couldn't work as part of a pattern.

On the other hand, maybe they just hadn't remembered random men they'd slapped in bars or on the street. There are probably a lot of women who had slapped Greg Goyle over the years who, if asked, would honestly say they had no idea who he was.  He tended to bring that reaction out in some women.

The door to the bathroom opened and Draco snapped his attention back to the pale woman who sagged against the doorframe.  “You’re looking better,” he said, trying to encourage her.

“Liar,” she said. “Help me back to the couch.”

He did, and once he had her propped on pillows and had made sure that the pain potions, a glass of water, and a terribly vulgar novel about sexy Quidditch players were all within reach, he asked, “Is there anyone you've beaten up I should know about?”

“I don’t think anyone is likely to show up seeking revenge, if that's what you're worried about,” she said. He hated it the way her usually arrogant voice shock with exhaustion. If anyone had asked him a month earlier whether he would ever miss the mean, condescending version of Pansy, he would have told them they were mental.  He did though. He wanted her back. He would do almost anything to help her get back to herself; he understood now why Harry Potter had told Hermione to beg him for help, despite all their history.

“That wasn't what I meant," he said. "I was thinking that Hermione hit me that time and maybe that left some kind of magical impression that came back in the form of this bond. So… if there were someone you had hit it would be worth trying to find them."

Pansy summoned a hideous ghost of her former grin.  “I’ll make a list for you,” she said.

Draco tried not to cry. "You do that," he said          

"I've hit you plenty of times," she said.

He looked down at the gloves on his hands. He wore them whenever he came over. He knew that she hated them, but it kept her from cringing away at his touch when he helped her up and around. The first time he'd worn them she'd said, “So now you’re literally handling me with kid gloves?”  They'd both pretended not to see them since.

“I think we know it isn't me," he said.

“That would've been funny," Pansy said. "Your little Veela would've hated that."

Draco could feel something burning at the corner of one eye. It would’ve been incredibly awkward, of course, but he knew that Hermione wouldn't have demurred for even a moment. She would insisted he find a flat with a third bedroom, and would have put the sheets on the bed with her own hands.  She understood too much about Pansy's fate to hold their petty history against her. "I guess I'm just not that lucky," he said. "I don't get two beautiful women who both fall into raptures at my slightest touch."

“I’m hardly beautiful right now,” Pansy said.

He opened his mouth to tell her that of course she was but the look on her face stopped him.  She had a mirror, and she wasn't the sort to lie to herself about this. She looked exactly like you would expect a woman to look like after almost three weeks of pain that came in waves.  Hermione had said that one of the worst things about it had been the unpredictable nature of the entire ordeal. You could wake up feeling fine, stand up, and then be slapped in the face with so much pain your knees buckled and you had to hold onto the counter to keep yourself upright. You could wake up in too much pain to even get out of bed. And then you could have a day where you were fine, and you thought that you were getting better, and that made the next day seem so much worse.  Three weeks of that were written on Pansy’s face.

He had no idea how Hermione had endured almost a year.

"At least it's an excuse to do all the drugs I want," Pansy said.  “I mean, they don’t really make the pain go away but they do make me high enough I really don’t care, at least for a little while.”

"I'm going to find the answer," Draco said. "Pansy, I promise you. Whatever it takes. I'm going to get you through this and you will be okay."

He knew she didn’t believe him so he reached over and he grabbed her fingers with his gloved hand and he squeeze hard enough to get her attention. “Pansy,” he said. "I've solved a lot of problems. I figured out how to breach the unbreachable wards of Hogwarts. I can do this."

She gave him a small, wan smile.  "Well," she said, “at least Saint Potter is coming over tomorrow. His new and improved pain potion is going to be ready at last, and I have been assured he will bring it over first thing."

“It’s something to look forward to,” Draco said. He tried to get a smile out of her and added, “I know you’ve always had a crush on him.”

She mimed gagging.  “I think you're mixing us up," she said.  "You were the one who went on and on about him all through school. Did you know that we used to have a jar in our bedroom, me and Daphne and Tracey and Millie?  Every time you said ‘Potter’ we would put a knut into it, and, when we had filled the jar, we would buy ourselves all the candy we could and sit around sucking on candy quills and looking at Witch Weekly. It was always a good party.”

Draco mustered a glower for her. "There's the bitch I know and love," he said.  “I hope you all made yourselves sick."

"I think I'll tell him that story tomorrow," Pansy said. "That really is something to look forward to.”

"As long as you have something," he said.

She let out a sad little huff. "It would figure that the person I’m dependent on now for even for the tiniest bit of real relief is the person who was there at the worst moment of my life.”

Draco raised his eyebrows curiously. He still hadn’t let go of her hand and he squeezed again. “You can’t tell me you've forgotten,” Pansy said. “I said we should give him to Voldemort. I said he was right there. Everyone turned and looked at me as if I were the most disgusting thing they'd ever seen in their entire lives." She laughed a little and if his heart hadn't already been broken by the fact that she was dying, that sound would've broken it.  "Everyone except him, of course. Saint Potter looked over and met my eyes and I had the horrible realization that he was the only person in the entire hall who really understood how afraid I was. He was the only person there sympathetic to me.”

"I'm so sorry," Draco said, helplessly.  "I don't know what to say."

"How about, Life's a bitch and then you die?” Pansy asked.

Chapter Text

Hermione reached her foot down and wrapped her leg around Draco’s.  He settled against her with a sigh and she wished, not for the first time, that he got more out of this.  He made all the sacrifices and she got all the benefits.  From not dying to the surge of ease and pleasure that washed along her bones at his touch, the whole relationship benefitted her and he got… not so much.    He got a roommate he couldn't escape and a girlfriend he was afraid to touch.  It didn't seem fair.

“You’re wallowing,” he said.

She lifted her head off her pillow to look at him. He lay back, one arm folded under his head as he stared up at the ceiling.  Lynx had deposited herself next to his head and was steadily pushing her paws in and out of a crook in his neck with a loud purr.   Draco ignored her.  Lynx ignored being ignored.

“Do you wish it weren’t me?” he asked Hermione.  “I can’t have been your first choice.”

She started to answer but before she could formulate thoughts into words he went on after a snort.  “Not that it matters. If she got someone awful, we’d make it work.  Potter threatened to lock me in the basement.  I wonder if you could turn my blood into an elixir that would work without me.  Or my hair.”

“I like you as you,” she said.  “I don’t want to take some potion that mimics you enough to keep me alive.”

He sighed at that and turned at last to look at her. “But what if Pansy’s weren’t someone… what if it were someone horrible?”

“I don't think it will be,” she said.   “I don’t think that’s the way it works.”

“We have no idea how it works,” he said.  “You said once it might even be random.”

“I doubt it is,” she said. 

“What if it’s someone dead,” Draco asked.  He sounded like he’d searched his mind for all the worst possible options. “What if it’s someone who died in the war, or my mother, or my father.”

Hermione considered the prospect of feeling adoration for Lucius Malfoy.  It was hard to fathom.  “Then I guess we figure out the mimicking potion,” she said.  “First we have to find the person, though.”

He made a frustrated sound.  “Someone needs to lock that Jean up,” he said.  “Who goes around just… he’s a menace.”

Hermione decided to ignore that.  It wasn’t that she didn’t agree.  She’d already written the man a Howler filled with words she didn’t usually use. Not just ‘irresponsible’ and ‘careless’ and ‘didn’t you take your potions?’ but ‘you bloody halfwitted wanker’ and ‘if she dies I will personally track you down.’  He’d written back that he had taken them, or most of them.  It had been a ten-day course, and they’d upset his stomach, and he’d felt fine so he’d stopped after seven days.  He hadn’t had a single symptom, and his stomach, and surely she understood, no?  He’d been sure it had been enough.

She hadn’t even known what to respond to that.  His stomach.  Pansy lay gripped in the jaws of misery, staring down death because she’d been sullen and petty and thought why not at least have a night of sweaty fun after her mean little trick had fallen flat and he’d been concerned about his stomach.

Sometimes she really hated men.

She ran her toes along Draco’s calve and considered.  She’d been very lucky in how this had worked out for her.  “You’re really pretty great,” she said.

He almost jerked when she said that.

“I think you’re confusing me with Potter,” he said.

“I was thinking about Jean,” she said.

“Oh," he said.   "Well, if your standard is ‘doesn’t spread a fatal illness,’ then, sure, I’m a winner.”

She hated the way his voice sometimes became filled with self-loathing.   He’d saved her without a second thought, without even hesitation.  He’d bought this flat and furnished it and bought little Lynx, who was purring away, and the moment he’d learned about Pansy he returned to spending all his waking hours taking old books into his room and pouring over them in deathly silence.   “You’re a better man than you think,” she said. “I wish you saw yourself the way I do.”

“The way you do is magically filtered to think I’m perfect,” he said.  “It’s a bit biased.”

She jabbed him in the ribs and he let out a loud 'oof.'  “You’d be amazed at how little you affect me now,” she said.   

“Is that a challenge?”  Draco rolled over and the kind of mean mischief he’d been famous for at fourteen sat over the worry in his eyes.  “Do you really think I can’t get you so woozy you’re babbling I have pretty, pretty eyes?”

“That sounds,” she paused for a moment and searched for a word that wouldn’t scare him off.  “That sounds fun,” she settled on.  It sounded glorious.  It sounded like a way to get him to stop being so afraid of her in the trance.

He sent a magical hourglass floating into the air and grinned.  “I’ll check in with you in five minutes,” he said.  “Until then, all mine?”

She reached a hand out and lay it along his cheek.  “All yours,” she agreed.

Lynx made a sound that might have been disagreement, then jumped down and disappeared into some cat-friendly corner of their flat.  

And Draco kissed her.

The kiss was searing.  She had always forced herself to stay coherent when they kissed, but now she had five glorious minutes to just let go and she did.  She'd become so acclimated to him that she didn't turn into the babbling idiot she had been the first time he'd held his hand against her skin for longer than a brief, accidental brush, but she still floated in a haze of adoration.  She hadn't realized how much energy she put into keeping at least one thread of her mind separate from his touch before.  Now that she let that go it felt much like the release of setting down a heavy box, or slipping out of heels and letting your feet relax into a more natural position.  Without the need to stay sober, she just swayed against him and let her hands slide up his back under his shirt.  He never let her see him undressed.  Even when they spent the night together, which they did now more often than not, he appeared at her door in pajamas that covered almost every inch of his skin.  She let her fingers explore what he kept hidden.  She could feel the line of his ribs as she pressed her hand against him, then a line of scar tissue that cut across his chest. She had enough scars of her own from the war to know what that felt like, and she made a curious sound.

Draco stilled for a moment, then said, "From Potter."  He didn't say more, and as he ran his lips along the line of her neck, she ran her thumb along the line that still remained from one of his many violent encounters with her best friend. 

They'd hated one another.  They'd all hated one another.  It was hard to remember why now, and not just because Draco had slipped his own hand under her shirt and was tracing fingers along her skin, pulling gasps from her that wavered between the dreadful sensation of being tickled and something altogether better and different.

When touch came with a rush and a high and a burning joy, it made nothing else matter.  She wanted to open her mouth and tell him it was so absurd they'd ever hated each other, that he was perfect, that they were perfect.

That she loved him.

She knew better, however. Even awash in him and everything that this was, she knew if she said love first in this haze, he'd never believe her.  

Why would he?

She threw herself into kissing him, thrusting her hands into his hair so she could drag his mouth back to hers and devour him.  She was consumed, she was consuming, she would consume.   Everything became his hands, his mouth, his tongue until  he pulled  himself away and said, with obvious regret, "Time's up."

She sat and panted.  She closed her eyes and let the wonder drain away and if the sparkle did fade a little bit, the emotion didn't. She still thought he was wonderful. She still felt grief for all the years they'd been pushed into hating one another, coaxed by the archaic school House structure and pointless prejudice into ever sharper disdain until Harry and Draco had attacked one another with deadly magic in a toilet and no one had even been surprised.

She still loved him.

"You okay?" he asked.

She opened her eyes.  "I'm fine," she said.  "How are you?"

He took a deep breath.  "It was…it was a little…."  He struggled to find the words and she waited.  "You didn't try to hold on," he said at last. "You just… assumed I wouldn't - "

"You'd never hurt me," she said.  She grinned a little playfully and nudged him. "You won't even let people say crude things if I'm remembering Goyle's party right."

"Blaise, though," Draco said.

"Well, Blaise," she agreed. "But when anyone means it?"

"Well," he said. "That guy was an arsehole."

"See?"  she asked. "If anyone was even a hint of a real threat, you'd end them."

She expected him to laugh, maybe a little sheepishly because he did tend to overreact, but instead he looked haunted.  Before she could ask what the matter was, a fist pounded on the door of their flat and he jumped up to open it as if happy to have an excuse to get away from her.    She followed him into the living area, too polite to not greet a guest.

Harry stood on the other side, one hand running through his messy hair, his glasses askew. She'd wondered before how he never seemed to be able to get glasses properly fitted.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "Just came from Parkinson's.  Mind if I come in?  We need to talk."

Chapter Text

“Is she okay?”  Hermione asked.  Harry stood in the doorway of her flat and stared at her and Hermione waved a hand impatiently.  “I mean, considering.”  If Harry had felt compelled to come see her right after being at Parkinson's, her mind jumped to her worst fears.  Was this strain of infection ripping the other woman to shreds even more quickly than it had her?  Was she unable to even get up?  Was she dying?  Already?

Harry must have seen the fear on her face because he pulled his glasses off to wipe them as he hurried to reassure her.  “She seemed about as good as one might hope.  Glared at me when I came to the door, grabbed the bag of potions as if I were bringing her a religious tract and the only way to make me go away was to take it, then nearly jumped back when my fingers brushed against hers as if I’d lit her on fire.”

“Well, you know how that goes,” Hermione said with relief.  “It feels slimy.”

Harry finished wiping dust and smudges from his lenses and looked at the glass with distaste.  All he’d managed to do was smear the mess around.  “There has to be a spell for this,” he said.  "Hermione, do you know one?"

“But other than being her usual rude self and not wanting you to touch her, she seemed fine?”  Hermione pressed.  She pulled out her wand and muttered a couple of cleaning spells, and the glasses got slightly clearer, but she had to admit they still looked a bit smeared.    She'd try to remember to find a spell targeted just for cleaning off glasses.

“Yeah,” Harry said as he slid the frames back onto his face.  “That's better, thanks.  She told me to get the bloody hell away from her and I said I'd be back in a few days with more.”

“Sounds like Pansy,” Draco said.  “What do you want, Potter.”

“Jean,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure his preferred partners come with tits, but it’s good to have a dream,” Draco said.  “Gives a man reason to get up in the morning.”

Harry glared at him.  “Ha ha,” he said.  “Even if my preferences went that way, I think I’ve got more sense than to sleep with a man who’s already made two people ill.  He's a walking menace.”

“Maybe more than two,”  Hermione said.  She hoped not more, but, unless Jean wrote out a list of all his partners, she didn’t see how they’d be able to find out, and the idea of knocking on strangers’ doors to let them know they might be dying didn’t fill her with glee.  

“Exactly,” Harry said.  “We have to do something.”

“Like what?”  Draco asked.  “Kidnap him and force-feed him more of the positions that didn’t work the first time?” He'd laced his most vicious sarcasm through his words and Hermione resisted the urge to give him a shove.

Harry looked at Hermione, and she looked back because the answer was obvious just as long as you were willing to work outside the law.

Draco looked from one of them to the other.  “You can’t be serious,” he said.

During the following pause Hermione could hear the faucet in the kitchen dripping, and the sound of someone in the stairwell calling up to his wife that he’d forgotten the remembrall and would she grab it for him.  She shut the door behind Harry, then pushed down on the faucet until with a grumble from the pipes the water stopped.  No one spoke until Harry said, “We could keep him in a room at Grimmauld.  There’s a room that locks from the outside.  I’ve never tried to find out why.”

Hermione considered the whole of what she knew about Walburga Black, and Sirius’ childhood.  It wasn’t much, but all of it was bad.   She wouldn’t have put it past that woman to have a room to lock her children in.  She was surprised, given his own miserable experiences with the Dursley’s, Harry had left it.  He must have seen that in her eyes because he said, a little defensively, “There’s a lot to do at that place, and Kreacher tries, but he’s old, and I hate cleaning up, and you know Ron.”

“You can’t just kidnap a man and shove him in a room,” Draco said.

“Can’t see why not,” Harry said.  

“Left on his own he didn’t take all his potions,” Hermione said.  Given the situation, it didn’t seem completely unreasonable.  It wasn't as if they could go to the Ministry and expect a reasonable response.  It would be either indifference or some kind of crazy extermination campaign and, despite all her experience with them, she couldn't begin to predict which extreme they would swing to.

“What was his excuse?”  Harry asked.  "About the potions."

“They upset his stomach,” she said.  

Harry looked outraged and Draco actually growled.  She held her hands up.  “Hey,” she said.  “I didn’t realize he’d need supervision.  I thought he’d be – “

“Not a selfish bastard?”  Draco asked.  “His tum-tum hurt?  Really?  And then he goes and has sex with another woman?”

“Reasonable,” she said.  "I thought he'd be reasonable."  Draco looked like he might storm out of the flat that very moment and do something a lot worse than kidnapping, and she said as quickly as she could to try to head him off, “In his defense, he thought he’d taken enough and he was cured.”

“So we have to monitor him,” Harry said.  “As I suspected.  And I happen to have a house set up for that.”

“You still can’t just kidnap a person,” Draco said. “There are laws.”

Harry looked at Hermione and she saw the misery and guilt on his face before he even spoke. “He’s not exactly a person,” he said.  “Not legally.”

“So you can….” Hermione trailed off in horror.

“You can,” Draco said grimly.   His face had gone hard, much harder than she would have expected given his lack of sympathy for Jean. “Doesn’t make it okay, but creatures don’t have the same rights.”

“Technically, you can’t even carry a wand,” Harry said.  

Hermione’s hand darted down to touch the familiar wand at her waist, the one she'd just used to clean off Harry's glasses, and reassured herself it was still there.  She hadn’t thought of that but of course, it was true.  Goblins had gone to war and lost over the right to carry wands.  House elves couldn’t.  Centaurs looked down on the very idea but that didn’t change that they weren’t allowed.  Professor Lupin had had one, but so many exceptions had been made for him.  

“Because this strain of Veela is so rare, the law isn’t clear on wand usage,” Draco said.  She looked at him, distraught, and he added, “If anyone cared to press the issue, however, they would find Malfoy money buys laws.”

“Buy this one,” she said.

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded.  "Consider it done,"  he said.  

"Jean," Harry said again. "Focus, would you both?  We need to get him, we need to lock him in that room, and we need to pour potions down his throat until he's clean."

"Then you'll let him go,"  Hermione said.  When the words came out of her mouth she realized they didn't sound quite as firm as she'd hoped and were more of a question.  She knew it was a bit ridiculous, but she was still rather fond of Jean. He was careless, and selfish, and a miserable lover, but he wasn't cruel on purpose.  She'd hate to think of him locked away forever though if that was what it took, of course, that was what it would take.

"Obliviated if necessary," Draco said.  "But we'll let the prick go."

"I can do that," Hermione said.

"I don't want him in my spare room forever," Harry said at the same time.  They looked at each other and an almost unwelcome camaraderie scooped them all up in her arms.  "I have a portkey to France," Harry said.  "Fleur might have dropped it off once."

"I have a portkey to Malfoy Manor," Draco said.   "You get us there, we'll grab him, I'll get us back to Britain, then we'll apparate to your place, lock him up, and let the forced medication begin."  

Hermione pulled out a sheet of parchment and began to make a list.  They'd need potions and they probably should clean the place before they dumped his sorry arse into it.  Draco watched her write item after item, then tap the quill to her lip as she thought.  "You aren't going to get all Gryffindor and righteous about this?" he asked at last.   He sounded genuinely surprised.

Harry began to laugh until he was overtaken by a coughing fit. Hermione spared him one annoyed look before she went back to writing.  She should ask Pansy if she wanted to give the man a piece of her mind.  She'd probably enjoy that, and in her current condition there wasn't much she could enjoy.

"Are you okay?"  Draco asked Harry.

"It's  just… how can you live with her and have no idea what she's like?"

"I know about Marietta Edgecomb," Draco said irritably.   "And I was on the receiving end of a slap that nearly broke my nose, as you might recall."

That just made Harry laugh harder until Hermione had had enough.  "Could you stop?" she asked.  "I was wondering if we should add a permanent, umm, impotency potion to the pot.  Does anyone know one?"

It seemed like a reasonable just-in-case precaution.  They'd cure him, but in case he was some sort of Typhoid-Mary, they'd make sure that the most common route of infection wasn't one he could… and it wasn't as if he were any good at it anyway.  The women of the world wouldn't exactly miss his functional penis.

Draco sank into a chair.  She could tell he was trying to force a laugh but that she'd somehow made him suddenly nervous. "Impotency," he said.  "Remind me never to make you angry." 

"What?"  Harry said. "Just because she sets people on fire, permanently scars them with dark hexes, and this isn't her first time kidnapping someone, you're starting to get a little nervous?"

Draco tried to smile.  "I thought I was the ruthless bastard in the room."

"Oh, pish," Hermione said as she folded up her list and gave it to Harry.  "You were just trapped, not ruthless.  Brilliant, but not exactly committed.  If it had been me, things would have worked out differently.  I get things done."

"So, we kidnap Jean," Draco said weakly.

"And you make sure you never really piss her off," Harry said.  

"Just make sure Kreacher cleans the room first," Hermione said. "And have the potions already on hand."

Chapter Text

Pansy grunted as she shifted on the couch.  She’d felt better ever since Saint-bloody-Potter had been over, and she knew better than to give the credit to the potions though they were, she had to admit, amazing.  She’d never thought of him as a particularly stellar student and yet here he was, brewing pain medication that worked better than anything she’d been able to buy.  Theo looked at her with suffocating concern and she rolled her eyes.  “I’m not going to die while you’re sitting there,” she said.  “Relax.”

He flushed and she sighed.  He was so pale the red crept up above the collar line he tugged at uncomfortably.  She’d decided the worst thing about this ridiculous disease was the way people had started to treat her like she might break if they breathed on her too hard.  “I’m sorry it’s not me,” he said for the third time since he’d arrived. 

“You’d have hated that,” she said.  “Stuck with a girl for the rest of your life.”

His flush got brighter red and she inhaled through her nose.  Her mother had always done that when trying to find patience and it worked for her about as well, meaning not at all.  “There’s nothing wrong with girls,” he said a little too quickly.  “I like girls.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.  “So do I, but not to fuck.”

She began to wonder if she could get him to turn so red the whites of his eyes did the Voldemort thing.

All he said was, “I’ve never noticed you like girls.”

She shrugged.  That was fair enough.  Her friends had always been boys.  From smug, aristocratic Draco to vulgar Greg, she understood boys.  She could hit as hard, fight as dirty, be as mean as any of them.  Delicate Daphne and her perfect manicure had always left her cold and Tracey was worse.  She’d gotten along with them, and Millie too, because only a total idiot wouldn’t find a way to be friends with girls she had to room with for seven long years, but she’d never meshed with any of them.  If you were looking for Pansy, you’d have found her two steps behind Draco Malfoy, or you would have until he’d gone and fallen madly in love with that little nerd.

“You either,” she said.

“I like you,” Theo said.  He must have seen the glint in her eyes because as quickly as he could he added, “Not that way.”

“No,” she said.  “Since you’re gay that would be weird.”

He fumbled the glass of fizzy ginger beer he’d been clutching and almost dropped it before he stammered out, “I, you, I never… Draco and Blaise don’t -  .”

She took pity and cut him off.   “They’re about as observant as dead cats.  Besides, I saw you at Goyle’s party with Jean.”

He looked upset, and she had to admit that had probably been a pretty lousy way to be outed, so she added, “I knew before, though.”

“I didn’t,” he started.

She interrupted him again. “I know,” she said. “If you had, you’d be sitting here with me waiting to die.”  Or waiting to floo Potter and tell him she needed, and that had to be the worst possible conversation of her life.   There wasn’t even any doubt he’d do the noble thing and save her.  She almost wished she could believe he’d reject her but not perfect Harry Potter.  People gushed on and on about how he’d even tried to save Voldemort at the end and anyone that filled with the milk of human kindness wouldn’t hesitate to save one pathetic snake.

She hated the irony.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Theo said.  “The party I mean.”

“Oh?”  Pansy felt something in her spark to life again. “Tell me you found someone.”

The corners of his mouth turned up in a distinctly Slytherin smirk and she began to smile.  “I wasn’t the only one outed by that date of yours,” he said.  “Once my head cleared, all I had to do was look around and see which of the other men seemed a little dazed and while most of them I knew – “

“Zacharias Smith,” she said.

“I would rather date you,” he said.

“Justin of the stupid hyphenated name.”

“So sadly taken,” he said.  “By a Muggle, if you can believe it.”

Pansy could.  Such a waste.  “So,” she said.  “Tell me.”

“You won’t approve,” he said, but she knew he was teasing her now, and being treated like a regular person again was better than any potion.  She wadded up a tissue and threw it at him.  She dodged the missile and smirked with utter delight.

“Tell me,” she said again.  “It can’t possibly be worse than Draco with that nightmare, or Blaise and the Weasley no one is supposed to know about.”  He looked guilty and she almost pounced. “It is worse,” she said.  “Holy fucking Merlin, it’s not Ron Weasley, is it?  Tell me you aren’t that desperate.”

The look he gave her was so disgusted she relaxed in faux relief.  “I do have standards, Pans,” he said.  “And the golden trio is right out.”

Her eyes stole to the floo, but he didn’t notice because he was lost in his own thoughts.  “You’re on the right track, though.”

"I am?" she asked, but her mind had gone back to stupid, worthless Potter and his potions.  He'd brought them over, and she'd had to haul herself off the couch.  Every step had hurt but she'd managed, though not before he'd hammered on the door again.  She'd been able to hear him muttering it would be bloody perfect if she weren't home and then she'd opened the door and looked at his irritating face.  He didn't own a brush, his glasses didn't fit right, and he'd stood there like a fool, a box of flagons in his hands.

"Parkinson," he'd said.  She'd grunted and gone to take the box from him and then her hand had touched his and she'd known.

She'd almost fallen backward in shock because for a glorious moment, she hadn't hurt at all.  In fact, she'd felt wonderful.  Every nerve had sung with happiness and she'd been suddenly struck by how perfect his hair looked. It fell over his glasses with an insouciance that Draco had never managed with his limp, blond locks no matter how many hours he spent in front of a mirror.  Poor Granger.  She hoped they had separate baths because, honestly, who wanted to fight her boyfriend for mirror time?  And Potter's eyes.  How had she never noticed they were the most vivid shade of green?  Most people who claimed to have green eyes had blue mixed with vanity and self-delusion, but his were truly green behind those glasses.  She'd noticed everything about him, but most surely she'd noticed she wasn't in pain.

"I'd rather die," she said now, thinking about the horrible, unfair irony of being dependent on the man she'd tried to give to Voldemort. 

"What?"  Theo asked.

She focused on him, and his neatly brushed, boring hair, and his dull, ordinary blue eyes and said, "What if the person who… who fixes me… what if I'd rather not?"

"Rather not what?"  Theo asked.  "Rather not live?"

She pulled another tissue from the box on her lap and began to crumple it in her hand.   He watched her and said, "You know who it is."  He sounded fascinated.  Years of knowing one another and she'd finally become a puzzle interesting to Theodore Nott.  "You know, and it's not one of us because I was here when we all worked that out, and you don't like him."

"I didn't say that," she said.

"Who can possibly be bad enough that you'd rather die?"  Theo asked, but she knew he was trying to work it out in his head more than really asking.  "Ronald Weasley?"

She curled her mouth into a disdainful sneer even as the realization it could have been so much worse hit her.  Potter had looked at her when she'd fallen back from him with worry, not disgust, and had offered her a hand to make it easier to get up.  She'd known better than to take it.  She'd seen Granger in the pathetic high she'd fallen into after more than a brief touch from Draco, and she didn't want to end up in that same place.  She'd waved his hand away and snapped she wasn't that dead yet.

She'd been able to get up easily too, the lingering results of the brief touch and the effect of his presence combining to ease all the pain out of her joints and her gut.  It had crept back in, a slow poison, but she was still better off than she had been before he'd come by.

Ron Weasley, though, he would have despised her even as he'd laughed at the idea that horrible Pansy Parkinson needed him.  She'd known he'd called her ugly — pug-faced — all through school.  No, it could have been much worse than Harry Potter.

"Not Weasley, then," Theo said.

She scowled at him. "I'd sooner die," she said.

"Easy to say," Theo said with pragmatic logic, "but if the pain gets much worse, you'll probably change your mind."

"What if it was Draco's father?"  she challenged him.

Theo blanched, then said, "Well, take his wand away and lock him in a spare room and he wouldn't be able to do much.  I mean, Granger did fine before she and Draco started snogging, so I think you'd be fine with just having him there."

"Would we have to give Narcissa conjugal visits?"  she asked

Theo shuddered. "Are you trying to make me as sick as you are?" he asked. 

"Do you think they're loud?"

"You are.  You are trying to make me as sick as you are.  What did I ever do to you?"

"Refuse to tell me who your new boyfriend is," Pansy said.  

He reached a hand out to touch her knee and said, with the kind of pure, Slytherin malice she appreciated, "I'll tell you mine when you tell me yours." She crossed her arms though and refused.

Harry Potter.

No.

Just, no.

Chapter Text

“How did you get her to agree to stay behind?”  Draco asked.  His fingers twitched to check their bag of supplies again, as if he could ensure success just by itemizing things again.   Portkey.  Money.  Idiocy.   Potter had arrived at his flat before he'd even finished his morning croissant, portkey in hand, asking if he were ready to go.  He wasn't, but he'd gone anyway and now here they were in this annoyingly cute French town.   Trust Jean to live on the Cote d'Azure.  The sun twinkled.  The water shone.  Tourists stirred out of their hotels and walked the streets looking for provencal linens to take home.

He should bring Hermione here.  They could sit on the shore and not worry about anything.

Of course, first he had to deal with things.

Kidnapping a French wizard who happened to be a Veela seemed like a worse and worse idea the more he thought about it.  It wasn't that he thought Jean should be allowed to just wander around infecting people right and left with a disease that was trivial to him and deadly to them.  He just didn't fancy a stint in Azkaban for trying to make this right.  The Ministries of both France and Britain were unlikely to understand.  Government never did.

“It’ll be fine,” Potter said with enough ignorance behind the bland words that Draco couldn’t keep from snorting loudly enough to earn himself a glare.  

Sure, it might be fine for Potter, hero of the wizarding world.  If someone came up to them and asked how they’d managed to illegally portkey to France and what were they doing with that struggling, angry French wizard, he could spread his pretty hands and smile guilelessly and say, “I defeated Voldemort,” and what could they say to that?  Life might have dealt Potter a bit of a shitty hand with the whole ‘parents murdered by a madman obsessed with prophecy’ thing, but there were some benefits after the fact, and not getting a one-way ticket to Azkaban if they got caught was one of them.

They couldn’t get back to England fast enough to suit Draco.  At least in England he could probably bribe someone to let him go.  

“Hermione’s going to kill me,” Draco said to avoid going into the myriad ways life was unfair in Potter’s favor these days.

“Nah,” Potter said.  "She won't.  Can't if she wants to live."

“She’s not here,” Draco pointed out, dodging around that uncomfortable truth.   “She can’t be happy about that.”

“She wasn’t,” Potter agreed, “but she listened to logic.  She does do that.”  He checked a sheet of parchment he had with a scrawled address, and then squinted at the pretty row of pink-tinted apartments.  “I think we’re on the right street.”

“Rue d’bad idea,” Draco said, but he leaned over to see what Fleur Weasley had written down and confirmed Potter wasn't wholly incompetent: at least he could read an address correctly.  “We have to go further down.”

“Always the way of it,” Potter said, but before Draco could ask if Potter thought that counted as a joke, he headed off down the picturesque cobblestone street, past a small shop offering Exotic Pets with what looked to be a terribly dull collection of small birds in the window.   Draco stopped mid-sneer, however, when one of the birds burst into song and he couldn’t tear himself away.  He stood, transfixed, until the bird stopped warbling and then he shook his head to try to clear the fog of his entrancement away.  The bird opened its beak again and he backed away and hurried after Potter before the tiny creature could work its magic again.  

“Decide to buy a pet?”  Potter asked.

Draco pretended to be studying the numbers painted on the walls.  

“Charming little things, aren’t they?”  

“Are you always like this?”  Draco finally asked.

“We went to school together for six years,” Potter said.   

Draco supposed that counted as a yes, and he tried not to mutter how much he didn’t need this.  Being bonded to one of the saviors was bad enough.  Going on a kidnapping spree with Harry-bloody-Potter was worse.   But getting mocked for falling prey to unlabeled siren sparrows was too much.  There should be a law you couldn't display those things without posting a warning.  He almost thought to himself, I'll tell my father about this until he remembered that he didn't really want to tell his father much of anything these days.  His father was a problem, and his mother only slightly less of one.  At least they were both off visiting friends today so he wouldn't have to explain that, yes, he did have an infected Veela with him.  His father might decide it was a great idea to infect multiple women just to find the mate pattern.  It was a logical solution to the problem.  More data points meant a better chance of figuring it out.

No, it was much better for his father to have no idea about this little adventure.

 “I think we’re there,” he said.  He stopped outside a yellow door flanked by flower boxes filled with blooms that were a brighter pink than even the wall.  One couldn't fault Jean's street for being pretty.

Harry checked the number.  “Do we just knock?” he asked.

“You don’t have a plan?”  Draco asked in disbelief.

Harry shrugged.  “Hermione’s more the planner,” he said.  “I figured, get in, knock him out – “

“Hold on,” Draco said.    He knew he tended to over-plan, and that those things didn’t really seem to work out very often – or ever – but just barging in and hoping they could overpower a man who, in theory, might have all sorts of creature things he could fall back on struck him as under-planning.     “I think I do want one of those birds after all.”

“You want to buy Hermione a present now?”  Potter sounded incredulous until he began to smile and Draco smiled back.  “Maybe they stock ear protection?”

They did, and a few minutes later they stood outside Jean’s door again, one pretty little sparrow in a cage. It had been alone at one side of the larger enclosure in the shop, and now it seemed to regard them balefully, and Draco leaned down.  “Sing long enough for us to get the man who lives here back to England, and I’ll let you go.”

The bird tilted its head to the side and its dark eye seemed to glitter before it bobbed its head.

“They’re smart,” Potter said.  He looked back at the shop.  “They’re selling them and they’re smart enough to understand what you're saying.”

"Can we take on freeing all the sirens later?”  Draco asked.  He looked back at the bird. “Is it okay if we just free you? Leave the rest there?”

The bird bobbed its head again, and Draco considered it didn’t seem too fond of its fellows.  He wondered briefly if the siren trait bred true and was he about to release an invasive magical species into England, but then Potter put his ear muffs on and knocked on the door, and Draco hurried to follow suit before the little bird began to sing.

Jean opened the door and stood, blond and beautiful and compelling, and pouted at them.  "It is very early," he said in unhappy French.   "I do not want whatever you are selling.  Go away."  

Before he could shut the door, the birdsong began.  Even through the earmuffs, the music was hard to resist.   Jean was helpless in its thrall and, as he stood and listened, Potter said, "Mind if we come in?" before he barged his way past the unmoving Jean.  Draco followed him and set the birdcage down on a small table so he could shut the door.  The bird ruffled his feathers and stopped.

"I don't," Jean began, his coherence regained in the absence of the siren.

"Petrificus totalus," Potter said, and Jean froze, then toppled to floor like a felled tree. 

"A trifle awkward, Potter," Draco said as he pulled off his earmuffs in what he hoped passed for a drawl.  "Do we have to carry him that way all the way back?"

Potter looked down at the man.  "I guess," he said, pulling his own ear protection off.  "I said I didn't have a plan.  You have the Portkey, I assume?"

Draco did, and though it took a little doing, they managed to get Jean held up between the two of them, arms wrapped around his middle.  Harry grabbed the bird, and Draco activated the magic that sucked them into a quick void before dumping them out on the drive leading to Malfoy Manor.    A peacock jumped back at their appearance and let out a loud scream and that set off the siren sparrow, who opened his beak and objected to the very existence of peacocks.   If they had wondered whether every sound the sparrow made enchanted its audience, this would have answered the question.  They stood, listening to it scold the much larger bird, wholly in command of their own minds.  It was angry, unhappy, and not trying to charm them. 

Potter eyed the loud little creature and said, "I agree.  Pretentious things, those giant birds with the fancy tails."

"Bugger off," Draco muttered.  He opened the door to the birdcage, and the sparrow hopped out cautiously, looked around, then flitted up into a tree from where it continued to complain about the peacock.  "How was I supposed to know you didn't like them?"  he asked the bird.  "This has to be better than that shop."

If a bird could hurumph, the sparrow did right before it flew away.

Jean began to stir as the freezing spell wore off.  "Maybe you let that thing go too early," Potter said.

"Oh, shut up," Draco said.  "Just grab him and we'll apparate  back to your place."

Potter did, and they did, and by the time they were on the front steps of 12 Grimmauld, Jean had totally recovered and had begun to complain.  "You cannot just take me out of my house, you English scum, and haul me back to your cold little country like this.  You can not."

Potter jabbed his wand into the man's side. "Looks like we can," he said.  

"Evidence does suggest we're capable," Draco said.  

"It is illegal," Jean said.  "I will protest!"  He struggled to get free, and though he didn't manage that he did hook a finger into Draco's shirt and tear the fabric.  Draco looked down at the rip and frowned.  He'd never really liked this shirt but that didn't mean he wanted some disease-carrying Veela who'd hurt his girl to shred it.  The bastard slept with Hermione, slept with Pansy, and now this?  He tightened his grip on the man with muscles he'd earned through years of playing Quidditch and yanked hard enough to wrest a pain-filled oof from their prisoner.  He didn't feel sorry.

"You know," Draco said, "I was going to tell Hermione that maybe an impotency potion was a bit over the top, but maybe she's got the right idea."

"I have to agree," Harry said as he fumbled with the latch of the door. "You can't just go around not taking your medications.  There has to be a consequence."

"That is what this is about?"  Jean continued to try to free his arms from their clutches, and Draco wished Potter would get on with it so they could shove the increasingly outraged man into his holding cell before anyone noticed.   He wasn't sure where Potter's protective spells began, and the idea of some nosy Muggle sticking her head out her window, spotting them, and calling whatever passed for Aurors in the Muggle world left him wanting a drink.  So far this had gone smoothly.  He didn't want that to change.

"You made two women sick," Potter said.  

"It was an accident," Jean said.  He yanked one arm free just as Potter finally got the door open and shoved the man through.   "I didn't mean to do it!"

"Uh huh," Draco said.   "Well, we'll just make sure you don't not mean to do it again."

Chapter Text

Hermione didn't go to help fetch Jean.  She'd made noises she would until Harry said bluntly that if she fell into a Veela trance at an inopportune moment, it could be a problem.  She had to admit he had a point, as much as it irritated her, so she stayed behind.   She stayed behind and while there she fumed.  She snapped at Ron about the heat of her tea (too hot), the state of the kitchen (too messy), and the state of Jean's room (a disaster) until he told her she could bloody well make her own tea and clean the place up if she wanted to, but he was leaving.

She huffed, and she picked up the mug of too-hot tea and she stomped her way to the room that was to be Jean's.  It had a window no one over the age of five would fit through, a small private toilet, and a narrow bed.  It also had a lot of dust.   Kreacher slouched past, his shoulders bent under the weight of the world, but he didn't offer to help.  He seemed to hate the room even more than he hated most things.  She decided not to think too hard about why.  

"The dust has dust," Hermione muttered to herself, threw open the tiny window, and began to clean.  She hadn't wanted to learn any of Molly's seemingly endless repertoire of cleaning charms.  They felt oppressive, or, rather, it felt oppressive that she wanted to teach them to Hermione and Ginny but didn't seem inclined to waste her time bothering with Ron or Percy.  She'd been too polite to tell the woman no, however, and so she'd learned.

Cleaning this room made her grateful for the knowledge, if also simmering with resentment that she was scrubbing up a make-shift hospital room for the man who'd nearly killed both her and Pansy.

His stomach.  Hah!

She channeled her fury into one spell after another and tried to feel the same sort of satisfaction that Molly got from a clean house. The curtains beat themselves, and swarms of dust and disintegrating fabric rose into the air, only to be swept outdoors with one wave of her wand.  She decided the curtains themselves had to go as well.  They had plenty of warp left, but almost no woof, and her low opinion of the Blacks sunk lower.  Only an idiot hung would hang silk drapes with no lining.  

Well, they'd probably been black silk once.  Sun had stripped the dye out leaving the curtains as diminished as everything else about the once-regal family.  

"You want me to find new draperies?"  Kreacher refused to come into the room, but he did hover at the edge of her project as though he couldn't bear not to watch.

"That would be nice," she said.  "Thank you."

Magic stripped the dirt from the walls, and magic piled it into a tidy mountain, and magic swept it all up and into a bin.  When she looked at the toilet, Hermione considered that perhaps there were limits to how much labor she was willing to do to make Jean comfortable, but she did know a bunch of charms just for this courtesy, again, of Molly.  A woman with six sons and a husband, she had taken the time to customize charms to clean up loos and she'd passed that knowledge on.  The toilet turned spic and span in less time than it had taken to tidy the bedroom.  The magic even left the faint, antiseptic scent of bleach in the air.  

When she turned, Kreacher had come and gone, leaving a pile of clean sheets and bedding in the doorway as well as the promised curtains.  With a snap of her wand, Hermione had the bed made and the new curtains up.  

She swore that the decision to leave the Veela romance she'd accidentally dropped in her pocket on the way to Harry's was simply so poor Jean would have something to read while in captivity.  One thing.  One lurid, badly written thing.

As she recalled, he liked to read heavy novels that delved into existentialism and post-modernism.  She hoped he enjoyed his ten-day stay with nothing to do and nothing to read but The Veela Vixen.

She picked up her tea, which was now too cold, and walked back down to the kitchen with a bit of spring to her step.  Her timing turned out to be excellent because she'd no sooner put a kettle on but the front door swung open to admit a disheveled Harry, an even more unkempt Draco, and an immaculate and perfect-looking but furious Jean.

Draco looked wonderful with his hair pushed back behind his ears and an actual tear in the fabric of his shirt.  It made him seem a bit like a hooligan and she licked her lips before she could stop herself.   

"Oh, give your lust-filled glances a rest," Harry said. "Tell your friend we aren't going to kill him."

Jean tried to jerk himself free but only succeeded in making himself look foolish.  "Tell your friends they cannot just snatch a man off the street," he said.

Hermione crossed her arms and ran her eyes up and down the furious Veela.  At least he hadn't burst into flame.  Maybe that was a myth; she'd have to ask Fleur.   "Did you really grab him off the street?" she asked.  "That seems sloppy.  What if someone saw?"

"We took him from his house," Draco said.  "We aren't idiots."

"I beg to differ," Jean said.  "I'll have you thrown in prison for this, I'll have you - "

"You won't remember it," Hermione said.  

"I will call your Ministry!  This is a violation of - "

"It's not," Harry said.  He regarded the angry Jean with annoyed tolerance.  "You should be grateful we just decided to deal with it ourselves.  If we'd brought the Ministry in, they probably would have just put you down like a mad… dog."

He and Hermione glanced at one another as they both remembered their adventure with Buckbeak and the way the Ministry had been happy to condemn a creature to death after the flimsiest of show trials.  Draco must have remembered the affair as well because he coughed uncomfortably and shifted a bit on his feet as he tried to find a way to change the subject.  

"Why is there a dusty bunny in your hair?"  Draco asked at last.

Hermione shook her head and stared in bemusement as a tiny rabbit-shaped cloud of dust, no bigger than her fist but perfectly formed, fell out and landed on the floor.  It twitched its tiny nose at her, licked a paw, and then bounded off into the next room.   "I was cleaning," she said.  

"Apparently," Draco said.   

"Is his room ready?"  Harry asked.

"With fresh sheets and everything," she said. "No thanks to you or Ron."  She made an expansive gesture toward the stairs, and the men began hauling the struggling Jean up and away.  "I left a book for you," she called up after him.

Before she could spare a thought to how furious he would be when he realized he wasn't going anywhere, the kettle began to scream and she pulled it off the flame and began to fix up a pot of tea.  By the time Draco and Harry had returned, leaving muffled yelling and pounding behind them, the pot had brewed and she'd begun pouring out tea that was exactly the right temperature.  

"Do you have his potions," she asked as Harry looked at his cup of tea, then began rummaging in the pantry for something stronger.  

"Not yet," he said.  "They go bad, and in case this didn't work I didn't want to have to explain why I needed a second batch at the apothecary."

Hermione nodded.  That seemed fair enough, if a bit annoying.  Still, it wasn't as if she especially minded keeping Jean under wraps a few days longer.  Harry pulled out a bottle of something amber and Draco squinted at it in disdain but didn't turn down a shot.  "To us," Harry said, raising his glass.  "Making the world safer one Veela at a time."

Draco snorted but downed his.  Hermione sipped her tea but let her hand slide to the back of Draco's neck and rest there.  The high from whiskey just couldn't compete with what nature and magic would give her, and as the pair of long-time rivals matched one another shot for shot, boasting about Quidditch moves that couldn't be as outrageous as they claimed, she let the languid ease of her own intoxicant spread through her.

Draco eyed her but didn't say anything.   At one point he picked up her other hand and kissed it, and she smiled at that, but let them go on with their ridiculous need to one-up the other.    This, she thought to herself, was what we fought for.  We can be friends, and sit here around a kitchen table and be happy without stopping to count who was whose great-grandmother.  It felt good.  It felt like happiness.

Though, perhaps she'd dismissed the odd wizarding obsession with family trees too soon.

"You know," Draco said well into the fourth shot. "We're cousins."

Harry gaped at him. "Impossible," he said.  "My mum was Muggle-born."

Draco shook his head, more than half-drunk and over-articulating as a result.  "Your father was James, his mother was Dorea.  She was a Black.  I'm related to all of them.  Hell, half of them are related to themselves."

Hermione snickered.

"It's true," he said.  "Marrying cousins, time-honored thing."

"I start to see why Bellatrix was so crazy," Hermione said.

"Cousins," Harry said with absolute delight.  A giant smile took over his face and he raised his glass to Draco.  "To my cousin."

That was when Ron returned. 

"Ron," Harry said. "Have a drink with us.  We got Jean and turns out Draco'here's m'cousin."

Ron looked from one to the other and then said, without preamble, "Oh, shite."

Hermione began to laugh and didn't stop as Ron poured himself a tumbler of the whiskey, swallowed a mouthful, and began to cough.  "Fucking cousins," he said.  "Figures.  Goddamned pureblood inbreeding."

Chapter Text

Hermione had half drifted off to sleep, one naked foot tucked against Draco's ankle, when he said, "I think I did a bad thing."

She really wanted to just sleep.  She'd spent the morning cleaning and she already knew she needed to spend the next day brewing.  She'd told Harry to have two things done before he went and kidnapped Jean: have the potions on hand and have the room cleaned up and, naturally, he hadn't done either.  She was tired.  "Mmm?" she said, hoping it had been an idle comment and Draco had already fallen asleep.

"I'm worried," he said.

She forced her eyes open and looked at him.  He faced her, partially sunk into his pillow, and the moonlight from the window hit the top of his hair.  She was reminded of the old belief that sleeping in the moonlight would make a person insane, a lunatic, and considered that a boyfriend who wanted to unburden his conscience when you were trying to sleep was far more likely to make you crazy than the sun reflecting off a cold rock in the sky.   "About what?" she asked.  "Jean?"

"No," he said.  "Well, yes, I mean, kidnapping is bad."

That sounded sufficiently pro-forma that she ignored it and waited for the real problem.  Men never just spit things out when you wanted them to and the blanket was very warm.  She snuggled back down into it and closed her eyes.

"I brought a bird back from France," Draco said.

"Veela are not birds," she said sleepily.  

He kicked her, which was incredibly rude and annoying but which woke her up enough to glare at him.   "I mean a real bird," he said.  "A siren sparrow."

Hermione had to force herself to remember what they were.  Small birds, related to sparrows, could briefly enchant anyone who was within range including, oddly enough, people otherwise wholly deaf.  Their range was small, though, and the effect didn't last long.  She wished Hagrid had included more things like siren sparrows in Care of Magical Creatures and fewer things like those awful blast-ended skrewts.  She pictured a class all too stubborn to wear ear protection, all falling under the birds' spell.  The man at her side would have surely been one of the sort who refused to take precautions and that meant his cronies wouldn't have either.  The thought of a whole class filled with dazed Slytherins made her smile until she remembered he hadn't brought the bird into Harry's townhouse.  "What happened to it?" she asked.  Then, "Where did you get it."

"In a shop," he said, answering the second, less important, question first.  "Right near Jean's. They had a whole cage of them in the window for sale."

"They're sentient,"  she said.  The outrage worked its way up her skin.  "There's an international ban on - "

"Well, I let it go," he said. "That's the bad thing."

"We need to go get the rest," Hermione said.  "You can't sell siren sparrows.  It's like selling a mermaid or a - "

"We can," Draco said.  "That's fine.  But I let it go.  What if it pushed out all the local sparrows or something?"

Hermione tried to remember if they bred true, but she really didn't know.  She'd only read about them when researching creature rights, and that subject had been less interesting to her since it had become fraught with the rage that she was the creature in question.  Laws were sketchy at best regarding her rights.  If Draco had decided to keep her as a pet, she probably wouldn't have had any legal recourse.  "I don't know," she said.  

"In a few years we could be overrun with them," he said. 

"Uh huh," Hermione said.  She considered whether it would be too rude to just roll over and go to sleep.  She tried to care about the fate of the British sparrow.  She supposed they could go try to recapture it, though that seemed like a mission doomed to failure.  "Where did you let it go."

"On the grounds of the Manor," Draco said.  

Hermione propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him.  "Are you telling me you released a magical sparrow that enchants people where your parents could fall prey to it?"

He made a face that was probably supposed to be self-deprecating but came across as somewhat unwillingly amused instead.  "I did," he admitted.

Hermione had barely been able to summon concern for the local sparrows when she thought he'd let the thing go in a park or something.  Now that she knew it was that Manor, what tiny bit of care she'd had flitted away.  "I'm sure it will be fine," she said.  "What's the worst thing that could happen?  Your father ends up staring up into trees whenever he goes out?"

Draco made a choking sound that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.   "That would be terrible," he agreed with mock solemnity. 

"Just don't worry about it," she said.  

"Better to worry about Pansy," Draco said, and that wiped all the mirth away.  Hermione pressed her foot more firmly against Draco's calf and tried to soak in as much of the drugged Veela pleasure as she could.    She remembered the misery of waiting for death with too much clarity and she hated that Pansy was lying in her own apartment, alone, in all too familiar pain.   

"I wish we had more information," Hermione said.  That was the thing that frustrated her the most.  She only had herself and Draco, and that just wasn't enough to use to find a pattern. Even half a dozen more cases would help her figure it out.

Draco shifted away from her a little, and she grimaced.  She knew he spent hours every day holed up in the room he still wouldn't let her in pouring over books he brought back from his parents' library.  He hadn't found anything and had to be as frustrated as she was.  The whole thing just left you helpless. 

"There's always Blaise," she said. "Maybe that luck potion will work."

"Maybe," Draco said.  He sounded as if he didn't have a lot of faith in luck.  "At least Potter is brewing her up his pain potions. Theo said she seemed a lot better now that he dropped those off."

"Good," Hermione said.   There didn't seem to be a lot more to say to that but the word hung there in the air, curter than she'd meant it to be, and so she said, "I was going to go over with him tomorrow, check in on her.  The next batch is ready, so…."  She trailed off.

"She'll love that," Draco said.  "Her least favorite person checking in on her."

"I think Harry might be her least favorite," Hermione said.

"She just feels guilty about him," Draco said.  "You she actually doesn't like."

There was no way to respond to that.  Hermione twisted her mouth and tried to find the comfortable place she'd been in before Draco wanted to talk about his guilt over setting a bird free.  It had disappeared and instead her irritation at Pansy and Jean seemed to poke at her from every wrinkle in the sheet.  If Pansy had just minded her own business.  If Jean had just taken his potions.  If she had just not been so flattered the beautiful French boy had wanted her.  If.  If.  If.

A thousand ifs, and now she couldn't sleep.  Draco let out a half snore and turned over, and she thought with more ire than he probably deserved that he'd woken her up, made her reassure him that it was fine to release that stupid bird, and now that she was all worried about Pansy he'd finally gone to sleep and left her here, eyes wide and staring at the slow movement of the moonbeam across his hair and face.  She needed to sleep.  She'd promised that she'd help Harry brew Jean's potions tomorrow, and then deliver Pansy's, and she needed her wits about her for both those things.  

She turned over and tried to find a good place on the mattress but none seemed to make itself known.  Draco rolled over and rubbed a sleepy hand over her hips before tucking his arm around her.  She sighed.  Was there anything worse than being unable to sleep while someone else dozed away next to you?  

"You're great," Draco said.  For a moment she thought he was talking in his sleep to some imaginary figment, but when he nuzzled her neck she realized he was only mostly unconscious.  "Never would have wished your Veela thing on anyone, but I'm glad it was me.  You're smart and  you're beautiful and I just - ."

He stopped talking and she twisted so she could look at him again.  He smiled at her in the moonlight, but the smile seemed a little sad.  "You just what?" she asked.

"I just think you're great, is all," he said.

"I think you're great too," she said.  "I'm glad it all happened."

"Me too," he said.  

She snuggled back against him and the sleep that had been eluding her since Draco had woken her to share his tiresome fear about the bird returned and she drifted off.  Her final thought was the vision of Lucius Malfoy, long blond hair made unkempt by the wind, staring up into a tree while a bird sang.  It was a delightful thought and she hoped the little birds did breed true and the whole of the Malfoy estate became one giant trap ready to ensnare the miserable Death Eater.  She might have grown fond of his son, but she'd never forget that Lucius had openly supported Voldemort, had fought them in the Department of Mysteries, had trapped Ginny with a Dark book.  

In a just world, he'd be in Azkaban.  A little birdsong in his life might not be the whole of what he deserved, but she'd take it.

Chapter Text

"Parkinson!"

Hermione hammered on the door of the walkup and wondered how the woman was managing the stairs.  At least she'd had Harry and Ron to help and, while she knew the nicer among the Slytherin crowd were making a point to stop by and check in on her, Pansy had to be effectively trapped by all those steps.  Did she even have enough food in her kitchen?

She pounded on the door again.  There was no response and she shifted the box of potion vials she'd balanced on her hip with a sigh of irritation.  Harry, half a step behind her, said, "Give her a break.  You know how hard it is to move."

She turned to look at him and, to her bemusement, he looked wholly sincere.  "Are you really defending Pansy Parkinson?" she asked.  

Before he could answer, Pansy opened the door and glared out at them both. "Took you long enough," she said.

Hermione brushed past her.  Pansy looked a fright.  Her hair, always her best feature, hung lank and dirty around a face shadowed with pockets of grey.  She'd lost weight, and a body Hermione had always considered too bony to be attractive now looked nearly skeletal.  Harry reached out a hand to pat awkwardly at the ill girl but she danced out of his reach with an ease that seemed out of place with her haggard appearance.   "Keep your hands to yourself, Potter," she said.  

"We'll just drop these off," Hermione said as she set the box down on a table.  Her urge to check on the state of Parkinson's groceries had fled.  Let the bitch get her friends to bring her soup and bread.  She obviously resented their help.  "No need to stay."

"Too good for my company?"  Parkinson asked.   Hermione stiffened under the taunt, but before she could tell her hostess that she knew when she wasn't wanted, Harry had dropped down onto one of the chairs.  He kicked tissues out of the way with his foot and Hermione was trapped into sitting down as well.   

"How are you feeling?" Harry asked, and Hermione watched in increasing bafflement as Pansy seemed to find way after way to stretch out their visit.  She asked Harry about Quidditch, said she'd heard he and Draco had met up for a one-on-one game and how had that gone?  She rolled her eyes at his fumbling attempts at gallantry and sneered that it was obvious he hadn't grown up around quality but, despite that almost habitual rudeness, she didn't seem to want him to go, and the longer he was there, the more alive she seemed.

Hermione could feel her lips thin out to a narrow line as Pansy reached her stockinged foot out to nudge at Harry's leg.  It wasn't possible.  It was too easy, but the urge to test her theory was overwhelming.  "Harry," she said and stood up.  "If I could tear you away from your newest best friend for a moment, could you help me make a list of things she needs in her kitchen?"

"Oh, sure," Harry said.  "Of course."

When he passed by the couch, Hermione gave him a hard shove so he fell over into Pansy Parkinson's lap.  There was a moment of silence and in that awful second Hermione felt the terrible fear she'd miscalculated.  Harry began to try to pull himself up with a muttered, "What the bloody hell was that about?" when Pansy grabbed at his hand.

"You have such pretty eyes," she said.  She pulled him closer to her so she could look at them.  "Your glasses are filthy, though.  You should clean them."  With that observation, she bopped him on the nose three times and then began to giggle.   

Hermione crossed her arms and felt a sweet, sweet vindictive pleasure as Pansy Parkinson gazed up at the shocked Harry with dopey adoration.   She was relieved, of course, because Pansy's death wasn't something she'd wanted on her conscience, and knowing anyone was suffering the way she had suffered had been horrible.  And she knew Draco would probably start to cry when he heard.  He'd turn away so she wouldn't see, but he'd be overcome with the knowledge they had an answer and his horrible childhood friend was saved.  But mostly, despite all the virtuous relief that Pansy wouldn't die, she felt smug that now she was the one watching her once-tormenter turn into a babbling idiot.

"I used to watch you fly at school," Pansy said, tucking her chin into Harry's hand and gazing up at him.  "You were just the best Seeker ever.  And you have wonderful hair.  Just wonderful. All black and rumpled.  Does it look that way when you get up or do you have to try?  I bet you're so perfect it just always looks like that."

Harry looked at Hermione like a desperate animal caught in a cage.  "What do I do?" he asked. 

She would have to tell them about building immunity through regular contact.

"And you smell so good," Pansy said.  She inhaled with obvious delight.  "Like mint and bergamot."

Eventually.  She'd tell them eventually.

"They're both in the pain potion," Harry said rather helplessly.  "Hermione!"

She sighed.  "Pansy," she said.  "Maybe now that you're feeling a little less dead, you could go sober up in the shower and then we can talk about how to cope with this."

Pansy giggled. "You coming in with me?"  

Harry's eyes got wider and the pleading expression he sent Hermione more desperate.  "I assure you, she doesn't mean me," Hermione said.  "Once you let her go, she'll come down."

Harry tried to disentangle himself from Pansy, who pouted and sulked and had to be physically pried off of him but at last, he managed to get himself free and sprang across the room.   Hermione counted to ten slowly and by the time she'd reached nine, Pansy's eyes had cleared and she had gone from delighted to furious.  "You did that on purpose, you bitch," she said.

"Let's call it tit for tat," Hermione said cooly.  "At least I didn't do it in front of an audience of people disposed to wish you ill."

"Did you know?"  Harry asked.  Hermione snorted because she thought the answer to that was obvious.  She guessed Pansy had planned to keep him coming by, giving her just the boost she needed with his company, and never tell him she needed him.   Pansy's sullen scowl just confirmed she hadn't had any intention of letting him know about their connection.

Harry rubbed at his forehead, pushing his hair up out of the way of his scar, which he still tended to poke at whenever he was bothered by something.  Hermione frowned irritably.  Pansy did more than that.  "Is that bastard back?" she asked.  A thin layer of annoyance barely hid the honest fear under it.   "I read in a Witch Weekly article your scar hurts when he - "

"No," Harry said too loudly.  He looked sheepish after he realized just how vehement he had been and said again, more quietly, "No, I'm just… I'm a little… I don't know what to do because I'm your…"

"The word mate is gross," Pansy said.  "Because I can assure you that is one thing we will not be doing."

"Right," Harry said so quickly the words tripped over themselves in their haste to escape. "Of course not."

Hermione merely smirked.  "You wanted him to scrub your back not a full minute ago, Parkinson.  Don't be so hasty."

"Fuck you," Pansy said.  

"Now that's something I can guarantee won't happen," Hermione said.   "It makes me ill to touch you."  She smirked a little. "Even the thought makes me a little queasy."

"In that, at least, we are agreed," Pansy said.  The room filled with angry silence after that as the pair of them glared at one another and Harry shifted from one foot to the other.  He moved to pick up the pain potions and put them away, then seemed to realize that they had become unnecessary.  He opened his mouth to ask something, then shut it again.  Hermione felt somewhat sorry for him.  The etiquette of what to do when you found out you were someone's lifeline probably hadn't been covered by the Dursleys.  They hadn't even managed to raise children halfway decently. Draco had managed it, of course, but manners had been drilled into him by those awful parents.

As she stood there, Hermione considered what Draco had done.

"Do you two think you ought to live together?" she asked.  They both stared at her and she shrugged. "If you are around one another enough, you'll feel fine even without getting all touchy-touchy, and the easiest way to do that - "

"This flat is too small," Pansy said. "There's only one bedroom."

"12 Grimmauld Place is huge," Harry said.  It was half an offer, half a statement, but Pansy looked intrigued.

"Isn't that the old Black townhouse?" she asked.  When Harry nodded her smile grew into one of sharp-edged delight. "I forgot you are practically wizarding royalty," she said.  "Draco goes on and on about his wretched family - "

"He does not," Hermione said.

Pansy ignored her, " - until you want to scream, but you're almost as close to the top  as he is, aren't you, even without the whole Voldemort thing."

Hermione had never seen Harry look so uncomfortable in all his life.  "I was raised by Muggles," he said.

"Awful Muggles," Hermione said.

"There's another kind?"  Pansy asked.  Before Hermione could answer she waved her hand at her in a clear command to be quiet.  Hermione simmered but told herself arguing with a sick woman was unkind and, besides, she could vent her outrage to Draco later.  Her parents had been nothing like the Dursleys and the very idea offended her.   Pansy didn't seem that sick anymore, however.  She was still much too thin, and she needed a shower, but her eyes glittered with the plans she was making.  "I could write a book," she said. "Secrets of the Blacks.  Your house has to be filled with all their old things."

"Just… not Sirius," Harry said. 

Pansy knew when she had her source hooked, and she said, "I think Sirius' unfair imprisonment needs to be shown, don't you?  He could be vindicated."  She almost cooed. "He's the hero of the piece, isn't he?"

"So's Regulus," Hermione said. 

"He betrayed Voldemort," Harry said to Pansy's questioning look.  "Stole a Horcrux and left a decoy in its place."

"This will be a bestseller," Pansy said.  "I'd kiss you, but, well, we know what would happen."  She stood up and, grabbing her wand, accioed a pair of heels so high they made Hermione's feet hurt just to look at them. "Let's go," she said. "A shower can wait.  I am on fire to see this place of yours and get to work."

Chapter Text

Pansy glared at the townhouse.  She'd stomped her way up the steps in a way that left Hermione staring in begrudging admiration.  If someone had told her a person could stomp in stilettos she would have called them a liar, but, clearly, Pansy could.  More, she knew far too well that Pansy wasn't wholly back to her usual self.   Her contact with Harry might have eased away the things that stabbed and the things that burned, but aches took longer to fade.  She still felt weak.  She still felt woozy.  You wouldn't know it to watch her, however.  She strode in her heels and she stomped up the steps almost as if she dared anyone to question her.

Harry certainly had no plans to.  He opened the door and showed her in, trailing behind her in what seemed to be bafflement.   If Draco had swooped in and played the knight errant, ready to rescue the damsel, Harry seemed more caught up in circumstances he couldn't control.  When Ron appeared, Hermione just shrugged at the question in his eyes.  He'd known her almost forever, however, and he read her immediately.  He looked back at Pansy and squinched up his face in disgust as if to say, "Really?"

Hermione shrugged again, but she couldn't keep the delighted smirk off her face.  She'd probably caught the expression from Draco. She knew taking this kind of cruel pleasure in other people's awkward misfortunes was pure Draco and she should feel bad but she didn't, especially when she looked again at the superficial disgust on Pansy's face at the sight of the interior of 12 Grimmauld Place.  Draco had deposited her in a palace.  Pansy had gotten a dump.

Pansy condemned the foyer, the antiques, the old t-shirt shoved up against the baseboards with one, elegant sniff.  Ron crossed his arms and glared.  "Sorry it doesn't meet your standards, Parkinson," he said.   "Maybe you could have just stayed home and died?"

"She likes a room filled with used tissues," Hermione said.  "If her own place gives us a hint of her taste."

Pansy ignored them both to yank open the heavy curtain obscuring Walburga Black's portrait.  The elderly witch began to scream at once, shrieking about half-bloods and her soiled house and how her father was turning in his grave at the way they all defiled his home.  

Harry stepped forward to try to shut the curtain again, but Pansy stopped him with a look.  "Why is this monstrosity here?" she asked.  "I know Weasley over there is poorer than dirt, but even he has to have enough taste to know this is bad art."  She glanced up at Walburga.  "And rude."

"I'll show you bad art," screeched Walburga.  "Traitors!  Blood traitors in my house!  In the house of my fathers!  Tart!  Tart!  Tart!"

Pansy pulled a nail file from her pocket and jabbed it at the picture.  All she could reach was Walburga's knee, but she shoved the metal point in hard enough to puncture the canvas.  The screaming got louder and Harry finally managed to shut the curtains again.

"Permanent sticking charm," Ron said. "We can't get it down."

Pansy sniffed with disdain at that excuse and brushed past him. "Where's the floo?"  she demanded, but before either man could point it out to her, she'd located one in what had once been a parlour and started it up.  

"What's the daft bint doing?"  Ron asked.  Harry and Hermione just watched.

"Clotilda," Pansy said with her usual imperious tone as she rang someone up.  She managed to make herself seem arrogant and above them all even with her arse sticking up in the air and her head down in a fireplace.  Hermione had to admit it was impressive.  When Clotilda answered, gushing with delight that Pansy had contacted her, she cut her off.  "I have a project for you. I think you'll like it.  Old townhouse.  Practically decrepit.  Needs a total overhaul.  And, worse, there's one of those old, screeching biddies stuck to the wall."

Clotilda made what sounded like a squeal of utter delight, surely the first time Hermione had ever heard anyone happy to hear about Walburga, and when Pansy told her the address, the squeal got higher and louder.  "The Black house?" Hermione could hear Clotilda say.  "On my Merlin, Pansy, how did you get your hands on that?  I thought Harry Potter lived there!"

"He does," Pansy said. "And I'm moving in and this place is a disaster."

Hermione could already see the headline on tomorrow's gossip column.  She'd bet galleons Clotilda would no sooner ring off than she'd be on with Witch Weekly.  Or maybe not. Perhaps discretion mattered when you decorated the houses of the rich and the pure. 

"You can't just overhaul Harry's house," Ron said.  "Who do you think you are?"

Pansy pulled her head out of the flame.  "I'm the person who's going to get that painting off your wall," she said.  She looked around. "And this wallpaper, too. Please don't tell me you like that."

Hermione tried not to laugh as Harry stammered out that she really didn't need to do all this.   It was fine.  

It wasn't.

The wallpaper clung to the walls, faded purple wisteria winding up and choking the life out of anything that dared come near.  In a few places strips hung down, half-freed by water damage.  This was a townhouse that had defeated the energies of Molly Weasley, who'd finally just resigned herself to keeping the kitchen immaculate.  Molly, however, had always known this was only a safehouse in a war that would end with her going back home.  Pansy was smart enough to know she was stuck here.

"This place was a gem," she said, turning around and looking over the moulding and the crumbling plaster around the crooked chandelier.  "It was the center of everything.  I've read the old society articles.  To be invited here was… it meant you'd made it.  The Blacks were acknowledging you as someone they'd entertain.  Even the Malfoy's were upstart pretenders in their eyes.  Now look at it."

"I thought you were going to write a book," Hermione said.

Pansy had found the bookshelf of dank volumes and pried one out.  "A Moderne Interpretation of the Mudblood Problem and Seven Solutions," she read.  "Light reading for you, Granger?"

"I'm sure some of those have historical value," Hermione said. She tried not to sound as stiff as she felt.   She wished Harry would just bin the lot but he couldn't bring himself to get rid of anything that had been part of Sirius' home.

Pansy tossed the book into the fireplace.  She'd lit it for the floo, never extinguished it, and now the book caught in an instant.  The pages hissed, and the smell of whatever mold had taken hold of them filled the room with an acrid tang.  "Your best friend a Muggle-born and you keep this shite around," Pansy said.  "Honestly, Potter."

Ron shuffled on his feet.  He clearly wanted to tell her off for just chucking a book into the fire but given what the book had been he couldn't bring himself to complain.  "We haven't gone through the shelves," he said when she pointed her chin in his direction.  "It's probably all rot like that."

"Clotilda will be here with a crew tomorrow," Pansy said.  "I'll tell her to give me the books to sort.  I want the diaries and anything they kept notes in."

"Why?"  Ron asked.

"She's going to write a book," Hermione said.  "Or redecorate."

"Clotilda will redecorate," Pansy said.  "And clean. I will expose all the dirty secrets of the Blacks and make a killing."  She kicked at a corner of one of the rugs and even that released dust.  "Dirty being a bit too literal, Potter."

"My room is fine," Harry said. "And the kitchen.  We don't come in here."

Pansy curled her lip but didn't bother to say she could see why.  Hermione had become used to the old house and had stopped seeing the water stains on the walls or the way dust had solidified in the corners.  They just closed doors to rooms no one used and stayed in the ones they'd managed to salvage.  "There was a war," she said.  And then she'd been sick.  Seeing the house through Pansy's eyes, however, she felt embarrassed they'd never really tried to fix it up.  She was right: it had been beautiful once. 

A loud pounding came from up the stairs.

"You have a ghoul problem, too?" Pansy asked with exasperation.  "Good Salazar, are their redcaps under the stairs?  Gnomes in the flower pots?"

Harry and Hermione glanced at one another.  "Not exactly a ghoul," Harry said.

"We probably should have explained that," Hermione said.

"Explained what?" Pansy demanded.  She put her hands on her hips and looked at them, first one and then the other, and when neither of them would say anything she fixed her gaze on Ron.   "Tell me, indigent boy.  If it's not a ghoul, what thing banging on the pipes upstairs is so horrible neither of these two will spit it out."

"It's Jean," he said.  That shocked her, and her shock delighted him. "You remember Jean, right?  Blond, French, contagious?  Hard to forget, I understand."

"I didn't know you had another house guest," Pansy said.  She turned to leave, stiff fury and what might have been betrayal in her shoulders, but Harry grabbed her arm, careful to do it over her sleeve.

"He's not a guest," he said.  "He's a prisoner."

"We're making him take his potions," Hermione said.

"He couldn't be trusted to do it on his own," Harry said, "and… I know it… it's not - "

Pansy's sharp smile returned and she didn't pry her arm free of Harry's grasp.  "Are you telling me you kidnapped a wizard, have him locked upstairs in one of these grimy rooms, and are force-feeding him drugs?"

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds wrong," Ron said.

"Draco helped," Hermione said.

"Yes," Harry said. 

"Potter," she said. "I might be able to like you after all."

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn't wait to tell Draco.  It took what felt like ages to extricate herself from Ron and Harry and the endless explanations of what they'd done with Jean.  The townhouse had more than enough bedrooms to find one with an en suite for Pansy, but, predictably, it had been a disaster.  She'd cooed at Kreacher that she'd never lived in a house with an actual elf before, only Hogwarts, and he'd sniffed his opinion of institutional elves, and she'd said she quite agreed, and he'd toddled off to find sheets of a high enough thread count to be suitable for 'Miss Park', muttering that he could tell she'd been ill and why hadn't Harry taken better care of her?

That, naturally, had left Hermione to roll her eyes and try to get the rest of the room in some kind of order.  Pansy had refused to even loll on the bed for fear of bugs, and they'd teamed up to make the two men take the disgusting rug out back to dispose of. "Don't beat it," Pansy had said.  "Bin it. I don't care of some ancient Black matriarch carried it out of Persia herself on her very own camel. It's falling apart."

"And I think that mold had eyes," Hermione had said.

"It definitely had eyes," Pansy had agreed.  It had taken far too long, even with help, to get the room set right, and now Hermione was tired, dirty, and longing for the excellent water pressure of her own flat.  Before she let herself luxuriate under the endless stream of hot water, however, she had to tell Draco that Pansy was fine, they'd found her mate - though she continued to find that word incredibly disagreeable - and that it was Harry.  Draco would probably smile that slow-blooming smile he had when something delighted him.  Then he'd cry out of relief.  He'd been locked away as if he could find out how the mate selection worked through sheer force of will and now he could relax.

He wasn't out in the main area of the flat when she got through the door, but she could tell he was there.  Just his presence made something along her spine relax and her mouth turn up.  She hurried down the short corridor, past her own room and the opposite bath, and threw open the door to his room.  

Draco looked up.  He'd been sitting at a long table set near one window of a room so large it took her breath away.  Or perhaps it only seemed big because there was nothing in it.  The heavy wooden table where he sat, a narrow bed against one wall, the dried remains of the iris she'd given him so long ago the only thing that passed for decoration.  Papers were spread out over the table and before she could read the warning expression on his face she walked over and picked one of them up.

She read it first idly, then in disbelief.  Before he could pull them away, she'd grabbed another sheet, and then another.

They were records of every Veela like her who'd ever registered with the Ministry.

"That's funny," she said, though it wasn't.  It was the furthest thing from funny.  Her gut roiled with something she couldn't identify but she thought it might be rage.  If not rage, something worse.  "I said several times it would be a great thing if I could just look at the histories of other people like me and you never mentioned that you had them."

She wanted him to say he'd just gotten them, just that day, but one look at his face and she knew he hadn't.

"Pansy will be fine, by the way," she said.  "It's Harry."

The words hit him like a slap, and he nodded jerkily.  "That's good," he said.  He opened his mouth to say something, and she wasn't sure what she expected.  An apology,  maybe, or an excuse.  Not what he said.   Not, "I wasn't going to tell him. Even if I figured it out. I was just going to use it to save Pans."

"What?"  Hermione was sure she had to be hearing him wrong.

"She's my best friend, or one of," Draco said.  "I know she's difficult but… since we were in nappies.  Our nurses were friends, so we - "

"Tell whom?"  Hermione could feel the rage in her voice.  She knew whatever this was it wasn't good.  Her palms were hot and sweaty and she tossed the papers down and wiped her hands against her trousers as Draco went utterly white.

"My father,"  he said in a whisper.  "Hermione," he began, and then he stopped.

She needed to move.  She needed to do something. She needed to run or scream. She kept her voice calm, instead, and asked, "Why would your father care about how a rare, unimportant strain of Veela finds its mate?"

"He - "

"He wanted to cure you?" she asked. "Cure me?  Rid his family of the horrible taint of a magical creature?"  That would have made sense, and the idea of being cured of Draco hurt terribly, but she could see Lucius Malfoy wanting that.  Narcissa might be oddly charmed that old magic had claimed her son, but Lucius had all the pretension of what Pansy had dismissively called an upstart.  She would have hated that, but she would have understood it.  Expected it, even.  She hadn't missed that Draco had kept her away from his father.  She might have forgiven him for hiding that, especially since he'd come back from the time he'd met with his father at the Manor and said he didn't care about finding out any longer.  She would have been angry at him for keeping secrets, but she would have understood that one.

It was too bad that the look on his face made it clear she had missed the target.  For a Slytherin, Draco Malfoy was really very bad at lying, or maybe he was just bad at lying to her.  Their hearts wanted to beat with the same rhythm.  Their breathing wanted to synchronize.  He couldn't lie to her without lying to himself and, whatever his flaws were, Draco had learned to look at himself with honest eyes.

"What did he want?" she asked.

"I wasn't going to tell him," he said.  He sounded desperate for her to believe him.  "At first it seemed to make sense, and even then I knew I wouldn't hurt you.   Even before I… you'd been hurt enough and… and… you know I'd kill anyone who - "

"What.  Did.  He.  Want."  

Draco looked away and she knew it had to be bad.  He couldn't even meet her eyes as he said, "To control it."

"Why?" she asked, but even as the word came out of her mouth she knew why and she felt ill.  "To give us as presents," she asked, "or for commerce, like those little birds in France."

Why were her hands so hot?  She rubbed them along her trousers again, and she could feel the heat radiating off of them.  It was as if they were on fire, only it didn't hurt, and her rage grew as Draco didn't answer.  She supposed it didn't matter whether Lucius wanted money or favors.  She turned away and wondered how her eyes could betray her by stinging with tears like this.  She'd trusted him.  She'd done more than that, and the whole time he'd had this barren room where she wasn't allowed, this Bluebeard's lair where he was researching how to betray her.

"Hermione," he said, and he sounded panicked.  "Don't go."

She picked up the dried flower and crushed it in her hand.  The heat of her palm made the fragile petal crumbs burst into a flame that quickly burnt itself out.  She let the ashes fall, dirty snow in the white room, suddenly too tired to wonder how that had happened.  One more horrible Veela trait, she supposed.  "I'll be at Harry's," she said as if he deserved the courtesy of knowing where she'd be.  "I'll have Kreacher fetch my things.  Or Ron."

"You can't go," he said.  

"Try and stop me," she said.  She would love to have an excuse to hurt him.  She'd curse him and curse him and curse him until he couldn't breathe, until flocks of birds pecked his eyes out, until he felt as bereft and lost and hopeless as she did.  She'd give him pain, and misery, and the knowledge that he'd been used by someone he'd been enough of a fool to love.  She couldn't believe she'd loved him.  At least, last sop to pride, she hadn't told him.  At least she had that.

"Hermione," he said.

She turned and studied him.   He'd managed to put a cocky look on his face that almost hid the fear.  "If you go, you'll get sick again."

"I don't think I care," she said.  She shrugged because it was true; she didn't.  She didn't care if she fell down right here and never got up again.  "Maybe you can brew yourself up into a potion I can take.  Maybe I'll die.  I won't do it here, whichever it is."  

"You can't,"  he said, still helpless, still desperate.

She looked at the papers on the table and accioed them all over to her.  Whatever else she'd do, she'd make sure he never did find the answer he was looking for.   Maybe she could find it.   She could sit in her room at Grimmauld Place and read these over while she felt the ache slowly return to her bones, and the knife's edge slowly return to her nerves, and maybe those agonies would be sharp enough and hard enough and brutal enough to drown out the pain of her heart.

She doubted it. She turned again and walked slowly out of Draco's Malfoy's room.  The hall seemed longer on her return trip.  The bright front room seemed suddenly busy and overwhelming instead of cheerful.

"I did tell you I was a monster."

He'd come behind her and stood.  She didn't turn but she had to admit he was telling her the truth.  She just hadn't believed it.

She did now.

Chapter Text

Pansy and Ron were still arguing about the condition of the rugs in the upstairs hallway when Hermione walked past them.  She didn't say anything, just opened the door to what had been her room, closed it, and sat down on the bed.  At some point, Kreacher had changed the sheets.  That was good.  The room didn't seem too dusty either.  She pried her flat, sensible, boring shoes off, set the folders she still had in her hand down on the table where she'd kept her potions, lay down, and stared up at the ceiling.  She'd always liked the ceilings in this house.  A plaster medallion sat in the middle of the ceiling of her room, unchipped and perfect despite the ravages of time.   She looked up at its white ridges and swirls and when her brain began to wonder what Draco was doing she shut it off.

She wouldn't think about Draco.

The stunned silence her appearance had wrought didn't last long.  Nor did her privacy.  Pansy Parkinson pushed the door open without so much as making a token knock and stood there, brash, heeled, still in need of that shower.

Hermione already missed the water pressure at home.

No, not home. It had been a gilded cage.  Never home.

"What are you doing here?"  Pansy demanded.  When Hermione didn't answer, she took the few steps needed to cross the small room and glare down.  "Need to gloat up close, Granger?"

"If I'm unwelcome, I'll find another flat," Hermione said.  Her voice sounded far away, and she was vaguely aware that Ron and Harry had crowded into the room behind Pansy.  They filled the tiny room.  She'd read once that old houses had small rooms because that made it easier to heat them.  Hogwarts hadn't followed that architectural plan, but the rooms had always been so drafty she'd often worn her scarf indoors.  Maybe it didn't work here either.  She certainly felt cold enough.  She was cold as ice: unfeeling, uncaring ice.  "I should do it soon, though, while I still can."

"Of course you're welcome," Harry said.  He sounded confused.

Ron wasn't the slightest bit confused. "What did that rotter do?" he asked.  "Draco-fucking-Malfoy.  I knew it was too good to be true, his little act.  I can kill him, Hermione.  Just ask.  No one would mind."

"Kill him, you kill her," Pansy said cooly.  "And I would mind."

"Maybe not," Hermione said.  She didn't want to explain.  She didn't want to have to say it out loud.  

"No one who matters would mind," Ron said.

"Ron," Harry said.  His voice was low and as dangerous as Hermione had ever heard it and he stepped forward to position himself between the two and the part of her brain that still cared about things thought that was interesting.  Pansy lay a hand on his sleeve and simpered at Ron with sarcasm that cut through Hermione's fog.  She felt her lips turn up in an involuntary smile and then sighed.

"Hermione," Ron said.  "Tell him just because he has to save that crazy snake's life doesn't mean the rest of us have to like her."

"I don't like you, Weasley," Pansy said.  "But that doesn't mean I'm telling people it would be okay to kill you."

"She's right," Hermione said. "You can't kill Draco."

"Because you'd die," Pansy said.

Hermione's tiny smile tightened and then disappeared. "Yes," she said.  She hadn't spent a single night away from him since he'd bought that flat.  He might have still slept in his own room some nights - fewer and fewer lately - but he'd always been there.  She wondered how long it would take for the pain to return.  

"You won't die," Ron said. "We'll drag him back here and make him do his touchy-touchy thing then let him go again."

"No," Hermione said.  She knew that sounded sharp and hard and cruel and final all at once.  The tone was so harsh even Pansy drew back a little. "I never want to see him again."

"Bit much," Pansy said. "You'll go crawling back when the pain gets bad."

But Hermione shook her head.  She'd lived a long time with the knowledge every step was knives in her hips, and every movement of her head brought a clamp to tighten around her skull.  Sometimes she had dug her fingers into the places where the pain had seemed to come from, and sometimes that had helped.  She knew how bad it got.  She wasn't going back.  Pansy must have read that in her eyes and the set of her mouth because she let out a low whistle.  "He really buggered things up, didn't he?" she said.  "Given the idiot's crazy in love with you, how'd he manage that?"

She shoved Harry out and glared at Ron until he bowed his head and shuffled away.  As soon as the door clicked, Pansy asked again.  "What did he do?"

Hermione was going to just shrug and turn away but the bile and the fury forced its way out of her mouth.  "Sorry about this, Pans," she said, turning Draco's nickname for the woman into a spiteful epithet.  "I know you were jealous and now that he could be all yours, you're stuck with Harry.  Irony."

"Stuck?"  Pansy snorted.  "I get the Chosen One, who can no more turn away from saving people than you can from a thick, boring book, and you got stuck, as you put it, with Draco."

"Who you wanted."

"At fourteen," Pansy said.  "When, if I recall correctly, you were overheard sobbing because your best friend Ron didn't love you back."

"What's your point?"

"That I'm quite happy to not be stuck with his paleness," Pansy said.  "And his parents - oh Merlin, his awful parents."

Hermione's eyes twitched at that and Pansy pounced. "It was his parents, wasn't it?  Did he make you go to dinner with that mother of his?"

"Not exactly," Hermione said.  "I've had lunch with Narcissa.  She was - ."  She wanted to say she was lovely but the words didn't exactly come out.  Narcissa had certainly behaved well enough, but now that she knew what Lucius was up to, every one of the woman's courtesies seemed suspect.  "She could have been worse," she settled on.

"She can always be worse," Pansy said.  "She's an utter bitch."

Hermione just looked at her at that.  Pansy had her mouth turned up in a sneer, and her heels still let her tower along.  They had to hurt her feet but she had yet to take them off.  That she would call anyone else a bitch seemed funny.  "I'm just mean," Pansy said, clearly reading her thoughts.  "But that woman will destroy you."

"Says the gossip columnist," Hermione said.

Pansy shrugged.  "People who like meeting with barely not underage witches in sleazy pubs aren't the group I'd think you'd be defending, Granger.  Or that novelist who stole her stories and obliviated the original authors.  Or are you riled on behalf of that singer who turned out to be selling illegal love potions?"

Hermione closed her eyes.  She hadn't ever been one to read Parkinson's column.  Muck-raking gossip hadn't ever interested her.  She really had no idea what the woman had written about in the general scheme of things.  She certainly knew about one column she'd wanted to write, though.  "How about rare strains of Veela?" she asked.  "You know, old school rivals who suddenly aren't human anymore?"

She didn't know if Pansy had the grace to blush about that but at least her voice sounded defensive.  "You are a public figure, Granger.  And Malfoy squashed that anyway, so you're safe from my quill."

"Lucky me," Hermione said.

"If it wasn't Narcissa," Pansy said, "was is that father of his?" Hermione could hear her drag a chair across the floor.  The wooden legs scraped against the old floor and Pansy made a bit of an unhappy huff as she settled onto the stiff leather seat.  Hermione could have warned her the bits of old horsehair stuck out of the tear in the covering and jabbed themselves into you if she'd cared about Pansy's comfort.  She didn't.

"Lucius?"  Hermione asked when it became obvious Pansy wasn't going to leave.  "Tall?  Long blond hair?  Distinctive cane?  Had no problem firing curses at school children just a few years ago?"

"That's the one," Pansy said.  "It was Lucius.  What did that bastard do?"

Hermione tried to decide if the slow pressure building behind her teeth was the creep of her illness returning or just a headache spawned by Pansy.  "How quick you are to turn on your own pureblooded kind," she said.  "I thought you were all a united front."

Pansy snorted. "Lucius Malfoy and I have about as much in common as you and I," she said.  She tapped her foot as she seemed to consider that statement. "Less, probably, these days."  

"Our special sisterhood," Hermione said.  Saying that out loud made her realize that it was somewhat true and that if anyone needed a warning about Lucius it was Pansy.  "He wants to manufacture us.  Turn himself into a supplier of willing pets for the elite."

Pansy sucked in her breath.  "Draco knew," she said.  It wasn't a question and Hermione could feel her gut clench.  It would have been better, somehow, if Pansy had insisted Draco couldn't have known, that he'd never have countenanced that.  "That little cowardly idiot," she went on, seeming to struggle to find the words she wanted.  "He never could stand up to his father," she said conversationally after a moment where Hermione could hear her heart beating.  Was she far enough away from Draco her heart couldn't sync itself to him, or was her body still struggling to tune itself to him as though they were paired instruments in some magical orchestra?  "He idolized the man, you know.  And Lucius spoiled him bloody rotten."

"Not an excuse," Hermione said.

"Plus the plan has more than a few practical problems," Pansy said.  "How was he going to match his created Veela to the men he wanted to cultivate?"

"He and Draco were researching the way the - "

"If you say 'mates' I will hit you," Pansy said.  "I don't care how slimy you feel."

"Fine, the way the partners were selected."  She opened her eyes and pointed to the pile of paperwork.  "I took all the files when I left."

Pansy reached over and picked one of them up and opened it. "Nine children?" she asked in disbelief. "This one had nine children."

"I haven't read them yet," Hermione said.

Pansy skimmed the file and, despite Blaise's assertion she wasn't the brightest witch, she did a neat job of summarizing the information. "Didn't know her partner before bonding.  Turned out they had been in the same fire. Nine children." She looked up.  "Must be some kind of Weasley cousin."

Hermione had to smother the disloyal laugh.

Pansy saw it anyway and smirked before she picked up another file and then another.  "Already married.  Lovers.  Lovers.  Neighbors.  Already married.  And co-workers in some dreadful retail shop in shop in Hogsmeade."

"No common thread."

Pansy smiled.  "Well then," she said.  "Good thing you're the smartest witch of our year."

"What?"  Hermione asked, not sure she'd heard her correctly.

"Well," Pansy said, "I think it behooves us to figure the pattern out before Lucius Malfoy does.  Knowledge is power, Granger."

"Says the gossip columnist."  Hermione closed her eyes again, but she'd already set herself on the same course.

"Get your arse up," Pansy said. "I've got an errand to run, but when I get back we'll sit down over tea and figure this out."

"Draco's been working on it since - "

"And we're smarter and probably more motivated," Pansy said.  She stood up and threw the folders down. "Get out of your funk, Granger.  I expect you in the kitchen when I get back. Merlin knows it's the only clean room in this whole place.  I'm sure as Nimue lives under the lake not going to sit in that excuse for a parlour until Clotilda has done her magic."

And then she was gone, and Hermione stared at the closed door and began to laugh.  Research partners with Pansy Parkinson.  Could life get any more peculiar?

Chapter Text

Draco went through his afternoon in a numb state of automation.  He felt like a photograph, endlessly repeating the same action in an eternal loop, devoid of emotion, doomed to push the rock up the hill over and over.  He closed the door to Hermione's room so he wouldn't have to look in and see her things.  He put a kettle on for tea.  He ate a stale croissant while standing at the counter.  He didn't have much appetite and had to choke it down but he decided to blame that on the several days-old bread rather than his feelings.

He tried to pet Lynx.  He could, he thought, sit on the couch and pet the small orange cat.  That was supposed to make people feel better.   He'd read that somewhere.  It was why he'd bought the creature for Hermione in the first place.  Lynx swiped at his hand with a paw, however, leaving a trail of red, and then hissed before she ran off and crouched behind the corner of the bookcase.   He couldn't meet her eyes.  She glared at him.  How a cat could sit in judgment he didn't know, but this one was.

He went to the sink and ran a stream of cold water over the scratch to clean it out before he put a plaster over it.

When the door flew open he turned, heart in his throat, hoping she had come back, even if only to yell at him, to let him explain, to fetch her things.  She hadn't.  It wasn't Hermione standing there, but Pansy, heels high, purse large, mouth set in a frown that should have warned him.

She set the bag down, strode across the room, pulled her arm back, and slapped him so hard his ears rang.

Clearly, Hermione had told.

"Pets?"  Pansy asked with so much fury in her voice he took a step backward, and then another one.  She'd spent much of her life alternating between fawning on him and being mad at him, but she'd always adored him.   That didn't mean he'd missed how brutal she could be to people she didn't like.    She wiped her hand off on her trousers, and he remembered how touching him had to feel like slime.  She'd hit him anyway.  "Pick a girl you like and have her turned into a creature who will adore every touch of your hand, was that the idea?"

He swallowed hard enough he could feel his throat bobbing.  "It wasn't like that," he said, though, of course, that had been exactly his father's plan.  "I wasn't going to tell him… we don't even know how it works."

"Not having the magic worked out doesn't make the whole idea less despicable."

Pansy glanced over at the bookcase and made a clicking noise with her tongue.  Lynx regarded her with a modified version of her baleful expression until Pansy said, "I'm taking you to Granger, you stupid cat.  Get in."  Then, with a final glare at him, the cat trotted across the floor and jumped into Pansy's bag.

"Be careful," Draco said.  "She scratches."

"You deserved it, I'm sure," Pansy said.  

She scooped the bag up and turned to go, her slap delivered.  Her hand was on the door when Draco blurted out, "Is she okay?"

Pansy's look would have not only withered flowers, it would have left the place where they'd grown burned, salted, and barren for a generation.  "Fuck you, Malfoy," she said, and then she was gone.

The flat seemed much emptier without even Lynx.  He'd never realized how big it was, or how the sound of the faucet seemed to echo.  He let out a deep exhale and tried to make a plan.   Apologizing seemed pointless, and if he went back to the Manor to tell his father off, he'd probably just end up ensnared by the sparrow he'd released.  The thought of the sparrow, however, gave him an idea.  Hermione had hated the idea of the little sentient birds caught in a cage and sold as pets and he'd told her they could go and free the rest once the Jean issue was taken care of.  He could do that now for her.

Once the idea had taken root in his brain he couldn't dig it out, and by sunset, he was at the Manor sorting through the bin of portkeys.  Narcissa liked to keep them around.  The idea of making a reservation with the Ministry to use public keys made her wrinkle her nose and grimace as if she'd accidentally stepped in something foul so, despite the exorbitant cost, a key to the Malfoy properties in France was almost always available.  He grabbed it, grabbed a return key, and within an hour had portkeyed to one house, apparated to the pet shop, and come out with a giant cage of angry birds in his hand, earmuffs on his head.

He looked ridiculous and when he tried to explain his plan to the birds they just screamed at him.  

Everyone hated him today.

Another portkey, and he was sucked away into darkness, the cage clutched in his hand, and deposited three feet above the gravel drive leading to the Manor.  He hadn't expected to be airborne and fell to the ground with a hard thump, his ankle twisting under him with a flare of pain.  When he stood and tried to put weight on it, he quickly shifted so he was on only the other foot and using the birdcage to steady himself.  That had definitely been a bad landing.

He unlatched the cage and set the birds free.  They swooped and soared out until the nearest tree seemed to be filled with chattering birds.  He didn't dare take the earmuffs off.  The birds were eyeing him much too avidly, and not altogether happily, and he didn't want to be found in a helpless daze.

He glanced up at the Manor.  His parents were away, but he should write them a note letting them know he'd released the birds here. He should tell them Hermione had flown the coop.  He should let his father know she'd taken the files.  He should say he was at a standstill with the research.  He should do all of those things, but he didn't.  He didn't want to hear his father say in drawling tones of indifference that when the pain got bad enough, she'd come back.  He didn't want her to be with him because she had no choice.  Even if he was kind, that was… Pansy had used the word despicable and she was right.

He was despicable.

Instead of going up to the Manor and leaving a note, he apparated home and flooed first Blaise, then Theo.  They were there almost before he'd pulled his head out of the fire.

"You are the only man I know who could manage to bungle a relationship with a woman who needs you to stay alive," Blaise said.  He flung himself down onto what had been Hermione's chair and stretched his legs out so he could admire the shine on his shoes.  "That takes talent, Draco."

Theo hunched his shoulders and gave him a tight smile.  "I hate to agree with him," he began.

"But I'm right," Blaise said.  "While I can understand preferring eternal torment to living with you - frankly, that seems like a not wholly unwise decision -  she seemed to not mind the way you take three showers a day and have no color to your skin."

"She minded that my father wanted to sell people like her," Draco said.  He wanted to get it out there as baldly as possible.  Maybe if he undersold it they wouldn't be too aghast.

They were.

Theo half stood to leave before settling back down, uncomfortable but sufficiently tied by years of friendship he was willing to hear the whole story.  "Please tell me you weren't involved in that," Blaise said.  When he didn't say anything Blaise narrowed his eyes.  "You really are a shite," he said.  "I wondered why you were being so accommodating when she showed up on your doorstep, but I never would have suspected something as vile as this."

"I need to develop a potion," Draco said.  

"Potter's already got the best pain potion around," Blaise said coldly.  "He can make it.  Salazar, you should get him to market that, assuming he's still speaking to you.  I know he's got enough galleons to pave the streets, but you can never be too rich."

"Especially now that he's saddled with Pansy," Draco said, trying to get them away from his own failings.  That led them all into a side discussion on why Potter was so encumbered, that it was a relief Pansy would be fine, smug expressions of pity for the chosen one, who had no idea what he was in for, and finally speculation on what they should do with the felix felicis Blaise had simmering away.  

"It worked out well for me last time," Blaise said. "Wouldn't want to develop a habit, but a second dose doesn't seem too risky."

"I don't need luck these days," Theo said.  

"Goyle's party?"  Blaise asked with a knowing arch to his brows.

Theo became very interested in his own shoes which, while they didn't have the gleam of obsessive polishing charms Blaise's did, were still made of excellent leather with carefully hand-sewn seams.  There was much to admire in them.  He admired.

"I need a potion," Draco said again.  It was why he had asked for their help.  "Not a pain control drug, something that mimics me."

"That would be polyjuice," Blaise said.  He sounded bored.  "It already exists, you idiot."

Draco shook his head, however, and began to explain in detail what he needed and both his friends leaned forward, their interest hooked.

"It would be tricky," Theo said at last, "but polyjuice would probably be a good base to start experimenting from.  And I'm guessing a feather or two from those siren sparrows of yours might be a good addendum.  Sympathetic magic and all."

Blaise nodded.  "Testing will be tricky," he said, "but I have an old book that goes into how Pepperup and Amortentia were developed, so we can reverse engineer a little from that."  He looked at Draco and shook his head.  "You're a fool, you know," he said.  "You're trying to give your little bird the key to her cage and, given what you and your father were up to, she'll fly away from you so fast you'll be lucky to ever catch a glimpse of her again."

"I know," Draco said, "but what else can I do?"

Chapter Text

By the time Pansy returned from her mysterious errand, Hermione had brewed a pot of tea, had one cup, spread the files out on the table, and started on her second cup.  Harry and Ron idly picked up pages before putting them back down.  Other than hoping they didn't get things horribly mixed up, she ignored them both.  Time had taught her they weren't terribly useful at research.

"Your cat," Pansy said, letting her bag drop to the table with a thump.  Lynx peered out the top, then jumped onto a pile of parchment.  She sat and regarded Hermione with a serious expression before rubbing her head against her hand and disappearing out the door.  

"Gone to explore, I see," Ron said.  

Hermione, however, ignored the adventures of Lynx, who she was sure would be fine, to focus on Pansy.   She did not look fine.   Whatever errand she'd done had sapped the little strength she'd gathered from her earlier contact with Harry.  Her skin had lost all its color, leaving her almost grey.  Harry seemed equally concerned.  He took a half-step toward Pansy, then stopped, obviously unsure what to do.

"You'll sober up almost as soon as he takes his hand away," Hermione said softly.  "And if you don't say anything, you'll feel less like an idiot after."

Pansy sat down across the table and pulled one of the folders across the wood. "I'm fine," she said.   If she hadn't flinched just a tiny bit when she shifted, Hermione might have believed her, despite her own experiences and the other woman's wan face.  No one could project defiant confidence quite the way Pansy Parkinson could and, as she studied the way Pansy made a show of flipping through the parchment and sorting it out, Hermione wondered what had made her that way.  It wasn't the attitude she'd have expected from the privileged pureblood.

Pansy reached a hand back to rub at a twinge in her neck with a gesture all too familiar and Hermione couldn't stand it.  It reminded her of what she'd felt, and what she'd feel again all too soon.  "Just let him help," she said.

Pansy hesitated, then glared at Ron.  "Get out," she said.  "It's not a spectator sport."

Ron looked disappointed to miss the show, but grabbed up a stoppered potion's flask and said, "Time for Jean's next dose anyway."

After he'd left, Hermione made a point of looking down at the file in front of her.  The Veela in question had been married to her partner long before she'd become ill.  She suspected helping a young woman who'd been being harassed by several wizards had been the cause.   

She hadn't seemed out of the ordinary to me, other than being very pretty, but they all seemed enchanted by her and had backed her against a wall and were pawing at her with such vigor she couldn't get her wand out. I chased them off, then helped bandage up some cuts she had gotten in the fray.  Shortly after that, I realized something was amiss when the touch of my husband's hand left me in a state of drugged bliss.

Hermione was contemplating how thoroughly useless this record was when Pansy let out a shaky sigh and she looked up.  Harry had his hand resting against the side of her neck and wore an expression that mixed both terror and yearning.   Pansy had turned in her chair so she could gaze up at him with a rapt adoration that made Hermione's gut knot up.  So that was what she looked like when she touched Draco.  She told herself she was grateful she'd never be that unguarded and helpless again.  She told herself she was glad that she'd never risk being seen that dopey-eyed and glassy.  She told herself she didn't miss the languor she knew was pushed up against all of Pansy's aches and fears, a slow creep of the tide where every wave washed ease a little higher along the beach of your soul.

She knew she was lying to herself, though.

When Harry stepped away, Pansy sagged a little, then spread her palms out over the table to brace herself and said with remarkable evenness, "I need you to leave now."

Harry looked at Hermione and she shrugged.  She'd usually wanted to stay snuggled up to Draco for as long as possible but Pansy seemed to have a different reaction.  It wasn't as if St. Mungo's had handed her a pamphlet with what to expect, and it could well be that the after-shock of the high was different for different people.  Harry drifted away, his eyes on Pansy until he shut the door behind him.  She didn't speak until they could hear his footsteps going up the stairs.

"It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't - "

"So good?"  Hermione asked.

Pansy nodded shakily, then took a deep breath.  "Let's get to work, Granger," she said.  "Any thoughts?"

Hermione had a lot of thoughts, but none of them were likely to be helpful.  "I think we can set the married ones aside," she said.  "It's just too hard to tease out what was the thing that made them partners."

"Though," Pansy said, "that there were married couples means it's probably not just the person who hates you the most."  

Hermione looked down at her hand.  She'd curled it around the teacup and one of her nails had gotten so ragged if she didn't file it down it would probably tear the fabric of some of her robes.

"Granger?"  Pansy said.  "You still with me, or was that too hard for you to follow?  I'm not sure I can use smaller words."

"No," Hermione said.  She forced a smile to her face.  "But Harry never hated you, so it couldn't have been that anyway."  She didn't like to think that Draco had hated her once, but he had.  

"He should have," Pansy said.  "I tried to give him over to Voldemort."

"I might have hated you for that," Hermione said.  "Harry… I don't even think he hates his awful family, and he should.  He never hated you."

Pansy narrowed her eyes a little at the phrase awful family, but she let that go and said, "It was the worst day of my life.  Everyone turned and glared at me.  I wanted to crawl into a hole.  McGonagall promptly threw me into one and locked the door."

Hermione had trouble mustering sympathy but she kept a polite smile on her face anyway.

"It haunts me, you know," Pansy said.  "People spit, sometimes, or yell things when I walk by. It would figure it would be the one person in the world who should hate me who doesn't.  And now he's stuck with me."

"I doubt he - "

"He was the only one who looked at me with anything but disgust."  Pansy was still talking and Hermione wondered if having to be her therapist was some kind of karmic punishment for disliking her so much.  "And now this.  Ironic."

Hermione froze.  She'd been mostly ignoring what Pansy said but she quickly replayed the last few sentences in her head.   "He… the two of you had some kind of contact that day?"

"Well, just eye contact," Pansy said defensively. "He looked over at me with… well, with sympathy.  Bastard was a lifeline in a way."

She heard her words and sucked in her breath.  Her expectant look asked the question.  "Draco stood there and watched me be tortured," Hermione said in answer.  "He couldn't do anything, but just seeing a person be horrified instead of gleeful was - "

"A lifeline," Pansy said.    She sorted rapidly through the papers until she pulled up the folder of the couple with all the kids. "They were in a fire.  How much do you want to bet he offered her some kind of sympathy or comfort when she was afraid?"

"The married couples, and the lovers," Hermione said.  "Way too much contact to tell, but it makes sense if you were in a relationship at the time of the - "

"Worst thing in your life, that person would be the one to help you," Pansy finished her thought.  She met Hermione's eyes.  "Is that it?  You're the smart one."

"I think that's it," Hermione said. She could feel herself almost shaking with what might have been relief.  "At least Lucius Malfoy can't control this," she said.  "He can't manufacture who supports you at your lowest, or turn it into one of his cronies."

"You're naive," Pansy said shortly.  "He could and he would."

"How?"  Hermione demanded, but the word had barely left her mouth when she realized how.

"Just set up a kidnapping," Pansy said.  "Throw in a little rape, a little torture, and then your future owner shows up to rescue you.  You cry on his shoulder, he says 'there there, it'll all be okay,' and next thing you know - "

"I think I may throw up," Hermione said.

"And that's Lucius Malfoy for you," Pansy said.  "Draco might have been a Death Eater because he was stupid and young, but his father?  He was a believer."

"I've never even seen the Mark," Hermione said.  It seemed like a strange thing to say, but when she thought of Draco as a Death Eater she could only think of the way he wore long sleeves, even to bed.  He'd never trusted her enough to let her see the scar burned into his skin.   She'd been helpless and exposed before him in every way and he'd been kind, but he'd never let her in.  She should have known.

She should have known.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," she said. "It's been a long day."

She gathered all the parchment sheets and slid them back into each folder, careful not to mix them up, then picked them all up and turned to go.  Pansy said to her back, "He's an idiot but he loves you, you know."

"Maybe in the way you love a pet," Hermione said.  "Not in the way you love an equal."

Every step up to her room seemed heavier than the one before, and she lay down and closed her eyes, grateful for darkness and silence.  Sleep took a long time to come, however, and when it did it was filled with dreams of crows that begged for her forgiveness. Whenever she tried to speak, her mouth was too filled with tears to form words.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up to banging and voices.  She rubbed at her head and sat up, her confusion exacerbated by the tromping of footsteps up and down the hall.  It sounded as it at least a dozen people were in the house, and she wasn't sure Harry knew that many people well enough to have them over.  She cast a quick tempus charm and groaned.  She knew Harry didn't have that many friends who would be over at 7:30 in the bloody morning.  When she dressed and risked going out into the hall she passed a horribly cheerful young witch casting what seemed to be wallpaper-stripping charms at the faded florals.  

Hermione escaped to the kitchen where Ron looked just as flabbergasted as she felt.  "What's going on?" she asked.

"Turns out Clotilda comes with a team," Ron said.  

"Twenty of them," Harry said.  He tried to smile but he then that faded and he took another sip from the mug in front of him. 

"I can stop her?"  Hermione offered.

"No, you can't, Granger," Pansy said, appearing from a closet with a measuring tape and a pile of magazines.  "I've already paid her."

"It's not your house," Hermione said.

"No, it's fine," Harry said.  "It's just early."

"Really early," Ron agreed.  

"Jean?"  Hermione asked.  She was fairly sure that whatever discretion expensive decorators extended to their clients, it didn't encompass wizards held prisoner in an upstairs room.

"Told them that room was off limits until I had a chance to sort some materials of a personal nature," Pansy said.  "She probably thinks it's filled with dark artifacts.  That's what that usually means."

"Great," Hermione said.   Figured there was a protocol on how to discretely tell your decorator to stay away from the cursed books and illegal goodies.  Death Eaters couldn't be expected to strip their own wallpaper, oh no.  They had help for that.

"Coffee?"  Pansy asked.   Her chipper smile might have been a weapon but Hermione took the cup the other woman floated over to her with wan gratitude anyway.  It was too early to turn down caffeine.

"I muffled the room," Ron said. "So he can't bang on the wall and demand to be let out."

"Good thinking," Hermione said.  She took a sip of the coffee and looked down at the mug in surprise.  Harry's coffee usually tasted like bitter mud.  She'd had boiled roots that were better. This was great.  She took another sip and smiled with her first genuine happiness since she'd gone home to -

No, she wasn't going to think about that.    She took another sip.  "This is good," she said.

"Glad you think so," Pansy said.  "But if you'll excuse me, I need to - "

"Pannnnsssyyyy!"  

Hermione stared at the witch who had let herself into their sanctuary.  She knew it was rude but she couldn't help herself.  This had to be Clotilda.  The witch was older than she would have expected, with grey hair tied up under a green pointed hat that didn't dare to sag.  Her chin was pointed, her nose hooked, and a wart with a hair poking out of it sat on the tip of that nose with defiant aggression.  Hermione had never seen a witch look more like a character out of a muggle storybook.  She'd packed an enormous bosom into a tight green dress that had somehow combined an a-line skirt and a bustle into one fashion statement.  Black-tighted legs ended in green stilettos that surely no one could walk in.

Clotilda followed her gaze and extended one foot with absolute pleasure, turning it back and forth so they could all admire the green satin.  "Aren't they wonderful?" she asked.  "Christian Louboutin.  Muggles make the best shoes."

"Art is art," Hermione said softly to herself.  The words choked in her throat, but Clotilda didn't seem to notice.

"Exactly," she said.  "But as great as they are, I didn't come in here to show off my shoes.  Do you want to save the painting or frame, or can we just destroy it?"

"Walburga?"  Harry asked.  When Clotilda nodded he said, "Burn the bitch."

Clotilda smiled with professional pleasure. "Good," she said.  "Easier that way."

"It's a permanent sticking charm," Hermione said.  "Permanent.  That means you can't remove it."

"Well," Clotilda said, "It gets tricky if you want to save the portrait, but, if that's not an issue, it's simple to get the wretched things down."  

Hermione's confusion must have shown on her face.  The portrait was still there because it was well and truly stuck to the wall. Even Dumbledore and Moody had just left it alone. Even Molly had, and she would have thought there wasn't a cleaning charm the Weasley matriarch didn't know.  "Dumbledore," she started but Clotilda waved a hand impatiently.

"It's how you think about it," she said.  "The canvas is permanently stuck to the wall.  The paint is not.  You just have to separate the paint from the canvas and then plaster over the fabric left behind for a smooth finish."

"That's… that's genuis," Hermione said.  She'd never have thought to break the art down into its component parts that way.  

"Yes," Clotilda said smugly.  "I am."

"I hire the best," Pansy said.  She opened one of her magazines and pointed to a swatch of pink.   "I was thinking this.  Lighten the place up."

Clotilda took it from her, and Ron stretched his head out to look at the color.  Clotilda squealed with what Hermione supposed had to be approval. Ron's face suggested his response was different but he kept his mouth shut.  

"Yes," Clotilda said.  "It would be a crime to paint all this beautiful woodwork. All original, but so dark, so we have to - "

"White walls?"  Pansy asked.  "Simple?"

"Normally I'd say that would be too sterile," Clotilda said, "but here I think yes, especially with this pink for the curtains and upholstery.  All these old papers on the walls just make the rooms look cluttered."

"I agree," Pansy said.    "And dated."

"These old houses," Clotilda said.  She leaned forward and gave Pansy an air kiss right above her cheek before turning on her insane heels and striding out. "Destroy the bitch, Edna," she yelled before the kitchen door shut, leaving the four of them alone again.  Hermione felt a bit as if a hurricane had blown through and Harry's wide eyes suggested he felt much the same.  Ron had his wits about him, or at least his anger.

"Pink?"  he said.  "You're going to make the whole house pink?"

"I like pink," Pansy said.  "And, anyway, that color wasn't pink.  It was rose champagne.  Learn to tell the difference, Weasley."  She sniffed.  "You probably call eggplant purple."

"Eggplant isn't purple?" Harry asked Hermione in a whisper and she shrugged.  She's always thought they were purple but maybe there was purple and then there was purple.

"Who cares?"  Ron asked. "It's not your house, you dumb - "

Before Hermione could tell him to shut up and that pink curtains and white walls would be a vast improvement over what was there now, Harry had lunged across the table and closed his hands around Ron's neck.  "Dumb what?" he demanded in sudden, inexplicable fury.  "What were you going to call her?"

"Harry?"  Hermione asked.  She looked over at Pansy who was staring at Harry with wide eyes.  "Harry!" she said again as he began to squeeze and Ron pulled at his hands in growing panic.  "Harry, he can't answer you!"

It didn't matter.   Harry seemed like a man in the grip of a dream, and he tightened his hands until Hermione grabbed at his arm, ignoring the horrible feel of wet seaweed wrapping around her skin, and pulled as hard she could.   "Pansy," she said in genuine fear when she couldn't get him to release Ron. "A little help here!"  That snapped Pansy out of her shock, and she swung her arm back and hit Harry with enough force to break his concentration, which let Hermione and Ron pry his hands away.

"What the fuck, mate?"  Ron demanded, rubbing at his throat and staring at Harry. "Since when are you so attached to pink?"

"Harry?"  Hermione asked urgently.  "What was that about."  Her mind had gone to the worst possible places.  Voldemort, perhaps, or a cursed object unearthed by Clotilda's crew that he'd picked up.

Harry shook his head and stepped back.  Pansy's hand splayed along his back seemed to soothe him, and he took a deep breath.  "I don't know," he said.  "I… fuck, Ron. I'm sorry.  I don't know what came over me."

"If you hate pink that much we can do peach," Pansy said, though it was pretty clear she knew that wasn't it.  "Or eggplant."

"Pink is fine," Harry said.  He tried to crack a smile.  "As long as you don't get obsessive about a lawn the way Uncle Vernon did, I don't care what you do."

Pansy looked over at Hermione.  "I'll explain later," Hermione mouthed, and Pansy nodded before refocusing her attention on Harry.

"In case you hadn't noticed," Pansy said, "this is a townhouse.  Not some ticky-tacky suburban tract house.  No lawn."  She sounded a bit shaky, but she mostly shoved that under her usual cutting sarcasm.

"Thank Merlin," Harry said.  "I never want to see a lawn again."  He turned and wrapped his arms around Pansy and she sagged into him, caught in the bliss almost immediately.  He inhaled once, breathing in the scent of her hair and perfume, and then let her go.  Hermione could see her collect herself. Pansy was better about hiding her dazed state than she ever had been but it still took her a moment during which Ron looked over at Hermione.

"Any ideas?" he asked quietly. "You are the brightest witch and all that."

"Draco does the same thing," she said.  She'd meant to follow up on his weird bursts of temper but never had.  She regretted that now as she watched Ron rub at his neck.

"Miles Bletchley," Pansy said.  "At Goyle's party."

Hermione nodded.  "And a waiter type who sneered at me." 

Pansy began to smile and she draped herself into a chair at the table with smug delight. "Fuck you, Lucius Malfoy," she said.  "Your nasty little plan is structurally flawed."

"Huh?"  Ron asked.

"Potter," Pansy nearly cooed.  "Jean made me sick.  It's his fault I suffered.  What does that make you want to do?"

Harry's fists began to clench and he had to fight to control himself. "I'm not going to go upstairs and beat him up," he said, though he was breathing hard and it was clear he rather wanted to.  Hermione watched the transformation with narrowed eyes.   "I'm not Dudley, and he didn't know."

"What if he had," Hermione asked.  She'd figured out what had made Pansy smile with such a sharp edge and she could feel her own mouth turn up in a matching edged grin.  "What if he'd done it on purpose."

Harry's breathing became more labored. "I'd kill him," he said.  "Slowly."

"Which would end his Veela business," Pansy said.  "Checkmate, Lucius."

"We win," Hermione said.  She bit down on her cheek. "Who will tell Draco?"

Everyone looked at her as if they wanted her to be the one, but she set her shoulders and tightened her jaw until Harry sighed.  "I'll do it," he said. 

"Well," Ron said, "you are cousins after all."

Harry's laugh was a little weak, but they relaxed around the table after that.  Any day that started with decorators before coffee and a near strangulation had to get better.

Chapter Text

two weeks later

Draco had gotten used to expecting Hermione to be at the door with every knock, and he'd gotten used to the disappointment it was never her.  That today's disappointment was Harry Potter seemed unusually cruel, but he supposed it could have been worse.  It could have been his father.

"Potter," he said as he held the door open and waited for the man to let himself in.  He didn't ask if Hermione was okay, or if she wanted to see him.   He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.  He expected it to be bad.  

What he didn't expect was for the man to toss all the folders Hermione had taken with her onto the table or to hear him say, "They figured it out."

"They what?" he asked stupidly. He'd spent months combing through those papers.  He almost had them memorized.  He knew the answers weren't in them, so how had they done it in only two weeks?  It didn't seem possible.

Potter looked embarrassed.  "Do you mind if I sit," he asked.

Draco waved him to a chair and watched the Chosen One sink down into it.   

"I should have come sooner," Potter said. "I'm sorry.  It's just… things have been a bit of a madhouse.  Pansy brought in some witch named Clotilda and she'd turned the townhouse upside down, and everything's been chaos, but they figured this out the first night, and then the bit about us the next morning, and I meant to come and tell you but something always came up."

"They what?"  Draco asked.  He knew who Clotilda was, and hoped Potter didn't have a heart attack when he saw the bill, but that seemed less interesting than the artless revelation Hermione and Pansy had figured it out the first day.  He wasn't sure he wanted to know.  "Maybe you shouldn't tell me," he said.

He expected Harry Potter to look as angry at him as Pansy had been, as betrayed as Hermione, but instead, he looked almost sly and amused.  "You wouldn't tell your father," he said.   "Not if it could hurt her."

"Don't be so sure," Draco said.  "I'm - "

"An idiot," Potter said.  "What's that smell?"

Draco closed his eyes and inhaled.  He hadn't left the flat in so long he'd forgotten how sharp and bitter the air in it had become.  "I'm trying to develop a potion," he said.

"In your kitchen?"  Harry asked.  He sounded dumbfounded.  "To do what?"

"It doesn't matter," Draco said.  "So far it's all been a failure."  Like the rest of my life, he thought to himself. 

"Odd," Harry said and shook his head.  "Draco," he asked, and then seemed to hesitate.

"How's Jean?"  Draco asked.

"Gone," Harry said.  "Released back to France, obliviated and cured."

"Good," Draco said.  

Harry seemed to be casting about to find a way to say something he couldn't quite frame, and Draco wanted to tell him to just spit it out, but at last, he asked, "What would you do if someone tried to hurt Hermione?"

Draco could feel his hands curl into fists, and an almost unreasonable fury creep through his bones and his blood.  "Malfoy money buys a lot of things," he said with as much of an indifferent drawl as he could manage.  "I'm sure I can get rid of whoever is bothering her without ending up in Azkaban.  Who is it?"

Harry just smiled. "What if that person were your father?" he asked.

Draco shuddered because that was the nightmare.  "My father has been quite supportive of my taking care of Hermione," he said.  He knew he sounded stiff, but there wasn't much he could excuse in the whole affair other than that his father hadn't truly been responsible for her suffering.  That had been Jean's fault, if fault could be assigned to what had been an accident.  "He and my mother helped me get this - "

"What if he had done it to her on purpose?" Harry asked.

"I'd kill him," Draco said without thought.    He then heard the words and felt all the air whoosh out of him and he sat down himself, deflated by his own truth.  

"I had a hard time not killing Jean," Harry said conversationally.  He leaned back against his chair and Draco felt himself examined under a glance that was casual only on the surface.  "At first it was pretty easy.  He'd been a bit of a selfish arse, but he hadn't done it on purpose, but the longer Pansy was around, the angrier I got."  

"What are you trying to say?" Draco asked.

"Hermione thinks it's a secondary infection," Harry said.  "Same basic vectors, she called them, but the disease mutates into a violent protective streak instead of dependence."

Draco stared at Harry, then jumped up and began to rummage through the bookshelves.  He'd never sent her things over, and she'd never asked for them. He'd taken that as a sign of hope that on some level she planned to come back someday, though maybe in the ruckus Clotilda inevitably left in her wake there just hadn't been time.  At any rate, this book had never been hers.  He pulled it free and tossed it across the room.

Harry caught it easily and looked down at the cover.  "A Briefe and True Report of Magical Zoonoses, by Feder Plume," he read.  "Sounds scintillating. I had no idea your reading tastes were so - "

"He's a right git," Draco said.  "But he reports that when he tried to touch one of what he calls the 'lesser Veela' the woman's husband left him bloody with the beating he got."

"They don't like to be touched," Harry said, but he'd opened the book and started to flip through it.  "Hermione makes a point of hugging me.  Says she refuses to give up on all her friendships, but I know it makes her feel like she stuck her hand in slime or something."

Draco picked up a snitch sitting on the top shelf and began to pass it back and forth.  Hermione touched him, and he knew his reactions to her being threatened, or even insulted, were out of proportion.  She touched Harry, though not nearly as much. "Do you remember when we played Quidditch?" he asked, feeling his way towards an answer.  "You went after me?"

"I always go after you on the pitch," Harry said absently.  He was still trying to find the reference in the book.  "It's what we do."

"Afterward," Draco said.  "When she came outside."

Harry looked up and mouthed the word, "Shite."   It wasn't just the mate, then, who turned violent.  It was anyone the Veela touched, though that wouldn't, in the normal course of things, be many people. 

Draco nodded, and then Harry began to laugh.  He must have looked confused, or maybe angry, because Harry said.  "It's the giant flaw in your arsehole father's plan.  He can make Veela.  He could probably even manipulate the mate selection if he were enough of a creep, but that mate will turn on him once the secondary infection kicks in."

Draco began to laugh too. He knew the sound was tinged with hysteria, but he hadn't been this relieved about anything since the man in front of him had stood up from pretending to be dead and killed a monster.  When he calmed down, he asked, struggling to find a way to make polite conversation because that's what Malfoys did, "How's Pansy?"

Harry grinned at that, just as relieved as he was to change the subject.  "Terrifying," he said.  

"You don't look terrified," Draco said.  He looked, if anything, delighted.  

"She's wonderful," he said.  "I mean, Merlin help you if you get in her way - "

"True enough," Draco said.

" - and she's mean, and spiteful, and I think she's decided to see just how angry she can make Ron, but… did I ever tell you about my aunt and uncle?"

Draco shook his head.  

"Hermione must have told her about them because she somehow got her hands on Muggle weed-killer, something so strong it can't possibly be legal, and went and wrote 'fuck you' in perfect script on my Uncle Vernon's lawn."

"He wasn't a good - "

"Locked me in my room, withheld food," Harry said.  He waved off the look of shock with a quick, impatient gesture.  Draco supposed that if you lived through Voldemort, maybe abusive relatives were easy to get over.  Or more likely he just didn't want to talk about it.  "She took a picture of him when he found it.  It's… damn, Draco.  How could you let a woman like that go?"

"I'd rather eat glass than deal with her that way," Draco said.   "But that… that was, well, I can't call it nice of her. It was - "

"It was perfect," Harry said.  "She's perfect."

"If you say so," Draco said.  

Harry set the book down.  "It was because you cared," he said.

Draco knew Harry had moved on to why Hermione had become his, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  It hurt too much now that she didn't want to be.  

"For Pansy, it was that I… when she tried to turn me over to Voldemort, I didn't hate her.   She said I was the only person in the room he didn't look at her like she was dirt."

"She was scared," Draco said.

"I do know that," Harry said.  He took a deep breath. "For Hermione, it was because you cared when your aunt was… when your aunt was hurting her."

"I didn't stop her," Draco said. He'd hated himself for that even before Hermione had shown up at the Manor needing him. "It wasn't enough."

"It was enough to form a bond," Harry said. "And if those files are any indication, it's a bond that doesn't go away.  The only couple that tried to fight it… it ended badly.  You two have to stop this."

"I know," Draco said.  "But she hates me."

"She doesn't," Harry said.   "I think she's hurting more from… the disease isn't why she's crying every night.  She didn't used to cry, not even when it got bad."

"She should," Draco said.  Hate him, he meant.  He would in her place.

Harry shrugged.  "Since when has she done what she should?  If Hermione only did what she should do, we'd all be dead.  I think if you said you… have you even tried apologizing?"

"Words are meaningless without," Draco began, then stopped.   He wanted to say words were meaningless without something to back them up, but he had nothing.  The potion was still just an idea.  He hadn't told his father off.  He hadn't done anything that mattered. He tried to think of what to say and just settled on, "If it gets bad, you'll tell me, right?  Even if she doesn't want me there, you can sneak me in so I can set a hand on her in her sleep and make it better."

"I think you should just try talking," Harry said.  "Sneaking around was how you fucked this up to begin with.  Secrets make things worse.  Trust me, I know."

After he left Draco sat without moving for a long time before he dragged himself back to the cauldron he'd set up over the stove and began to brew the newest variation on polyjuice he was trying.  Blaise thought this one might help them figure out what core ingredients they needed and if he was working he didn't have to think.

If he was working, he didn't have to miss her.

Chapter Text

Hermione eased herself down into the stuffed armchair in the room that had somehow become Pansy's office.  It wasn't a bad day, she told herself.  Not really.  She'd taken a shower, and the hot water had helped, and the potion should kick in any minute.   She'd taken to sitting in here because Harry and Ron hovered.  They cared, and they fretted, and they brought her hot tea and asked if she needed anything and they meant so, so well but it made her want to scream.

Pansy, never sympathetic, rolled her eyes. "You are being ridiculous," she said.  "You are suffering just to be a pain in the arse."

"Sex slaves,"  Hermione said shortly.  She preferred Pansy's blunt nature to hovering, but that didn't mean she wanted to rehash why she wasn't soaking up the balm Draco had to offer.  "The price for that cure is too high."

Pansy threw a wadded-up piece of parchment at her.   "No one's suggesting you go cuddle up to Lucius," she said.  "Hell, if you wanted to do that, I'd worry Harry had brewed your drugs wrong.  But Draco is just a cowardly idiot."

"Who should have told me."

Lynx jumped onto her lap, burrowed her head into her stomach, and began to knead her paws up and down.  The cat had a very loud purr for the size of her body, though she was hardly tiny anymore.  She could feel Pansy's eyes on her, and rather than look up and meet them she smoothed out the parchment in her hands and began to read.  It was hard to focus on the text; the words kept swimming in and out of focus and she squinted at the neat handwriting in confusion.  It looked like the first draft of Pansy's book on the Blacks, though most of it had been crossed out.  "Your book?" she asked.  "It's not going well?"

Pansy threw another crumpled-up sheet of parchment.  This one hit her on the nose and when she threw it back, she missed terribly and had a brief, horrible flashback to physical education in primary.  One great thing about Hogwarts had been that, after the mandatory flying lessons, you could spend all your time in the library if you wanted.   

Pansy snorted at her missed shot, then asked, "You really prefer this drugged stupidity to the bloody perfection that is - "

"He should have told me,"  Hermione said. She wanted to yell, but the words came out worn and lost instead.  

"Yeah," Pansy agreed.  "And he shouldn't have let Voldemort brand him, and he shouldn't have broken Harry's nose, and he shouldn't have let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He should have told that wretched Dumbledore what was going on, but he didn't. In case you missed it, Draco has a long history of poor decisions and secrets."

Hermione slouched down in the chair and didn't answer.  She knew that rationally.  She just couldn't get past the lurch in her stomach and the thud of her heart when she'd walked into his room and realized he'd been lying to her.  Well, she admitted to herself, maybe not exactly lying.  He'd never said a single thing that wasn't true.  It was lying by omission, maybe.  But in that moment it had suddenly all been a lie. The lovely flat, the kindnesses, the gifts.  The kisses.  

"He never showed me his Mark," she said.  She knew it sounded stupid.  She knew it sounded petty and ridiculous and she expected Pansy to scoff and her and call her pathetic.   She didn't.

"He does love you," Pansy said.  She sounded sad, and maybe worried for the first time. "I know he's a shite, and I hope you make him get down on his bloody knees and beg forgiveness, but - "

"He doesn't," Hermione said. She looked down at the cat, kneading away.  It was hard to reconcile the man in that spartan room with the man who'd gotten her a kitten.  "He was just polite."

Pansy made a sound of utter frustration.   

"At least Jean's gone," Hermione said in an attempt to change the subject.  They'd given him his last dose, hauled him back to France, and left him obliviated in his own home.  Before she'd cursed him to forget, he'd hurled the romance novel she'd left for him at her head, flames licking at its well-thumbed pages.  She might have felt guilty for that little bit of knife-twisting malice if her bones hadn't already begun to ache again.  He'd had ten days of boredom he wouldn't even remember.  She and Pansy had a lifetime of dependency.

Pansy hurumphed.  She'd spit at him as they'd left him  "Not that it would have made it acceptable, but somehow that he was bad at sex seems like an added insult to the whole injury he did us."

Hermione tried not to smile at that, but it was hard.  "Well," she said, "the magic makes Veela hard to resist.  It doesn't give them skills."

"Or size."

She was glad she wasn't drinking anything because she would have spit it out at that. Not that it wasn't true.  Poor Jean had been forgettable in every way except his beauty.

“I mean,  I know size isn’t everything - " Pansy went on.

“ - but it isn’t nothing either,”  Hermione felt obligated to say.  

“I beg to differ.  It was nothing, or near enough.”

Hermione didn't know how Pansy had done it, but her mood had definitely shifted and now she was laughing.  It might have been cruel vindictive laughter, but it was laughter.  “It might not have been so bad if he’d had other talents. I wish - ”

“If wishes were horses," Pansy said,  "beggars would ride.”

“Riding was what wasn’t happening.”

And with that, Pansy joined in the laughter.  The mirth was great until her breathing grew labored, and her sides ached with the dull reminder that she should probably go lie down.  It just seemed too exhausting even to pull herself out of the chair and down the hall.

Pansy gave her a long, appraising look, then jerked herself to her feet.  Just looking at the rapid movement made Hermione's hips ache and something heavy settle itself over her shoulders.  "Get up," Pansy said.

"What?" 

"I'm tired of you moping around.   You sigh, and you groan, and the potions Harry brews for you smell the place up. Put your shoes on.  You're going home."

Hermione thrust her lower jaw out in what she knew was a very unattractive pout but she couldn't seem to help herself.  "No," she said.

"Oh yes," Pansy said. "I want to have loud sex on the stairs, and you are in my way. Go home, Granger.  Let the idiot grovel, make him buy you every shiny rock in all of Diagon Alley, but I cannot believe you are so stubborn you'd rather die than let him apologize."

"I am not - "

"Oh, you are," Pansy said.  "If I have to carry you there myself, so help me, you are going home."

"What gives you the right - "  Hermione started to ask but the delighted smirk on Pansy's face stopped her.  It should have warned her.

"I can have loud sex outside your room every night, Granger.  I can keep you up with shrieks and breathless yelling, and if you do not get your arse out of my house, do not test me because I will."

"Harry wouldn't," Hermione began, but one look at the glint in Pansy's eyes and she knew that Harry most certainly would.  

Whatever else Pansy was, she was good for Harry.  She glared at autograph seekers, she yelled at bumbling old ladies who wanted to touch him for good luck, she'd told Molly Weasley to stop treating him like an idiot and where had she been when he'd been locked in his room, bars on the window?  Molly had started to stammer out an outraged answer until Pansy had pointed a manicured talon at the woman's face and said, "You were afraid to break the rules and your sons had to drive an illegal car to his place and rescue him. You ought to be ashamed."

Molly had slammed the casserole she'd brought over down on the table, made a derogatory comment about the overpriced decorator, and left.  Pansy had wrinkled her nose at the food, looked at Ron with exaggerated pity, and said, "No wonder you used to scarf the food at Hogwarts down like a starving man if this is what you were used to."

That, Hermione thought as she allowed Pansy to haul her to her feet and hustle her down the stairs, had been unfair. Molly was a good cook.  Ron had blustered and postured and told her to see if she could do better.  

Pansy had made a beef wellington, wearing her insane stilettos the entire time, and put it on the table in front of Ron with smug pleasure.  "Want to see what I can do with pastry?" she'd asked.

Harry had, but they'd disappeared back into his muffliatoed room before she'd done more than pull out cream and sugar and whipped them together with a spell Hermione had never heard.  They'd taken the whipped cream with them.   She and Ron had managed to have an entire conversation that never once mentioned that, though he'd looked both ill and put out the entire time. 

Hermione stopped at the doorway of the townhouse and asked the question that suddenly struck her.   "How do you plan to have sex on the stairs with Ron down the hall?" she asked.

"One problem at a time," Pansy said.  "I'll bring the cat over tomorrow, so don't worry about her, and I'm sure there's a nice girl out there somewhere eager for a ginger indigent.  Nice.  Desperate.  Whatever.  I'll find her and unload him."

"Are you ever not a bitch?" Hermione asked.

Pansy smiled. "Well, I'm not dead yet, so who knows what will happen. Now move."

Chapter Text

When Draco heard the pounding on the door, he dropped the pestle he'd been using to grind up sparrow feathers.  It hit his foot, and he swore loudly.  Whoever it was slammed their fist into the door again.

"Expecting someone?" Blaise asked.   He had papers spread out over the counter and had been making a series of meticulous checkmarks to log which variations of their potion had demonstrated which qualities.  They'd been working for several hours and they were all getting a little testy.  "I didn't realize you had friends."

"I have you," Draco said shortly.  Every step to the door hurt.  Why did dropping things on your toe hurt so much?  It seemed like a pain all out of proportion to the injury.  Their uninvited visitor knocked again, if you could call a sound that demanding and imperious a 'knock'.

"Matter of opinion," Blaise said.  "Are we his friends, Theo?"

"I just work here," Theo said.

"You're both arseholes," Draco said as he unlatched the door and threw it open.  He didn't know who he was expecting.  He hadn't ordered any takeaway, and he'd been so nasty to the last person who'd come by raising money for some do-gooder plan or other he suspected the doorman had taken to heading them off to avoid a repeat of the complaint the fellow had filed with the Ministry.  He knew he wasn't expecting Pansy Parkinson, resplendent as always in heels too high and lipstick too red, and he certainly wasn't expecting Hermione, who stood half behind Pansy with a scowl on her perfect face.

"You look like shite," Draco said.

"I said this was a bad idea," Hermione said.  She'd already turned to go when Pansy grabbed her by the arm and shoved her through the door with one hard shove.  Hermione toppled onto him and he stood there, stunned, unable to move.  She did look horrible. She'd tied her hair back into some grotesque form of submission it clearly resented.  Her skin seemed sapped of all its colour so instead of a warm brown it looked more like the sort of greyish dirt you'd find in an empty lot where people tossed out used fags.  She was thin - much too thin - and she felt fragile in a way he couldn't explain.  She jerked herself free of him, her eyes clear and angry.

"He's right," Blaise said.  "He's tactless but observant.  You do look like shite."

"We can put that on his tombstone," Hermione said.  "Tactless but observant."

"And yours can read, 'Stubborn Unto Death,'" Pansy said, which made Blaise snicker.  "I'll bring the cat by tomorrow.  Go play kissy-kissy and make up."

Ron and Harry must have been a block behind them, because they came running up the stairs, ready to save the damsel, and Draco spared a thought that they were ridiculous.  Hermione had never needed saving.   "Great," he muttered.  "The gang's all here."

Pansy wrinkled her nose, and at first, he thought it was at Ron because, really, who didn't want to make faces at that one, but she said, "What's that horrid smell?  I thought Harry's pain potions for your little Veela were bad, but that is so much worse."

"It's a potion I'm working on," Draco said.

"It smells like something died," Pansy said.

"So, like amorentia, then," Blaise asked.  At her glare, he said, "He has come back from the dead twice."

"Don't be an arse," she said, but the look she tossed over her shoulder at Harry was more than fond.

"What's it for?"  Hermione asked, her curiosity briefly stronger than her anger at him.  Draco felt a sad smile wrap itself around his heart.  That was his girl; smart and interested in ideas and magic and mysteries to the point she could forget about anything else.   The smile faded away because, of course, she wasn't his girl.  Not in any real way. 

Draco didn't answer.  She looked over at Blaise, who looked smug and pleased with himself. Since she knew that was his normal expression, it didn't clarify the situation.  When no one spoke, quiet, awkward Theo sighed. "It's a simulacrum."

"Right now it's a lot of nothing," Blaise said. "I'm betting it's a chimera."

"We'll get it," Theo said.  He frowned as he looked down at the jar of leeches in his hand. "Eventually."

"A simulacrum of what?" Hermione asked.

"Well, anyone." Theodore said, his rectitude falling away once he had a bookish topic to go on about, "Ideally anyway.  We're using Polyjuice Potion as a base to springboard off from, and I think we've made a little progress."

"In what sense," Blaise asked.

"Well, we've ruled several things out," Theo said.  

"I'm not following you here," Pansy said. "Spill it, Draco.  What are you and awkward over there up to?"

It was Blaise who finally answered.  "We're trying to free you from Potter, Pansy my love.  The idea is throw his hair in the batch, and, rather like polyjuice, it will mimic him.  Except, instead of turning you into a boring copy of the Chosen One, it will trick your Veela self into thinking he's around so you don't get sick."

"Why would I want that?" Pansy demanded.  They all looked at her and she snorted. "Give up the best sex ever?  How stupid do you think I am?"

Everyone, including Hermione, turned to look at Harry.  A dull shade of red crept up his neck and cheeks until he almost burned with the embarrassment.  "You're having sex with her?"  Ron demanded. 

"Ron," Hermione hissed.  "The whipped cream?  What did you think they were doing?"

"I tried not to think about it," he said. He looked dumbfounded and disgusted.  

"Yes," Pansy said.  "We're having sex."

"How!?"

The question was directed at Harry but it was Pansy who answered.  "With his penis," she said. "Among other things. I don't care to spell it all out for you."

Harry got redder.  

"Don't you think that's… aren't you worried about taking advantage?"  Draco asked.  He tried not to look at Hermione, or Blaise for that matter.  If truth be told, he'd rather not look at anyone right now.  He wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.  Whenever he'd fantasized what a possible reunion with Hermione might be like, he hadn't included a discussion of Harry Potter's sex life.

Pansy crossed her arms and tapped her foot.  "Taking advantage?  You'd better not be suggesting I am some sort of child who doesn't know her own mind.  Because that wouldn't end well for you."

"Kill him, you kill Hermione," Blaise pointed out.

"Maiming won't kill him," Pansy said. "Assuming he staunches the bleeding in time."

"If anyone was taken advantage of, it was me," Harry muttered.  Pansy threw him a look and he held his hands up quickly. "Not that I'm objecting."

"I don't want to know," Ron said.

"I do."  Blaise stopped wiping potions ingredients off his hands and leaned against the counter.  "I am, in fact, all ears as to the sexual prowess of the Chosen One.  I believe there was a mention of whipped cream?  Do expand on that."

"I could maim you too," Pansy said. 

Hermione ignored all of their byplay to look first at the potions ingredients laid out on the counter.  She had to recognize most of them as components you needed for Polyjuice: lacewing flies, a powder that was surely bicorn horn, fluxweed.  Item after item she ticked off the recipe. "What are the feathers for?" she asked.  

"Siren sparrow," Theo said. "The idea is that since they enchant the hearer - "

"Though my mother is oddly immune," Draco muttered.

" - they might work as a counter agent to, well, your enchantment."

Before she could respond to that, an owl swooped down and tapped her beak against the glass of the window, then, when no one opened it for her quickly enough, tapped again with impatient disgust.  Draco gave her an awkward smile before he opened the window and let the bird in.  He wanted to tell her all about the potion.  He wanted to tell her he was trying to do something right, something meaningful. He wanted to explain he hadn't want to apologize until he had more than empty words to offer her.  Instead, he took the letter the owl had tied to its leg and patted the bird on the head.

The owl hooted imperiously and it did the best possible owl look of disdain, squinting down its nose in a perfect mimicry of its mistress. 

"What is it?"  Ron asked.  

The next to last thing Draco wanted to do was read his personal correspondence out loud, but at the moment he also didn't have much of a choice.  It was still better than the very last thing he wanted to do, which was hear more about Pansy, Harry, and whipped cream, so he sighed, pried open the silver Malfoy seal on the back of the folded parchment, and began to read.

My Dearest Draco,

The Witch's Aide Society is looking for new board members and I thought at once of your lovely Hermione.   It's quite a time commitment, of course, but do ask her if she would be interested in joining the organization.  Also, tell her to wear that pin, the feather one.   I need to take your father to St. Mungo's, which is quite tiresome because of the smell of antiseptic, but he has taken to staring up into the trees with a blank look on his face and I really can't understand it.   Owl me about Hermione.  ~  Mum

Hermione looked over at Draco.  At the feel of her stare, he became suddenly very interested in his fingernails.  "Draco," she said slowly, "didn't you tell me you released that siren sparrow at the manor?"

"Siren sparrow?"  Ron asked, but Blaise had begun to laugh.

"I might have," Draco muttered. "I might have gone and gotten the rest of them, too."

Silence greeted that confession.

"You said you didn't like the idea of sentient creatures being sold as pets," he said rapidly, "and I could quite see your point, and it seemed if I'd already let one go there, it made sense to release the rest in the same place."

"So," Hermione said, "your parents' property is filled with birds that enchant anyone who hears them?"

"Well, it's not like my mother goes outside much," Draco said.  He still didn't meet her eyes.  "And they don't seem to bother her anyway."

"I never would have thought of your father as the sort of man who likes the outdoors," Harry said.

"He's very British, after all," Blaise said.  "Brisk walks are good for the constitution."  

"You released birds on the property knowing your father likes to go out for walks?" Hermione asked.

Draco gave her a bit of a tentative grin.  "Maybe," he said.

"Snake," Hermione said and she sounded halfway fond again.

"You did know that," he said.  "It isn't quite fair to blame me for qualities you've always known I had."

That, he knew sounded a bit like encoded speech.  It was. That wasn't about the bird.  Just being in her presence, even with the very briefest of touches they'd had earlier, and he could feel his heart settle into a rhythm with hers that it had longed for during their separation.  He wondered if she could feel it too.  He'd never asked.  Did she hear what he was saying?  Would she care?

She looked at their audience.  Harry, Ron, Pansy, Blaise and Theo all looked back, worried, smug, and expectant.  "Get out," she said. 

And they did.

Chapter Text

When the last of their friends had filed out, Draco's smile trembled and then disappeared.  "I'm sorry," he said.  He sat down on a stool at the kitchen counter.  "There were things I didn't want you to know because," he hesitated and Hermione wished she had something in her hands she could twist. Standing here with nothing to do and nothing to say was agony. She hated these sorts of emotional scenes.  They felt uncomfortable. They felt wrong.  And if she knew anything about the man standing before her she knew he wasn't one for this sort of thing either.  He didn't open up. He didn't share. That was the root of their problem:  he'd locked himself away in that barren room and told her nothing. This had to be as miserable for him as it was for her.

"Because," she prompted when it seemed like he wouldn't go on.  

"Because I didn't think you could like me if you knew," he said after a pause that felt eternal but probably hadn't lasted longer than two beats of her heart. "I knew it was vile, and I knew I could never tell him, but he's my father and I wanted… I wanted somehow to make both of you - "

"I wish you'd let me in," Hermione said.   Making her and Lucius both happy was impossible.  She didn't want to dwell on that.  She knew she was making him choose, or Lucius was.   "You had everything from me and I had, what, a cat?"

Draco looked away.  "How do you start that conversation?" he asked.  "Hey, by the way, sorry I didn't tell you my father has these horrible ideas and at first I was happy to help him, or at least I didn't tell him no, and I should have… and now I'm not, but - "

"I don't know," she admitted.  "I still wish… you've never even shown me your Mark."

He looked a little incredulous at that and she shrugged.  Maybe it was just a symbol, but it was a fraught one.

"I hate it," he said.  "That's why.  I wasn't trying to… it's hardly a secret I was a Death Eater."  His tongue stumbled a little at the end, and he didn't meet her eyes, but he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and rolled the fabric up with slow, miserable care.  She stepped forward and stared down at the Mark.  The black she'd seen on other Death Eater's arms had faded into a dull grey. It was ugly.  It was the color of lost dreams.  It was hopelessness made flesh.  She reached a finger out to touch it and hesitated, her hand hovering just above his skin.

"It won't call him," Draco said.  His throat bobbed as he swallowed and she wondered what nightmares lay behind those words.  What had happened when it had called him?

"I know," she said softly.  "I just…I wish this hadn't happened to you."

"Well, that makes two of us," he said, trying for a levity he didn't quite manage.  

Then there was silence, and she traced her fingers along the lines in his arm. He flinched at the contact, and she felt dirty that euphoria flooded her when she touched even that.  Even the worst of him made her feel good.   

"I hated you," he said.   She could feel tears burn at the edge of her eyes.  "You, and Potter, and Weasley.  You were free of this, you had friends, you weren't in a cage.  It was… sometimes I wanted you to die."

She pulled her hand away.   This was a horrible conversation.  It had started badly and it just got worse.

"Then," he said, "all I had to do was nothing, and… and for the first time I didn't have to be the monster.  I could save one person just by being, and, Merlin, I'm an idiot."  He stopped talking and that left her compelled to speak because as bad as this conversation was, silence was worse.

"I'm pretty much… I shouldn't have walked out," she said.   He'd told her he'd do anything for her. She'd seen him attack people for her. She'd felt their blood and breathing and souls try to align and she'd still believed the worst. She should have known better.  She prided herself on being logical and clear-minded and she'd still stormed out like a schoolgirl going to cry in an empty classroom.  "I should have listened."

"I hadn't given you any reason to trust me," he said.  "Not when… not when it was my father."

"Did you really release those birds?"

That made him smile.  "I did," he said softly.  

"And the potion?"

He looked over toward the kitchen.  When Blaise and Theo had left they'd left half-chopped ingredients on the counters and sheets of notes strewn about.  "We haven't managed it," he said.  "I didn't want to tell you until it was done."

She thought about asking why but she was pretty sure she knew. It had been meant as a peace offering.  He hadn't thought she'd take him at his word and so had planned to bring her the sort of gift that really meant something.  Pansy had told her to let him buy her every jewel in wizarding Britain but he'd already had something better than that in mind.  She tried to ignore the stinging at her eyes but a few tears fought their way free.

"I've made you cry," he muttered miserably.  

"It's the nicest gift anyone's ever given me," she tried to say but what came out was, "Nicest gib any me."  She wiped at her eyes and took the handkerchief he handed her, cleared her nose, then said, "Thank you."

"I always have one," he said. "You know my mum."

"I meant," she started, but he interrupted her.

"Doesn't matter if it's not done yet.  Doesn't count."

"It does," she said.  She looked at his face.  The bags under his eyes were too deep.  His fair skin showed the shadows of no sleep all too clearly, and she wondered how many nights he'd driven himself to stay up and test variant after variant until he was so tired he couldn't remember whether he'd stirred clockwise or the other way.  He looked the way he had their sixth year, only she hadn't loved him then.  "I'm not going to… there's no… you don't have to get it done by a certain date," she said, remembering how he'd been forced to perform that way before.

"You were suffering," he said and she closed her eyes.  Maybe it was right that for the two of them that was how they said, 'I love you.'  He'd said he loved her, and she reached a hand out, her eyes still closed, and pressed her fingertips against his mouth.  The thrill of the curse poured through her and she thought of Pansy, openly scornful of letting this go in favor of a potion.  

"I'm not suffering now," she said.

He took a step closer and she could feel his breath shudder out against her hand.  "You came back," he said. "I didn't think you would."

"Pansy made me," she said.  This was honesty hour, after all.

He snorted at that.  "No one makes you do anything.  You can't be held or chained or forced.  Even magic so old it impresses my mother won't get you to do something against your will.  You're the stubbornest witch alive.  If you're here, it's because - ."

And then he stopped, afraid to go on.

"Because I want to be," she said into that space.   She hesitated before she asked, "Would you prefer I take your potion and go away?"

"No!"  That word ripped itself out of his too quickly for guarded half-truths or careful Slytherin parsing.  "Please stay."

She felt that she should throw herself into his arms at that. This was the moment in romance novels when the heroine swooned, and the hero swept her up the stairs to ravish until dawn. 

They never used contraceptive spells in romance novels, and no one ever tripped on their way up those stairs, or looked away at this pivotal moment, not sure how to go on.  She wished life could be as neat as a book.  She wished she could tell what the right thing to do was.  She picked a crumpled bit of parchment up off the floor and smoothed it out.  Someone had written a neat list of ingredients and crossed them out one at a time. She ran her thumb along the edge and poked it under her nail, endless fidgets. 

"Do you want to stay?"  Draco asked.  

She breathed out a spell, wandless, perhaps, but not a transformation she could make silently.  The paper turned and twisted in her hands.  The brown of the parchment shifted to a black, and the torn edge solidified into a green stem even as that black became not paper but petals and even as those petals ruffled.

When she looked back at Draco, when she held the iris out for him to take, his eyes had gone suspiciously bright.  "A clever bit of magic," he said.  "You always were a bit of a swot."

She shrugged.  "I'm not that talented," she said. "I couldn't tackle creating a potion from nothing the way you are."

"It's not quite from nothing," he said, but he looked gratified.

"You always were good," she said.

He shook his head. "I wasn't," he said.

This, she thought, was the moment.  "You were," she said and leaned forward to kiss him.  The rush was still there.  He soared through her as a cold wind cleaning all the cobwebs out, and she didn't even realize he'd dropped the flower and pulled her tightly against him until his fingers were digging into her back.  He held on like a man afraid to fall.  She was the cliff and he could only see the pounding waves below them.  He could only see the rocks that broke the water up, and she wanted to tell him not to worry.  Together, surely, they could fly.

Veela had wings, didn't they?

"I wasn't," he said again, his mouth breaking from hers long enough to be contrary.  

She said one last thing before she claimed his lips again.  "You will be."

.
.
.
.
.
~ finis ~

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy smiled at the elder Goyle and pulled the book of photographs out of the pockets of his robes. Goyle smiled with the stiff courtesy of a man who doesn't dare antagonize his patron and took a nervous sip from his water glass.   "This is Cassie," Lucius said, turning to the first picture of his oldest grandchild.  "She takes after Narcissa."

Cassiopeia Granger-Malfoy would have disputed that.  She stridently claimed she took after no one, and that fairies had left her on the doorstep.   It was certainly possible.  She looked like her parents, that couldn't be disputed, and she had her mother's sharp intellect, but she had no interest in flying or genealogy, thus tossing both her father and grandmother's interests aside.  Cassie liked rocks.

"This is Scorpius," Lucius said, turning to the next page in his book. The blond boy was a near duplicate of Draco, as if his mother's genetics had opted out of this one, but she said he was nervous the same way she had been as a child, taking refuge in books and libraries because if you just read enough you'd always know the right answer.  

"And Lyra," Lucius said.  He continued to claim his third grandchild had been named after him because of the L, and that that made her his favorite. Lyra had no problem shamelessly exploiting this and Draco had already bought the child so many green and silver snake-themed accessories Hermione had stopped even complaining other than muttering now and then that one would have thought he'd learned his lesson to wait for the actual Sorting when Cassie turned out to be a Ravenclaw.  Lyra beamed out of the picture and blew a kiss to her grandfather.  Lucius beamed back.  

"They're very nice," Thoros Nott said.  He picked up his wine glass and took a sip.  "For half-bloods."

"At least my son isn't a poof," Lucius said in a cold voice.  

"Poof, poof, horse's hoof," Goyle said.  They both glared at him and he gulped more water before looking down into his glass as though he could find a prophecy in the arrangement of the ice cubes.

"Percicval is a pureblood," Thoros said.  "The Nott line is untainted."

"Hermione is a magical being," Lucius said in return,  "and thus purer than any of us. And the Nott line is ended unless human reproduction no longer requires women."

Thoros snorted, but let it go.  They'd gone round on the blood status of Draco's children for years, and neither had convinced the other of his position.  Lucius had to throw in one more jab.  "Do you really think I'd carry photographs around of half-bloods?"

"Your judgment has been off since your boy married that girl," Thoros said.  "Your hair, for example."

Goyle snickered, then slouched even lower in his chair at Lucius' glare.  "We have a bird infestation," Lucius said.  "I have tried getting cats, tried kneazles, tried traps, but nothing works."

"Birds?"  Thoros asked.

"Siren sparrows," Lucius said.  It was an ongoing source of frustration because he had no idea where they had come from, or why they had set up a colony on his property, but there seemed to be more of the things every year, and they loved his hair.  Every time he went outside, one of them appeared and began to sing and while he stood there, mesmerized, a flock of them descended on his head, yanking out all the hair they could.  The only solution had been to shave his head and that didn't stop them from charming him into a dazed state, but at least he no longer came to with sharp pains in his skull.  "And they're protected.  Someone introduced a bill into the Wizengamot to recognize them as sentient creatures - "

"Which they are," Thoros said.


" - and now it's illegal to trap them, or shoot them, or anything."  Lucius ground his teeth until he looked at the photograph of Lyra beaming up at him.  The birds never seemed to bother her, or Narcissa, or really anyone except him and, upon occasion, Draco.  He sighed, smiled down at his granddaughter, and put the pictures away.  "And how is Greg these days," he asked.

Goyle reached a hand up to scratch at his ear and mumbled out a half-heard reply.  Rumors were that Greg had managed to impregnate another Muggle, which would make four.   It was a tad embarrassing for a man who still had the grey Mark of his pureblood extremist views under his dress robes.  Marriage eluded his son, witches seemed to avoid him, and, worse, he didn't seem to be able to cast a contraceptive charm.  "At least the children all show signs of being magical," Lucius said.  Goyle brightened a little because that was true.  "Unlike Theodore's non-existent children."

A knife crept along the edges of Thoros' sneer.  "I was going to ask you," he said, "whatever became of that business venture you were working on.  Something about a project that would make every man's dreams come true for the right price?  I haven't heard much about that in, well, years.  Another failure?"

"It turned out to have a fatal flaw in the design," Lucius said.  He tried to sound smooth and unconcerned.  "This is why we do research before launching things."

"Mmm,"  Thoros said.  "How disappointing."

"Well, they can't all be successes," Lucius said. "I seem to recall you were quite as in love with a certain mistake as I was."

Thoros had the self-control not to tug at his shirt sleeves but his smile became less biting and more bitten.  "The folly of youth," he said.

"Interesting definition of youth," Lucius said.  He didn't quite make a point of staring at Thoros' aged mien, but it was no secret that his fellow Death Eater had been no spring chicken when he'd joined Voldemort.  Lucius opened up his book of photographs again and smiled down at the three children in one image, standing stiffly and scowling at the camera with the put-upon faces they sprouted when asked to pose.  "Now this is youth," he said.  "We'll have to get all the next generation together at the Manor for a little party.  My legitimate grandchildren, Goyle's various bastards, and, oh, that's right, you won't be there."

Thoros ground his teeth.  "I understand they are considering adopting," he said.

"Isn't that sweet," Lucius said.  "Like getting a pet."  He rose from the table.  "If you gentlemen would excuse me for a moment?"

Goyle waited until he was out of earshot to mutter, "Prick."

Thoros watched the back of their supposed friend as he wound his way through the restaurant toward the loo.  "At least our boys come round more than once a month," he said.  "Percy has so many nieces and nephews it's a Quidditch match on the back lawns whenever they're around, and the boys come themselves every Sunday night.  That son of his finds every excuse in the world to not visit."

Goyle's jaw thrust out in thick-necked sullenness.  "Malfoy's always thought he was better'n everyone else."

If Thoros' snort hadn't made his opinion of that clear, his muttered, "Upstart," would have.

Goyle grinned a mean little smile. "My wife tells me that Narcissa tells her that that girl his Draco married?  The magical Veela one?  She refuses to so much as talk to Lucius.  Actually pretends he's not in the room."

Thoros' answering smile was just as mean. "Lucius Malfoy, snubbed in his own house."

 The two men smiled at one another, equally pleased by that idea.  "You should have your boy bring his little ones over," Thoros said. "All those Weasley children can make themselves useful by teaching them the basics of how to sit a broom, how to dodge."

''Half-bloods," Goyle said.  It was still a difficult admission, but Thoros waved a hand impatiently.

"Times change," he said.   "We need to change with them."

Chapter Text

It had taken six months to brew and if he'd done it wrong,  it would be a disaster.  Blaise didn't care.  Life since the war had been one casual slur after another, and he hadn't even been Marked as a Death Eater.  He'd been determinedly neutral.  Potter was a fool and Voldemort vulgar and he'd stayed clear of them both and it hadn't mattered.  He was still lumped in with people like the idiot Goyle, who sat across from him eyeing the tiny vial of golden potion with fear and lust in his eyes.  Pansy, another one of the worst losers of the war, had put on eye makeup and red lipstick like it would shield her from the contempt in the streets.  All it did was make her look brittle.  Draco had already crossed his arms and shaken his head.  "More for the rest of us, then," Blaise said.  He poured three glasses and raised his in a toast.  "To us, may we all get lucky."

"First time for everything,"  Pansy said, downed hers, and left, Draco at her elbow as if he could protect her from her worst impulses.  He couldn't, but then she hadn't saved him from his either.  

"So this just makes me lucky?"  Greg asked. 

"Or it kills you," Blaise replied cooly.  He knew he'd brewed it right.  The books all said the smell and color were off if you bungled it, assuming it didn't blow up in your face.  He liked watching Greg Goyle lose color, though.  It made the red of his alcoholism stand out more against his pasty cheeks.  He wasn't aging well.  Only in his early twenties and he already looked ten years older.  

Goyle sneered a little, then tossed the drink down and shook his head.  "Off to get lucky," he said.

Blaise watched him go, then tipped back his own helping of felix felicis.  Impossible to buy, even with all the money in the world.  So few people knew how to brew it, it was one of those rare things you could only get with your own skill and your own time.  It stung for a moment, then seemed to evaporate and leave a wake of honey and summer in its wake.  He wanted more at once. You could get drunk just on that burn and that sweetness, but he also could feel the night tingling under his skin and he wanted to jump up and own all of it.  The world could be his again, if only for a handful of hours.  He felt alive.  His steps seemed to spring under him, and he grabbed his broom. He'd loved flying once, and something told him this would be a good night to race through the air again.

The sky had turned from deepest blue to black since he'd gathered what passed for friends together and shared his bounty with them and he flung himself into it.  The air made his eyes water and he gripped the wooden handle and bent down over it going faster, faster, and faster still until he was away from the city and the ticky-tacky Muggle houses of the suburb and out where the roads turned into dirt again and no one bothered to repair them. 

Felix whispered to him to slow down, and he did, and a figure resolved ahead in the road.  He flew slower,  confident the darkness would hide him, and listened to her let out a sting of invective that took his breath away. No polite miss, this.  No Muggle either, as the object of her ire was the broken broom that, so she told it, wasn't even good at sweeping up, much less flying.

Chivalry demanded no less than stopping to see if the stranded witch required assistance, and when he landed and she hauled out a wand he held his hands up in the universal sign that he wasn't a threat.  She cast a quick lumos and if it let her see who he was, it did the opposite as well and he let out a low whistle. Greg Goyle hadn't aged well, but Ginevra Weasley had, and she'd been beautiful to start.

"Blaise Zabini," she said warily.

"In the flesh," he said.  He smiled and followed the promptings that told him to do what he'd never, ever normally do.  Tell the truth. "I took felix tonight," he said.  "It led me right to you."

She let out a laugh so rife with derision any other night he would have crept home, furious and with pride aflame.  Tonight he just took a step closer.  "I thought I was, what did you call me, a filthy little blood traitor?"

"Word got around," he said.  "Trust Pansy to repeat things like that."

"Not a good pickup line," she said.

He shrugged. "I'd offer you a ride home, but you'd slap me for the double entendre, and you don't need one anyway.  Everyone knows you can outfly even Krum."

She seemed to take that as a challenge and kicked at the broken broom at her feet.  "I'll take you up on the ride home, though," she said. "Let's see how well you fly,  Zabini."

Then she was behind him, arms wrapped around him and cheek pressed to his back and he shot into the air as hard as he could and was rewarded with a gasp of exhilarated laughter.   Her grip tightened when he picked up speed and he could feel her excitement as he raced along.  It soaked through a shirt surely too thin for this type of speed and warmed him.  "You're a  daredevil," he said.

She just laughed even more loudly and the wind carried the sound away until it was lost behind them and Blaise thought, I want to make you do that again.

"Ever apparated while flying?" he asked.

"You wouldn't dare," she said. Then, "Show me."

He'd never have been so foolhardy without the felix coursing through his system, but he knew when to fling them both into the void so they came out, above the small park near his flat, with enough momentum still carrying them forward that they didn't spin out of control.  He settled them down and she stood on the thin patches of grass and stared at him.  The Muggle streetlamp turned her ginger hair to rubies, and her eyes to glitter and she began to smile as she stood there,  breathing hard in the night air.  "Blaise Zabini," she said, "This might just be your lucky night."

"I should hope so," he said. "It took six months to brew that potion."

Then she was on him, mouth on his, hands pulling him to her.  She was sweeter than the potion, and fiercer, and burned more, and his luck held because no one came by even when he fell into a shadow and he began to undo the buttons on her shirt with his teeth, revealing a lace bra that held the most perfect breasts he'd ever seen.

"How did you learn to do that?" she asked as he used his tongue to push the last one through the buttonhole.

"Practice," he said.  "Impressed?"

She snorted, but his luck held.  It held until they heard the sounds of drunks stumbling up the path, fresh out of the nearby pub, and he pulled her laughing again, and topless, through the back alley.  He could feel the luck fade when he fumbled with his key and they were almost caught, and knew it was gone when he realized he'd forgotten his broom in the hurry to get away. Hundreds of galleons, left in the dirt for Muggles.  He stubbed his toe on the stairs and rammed his shin against the frame of his bed.

Ginevra Weasley, no fool, watched all of this and asked, "Not so lucky anymore."

"You planning on leaving?" he asked.

"You still want me now that you aren't high?"

He began to smile. "More," he said softly, surprised even as he said it to realize it was true. 

"Then I'm staying," she said.  She pulled off one shoe, then another, and finally began to wiggle out of trousers so tight she must have poured herself into them, half melted, and let herself set into a shape he wanted to learn.  "After all, it's your lucky night."

Chapter Text

Theo Nott hadn't planned to go to Goyle's costume party. It wasn't that he didn't like Greg, though he didn't.  Greg Goyle was loud, vulgar, stupid, and rapidly drinking himself into the death he'd avoided in the war.  That, however, wasn't why he didn't usually go. It was just that he didn't like parties much, especially Greg's.  They were inevitably loud and as vulgar as the host, and he'd sip from one drink over an hour while no one talked to him then go home, more depressed than he had been before he'd arrived.  He didn't do well in groups.  He never knew what to say, or how to make small talk.  "So, you don't have a Mark on your arm," was too personal, though he'd had people say it to him more than once, hoping the answer would be that he did so they could ask to see it.  "Nice weather we're having," was both not personal enough and usually false.  "Did you read the newest article in The Journal of Potion Making on how cauldron material could be used to impact efficacy," was sure to make people drift away in boredom.

Against his better judgment, he'd come anyway.  He'd been bored and lonely and drifting around his manor until the silence had seemed so oppressive he'd decided anything had to be better.

It was, as he'd anticipated, loud.  He'd tied a small domino to his face and called it a costume but Blaise had, as usual, gone all out and looked like an advertisement to sin.  The man hadn't spotted him yet, and Theo hoped to keep it that way.  Blaise could be relentless in his drawling mockery of Theo's single state, and it got old.   

Millie had made an appearance.  He hadn't expected that.  He'd heard she'd gotten a job in Muggle fashion, of all things, and was living it up as a model in London with no time to spare for the wizarding world any longer.   She'd learned to stand up straight since they'd left school, and the curves that had looked like shapeless bulk under a Hogwarts uniform looked divine in what he recognized as a recreation of a Rubens painting.  He wondered why she'd bothered to put so much effort into a costume.  He and Draco would probably be the only two people in the room who'd recognize the allusion.  Muggle art wasn't exactly a subject young and angry war survivors tended to study.  Maybe she'd meant it as a thumb in the eye of the wizarding world.  You never appreciated me, but this world does.  He'd heard her crying more than once in the dorms after yet another lecture on how she needed to take only one cupcake at dinner.  

Greg Goyle had been spared those lectures, though he probably could have used a talk or two on moderation.  The night had barely started and he was already flushed and talking too fast.  Theo could feel his face twisting in disgust when all thought left his head.  

The man was blond, and glowing, and a tiny voice whispered he didn't even like blonds, but that didn't matter because he was leaning toward the beautiful, beautiful man as he walked through a party as if he were the only one in the room.  Theo had to fight to clear his head of the haze, and he screwed his eyes shut and in the darkness was able to refind himself.  When he looked around again, most of the women were still turning to the veela - because he had to be veela - as well as a few of the men.

Millie, he noticed, wasn't.  She saw him and raised her glass to him in a silent toast.  His lips curved up in a smile and he nodded and raised his own glass back to her.  One of men near her, still trapped in the haze, caught Theo's eye.  It took him a moment to place who he was, which was odd enough in their small world.  When he did, he sucked in his breath.  He wouldn't have expected Percy Weasley, Gryffindor head boy and all-around rule abider, to be at one of Goyle's parties.   He wondered how that had played out, but, more, he admired the man's appearance.  He'd broadened a bit since he'd left Hogwarts, and the way he'd seemed to plead for approval with every slump of his shoulders had been replaced by a physical confidence undimmed by pressed lines in an oxford shirt wholly out of place in a room filled with people who'd gone for the dramatic and wanton.

Percy Weasley didn't care he hadn't dressed like everyone else.  He'd even pushed his domino, nearly a match to Theo's back so it sat on the top of his head, casting aside what small gesture he'd made to a costume.

Theo wondered if being on the right side of the war brought that sort of self-assurance.  

Millie tipped her head toward Percy in a universal what are you waiting for gesture, and Theo tried to summon courage and cockiness and whatever else one used when one approached someone and tried to flirt.  He tried to make his approach look random, as though he'd idled over to the man with no agenda.  He was shaking his head as if the motion would rid him of the lingering effects of the veela when Theo spoke.

"Nice weather we're having," he said, then wanted to crawl into the rafters and disappear.  He should have stayed home. At least solitude wasn't humiliating.

Percy, however, seemed relieved to have someone to talk to.  "Yes," he said. "However, I understand a low-pressure system will be moving in and we can expect more seasonally appropriate rain tomorrow."

Theo nodded, his head bobbing like a pigeon's, and tried to think of what to say next.  "Having a good time?" was what he came up with.

Percy frowned and Theo could see him searching for a socially appropriate way to say, "No."  

"It's quieter at my place," he offered, then turned as red as Weasley's hair.  That wasn't subtle.  No wonder he could never manage conversations.  If it wasn't weather, it was that.

"My flat's never quiet," Percy said. "Three flatmates and the pipes are loud." His fingers fiddled with the paper wrapper on his beer.  "Must be nice to have a place where you can read.   I can't even enjoy my subscription to the Journal of Metallurgy subscription."  He sighed and looked apologetic.  "You realize most people think I am the most boring man alive, right?"

It took Theo a moment to respond because, as rude as it was, he'd been unable to control his curiosity about the hint of a tattoo that appeared above the collar of Percy Weasley's shirt.  "Uh, I doubt that's true," he finally managed to say, then, "Metallurgy?  Did you read the article about cauldron materials in last month's JPM?"

"Well, yes," Percy said.  He was clearly hedging and when Theo raised his brows in a question he said, "I think the author overstated the importance of his conclusions, however."

"No," Theo said.  He passed his drink off to someone wandering through collecting discards from the floor and hoped she was hired help and not someone so bored she was tidying. "Metal is reactive, so - "

"Not as reactive as he thinks," Percy insisted.  "And while it might wholly change the outcome of your brewing, you can't just change the strength of the potion by shifting from pewter to gold.  I think if you wait three months, you'll find the same name on a line of cauldrons."

Theo shook his head. "That's terribly cynical," he said.  

"Realistic," Percy said.  He set his bottle down. "Look, I can show you the place where his math is just off if you want to go look at it."

They were outside before Theo risked asking, "So, are you really coming over just to look at math?"

Percy was the one who turned red this time and Theo took that as a good omen.

It was.

The tattoo was very nice.

Chapter Text

Ron picked at the dinner with slouched shoulders until Pansy, never his biggest fan, said, "I'd think you'd appreciate food, Weasley.  It's not like you're used to having extra."

"Pansy," Hermione said.  "Could you not."

"I could," she said, "But don't assume I will.  Just because we share the same weird disease doesn't make us soulmates."

Draco began to rub at his head with a gesture he probably thought was stealthy.  It was the same way he tried to rub away a headache every time Pansy started in on someone, and Hermione didn't really blame him.  She slipped her bare foot against his leg under the table and let the languor of direct contact ease away her own, similar, throb.  He made a face at her and she shrugged.  It wasn't her fault he didn't get the good parts of this. She got euphoria, the occasional fire starter hands, and, she was convinced, thick and lustrous hair. He got the ongoing fear that she only liked him because she was doped into it.

And the sex.  There was something to be said for sex with a man whose most innocuous touch could send you into raptures.  Something good to be said, and she'd said it.  Often.  

Ron sighed again and muttered an apology. 

"No wonder you're still single," Pansy said.  "Who would want a boyfriend who sighs and slouches?  You're dreary."

"We don't all end up with magical bonds," Ron said sullenly, and Hermione suddenly realized why he was so upset.  His two best friends had found magically perfect relationships and he was still very single.  She half understood his frustration and half felt annoyed he would be jealous of a disease that had almost killed her, despite the glorious sex.

Glorious.  

Fear Draco would die, dooming her, still haunted some nightmares despite the closet full of potions and the Gringott's vault filled with potions and the potions in the cellars at Malfoy Manor.  She and Pansy both could live well nigh forever using the medication Draco, Blaise, and Theo had developed.  They'd both opted to go potion-free so long as their partners were alive.

"Some of us have to date," Ron said, interrupting her thoughts, "and, in case you don't remember, Parkinson, dating isn't fun."

"I always liked it," she said. "But then, I was rich and pretty, so my experience was probably different."

Hermione swallowed her snicker.  She knew perfectly well that Pansy had dated exactly one wizard since they'd all left Hogwarts, and Jean was nothing to write home about.   Harry had been her first, last, and only true love.  He still sat looking at her with so much adoration one would have thought he was the one snagged by a magical lure.   "There has to be someone you're interested in," she said.  "Maybe you can ask Ginny to seat you with someone at her wedding.  Love'll be in the air - "

"She's going to fumigate the place?  Dear Merlin."

Hermione ignored Pansy.

"As I said, love will be in the air, you'll be there, in a tent, band playing, champagne flowing.  It could be your lucky night."

Ron grumbled something about how he still couldn't believe his sister was going to marry that wanker, but the protests had become pro forma.  Ginny hexed anyone who complained about her relationship with Blaise and Blaise just looked down his perfect nose at naysayers.  Pansy reached a hand across the table to pull the wine bottle toward herself and eyed the label balefully, looking for something to complain about, but Draco had raided the cellars at Malfoy Manor for his contribution to the dinner, and she settled for pouring herself a more than generous glass before she leaned back and studied Ron.

"What do you want?"  she asked as if his life were a room she was going to redecorate.   "Blondes?  Quidditch players?  Large family?  Small family?"

Ron muttered something under his breath and then at her pointed stare said, more loudly, "You can't just shop for a partner, Parkinson."

"Well, Lavender's dead, and Granger can't cook and, besides, she and Draco are probably wanking one another off under the table, so you need to move on, and if you don't know what you want that's going to be hard."

Hermione hastened to set both her of her hands on top of the table.

"I think the only person Weasley's ever really loved is Victor Krum," Draco said.  He kept one hand under the table, though all he was doing with it was resting it on his lap.  His smirk suggested more, as did his knowing eye contact with Ron, and she'd kick him but it wasn't worth the hassle. She knew he was only trying to make Ron uncomfortable.  Three years of togetherness and he still didn't like Ron.  It wasn't that she expected him to like all her friends - she certainly didn't care for Goyle - but his knife twists remained both funny and cruel enough to make her flinch.  "He probably still kisses the poster he had in his room as a boy.  I remember how jealous he was about the Yule Ball when we were at Hogwarts."

"Yes."  Pansy drew out the word with delight. "We all assumed he was jealous over little miss swot here, but Krum makes much more sense."

"Pansy, stop," Harry said.  

She huffed but took a long sip from her glass and busied herself cutting off a slice of cheese and nibbling on it.  With Pansy's mouth full and thus quiet, Hermione could stop worrying about what she'd say next and look at Ron.  He'd turned a horrible, blotchy red.

"I am still in touch with Krum," she said.  "I could ask Ginny to invite him.  They fly against one another now and then, and everyone knows Blaise is looking to invest more in international play, so it wouldn't look odd."

Pansy swallowed and said, "No one cares if you're a poof, Ronald."

"Oh for - ," Hermione said.  "Would you shut up?"

"I'm just saying no one cares," Pansy said.  "He's poor and ginger and dreary, and people care about that.  That he might like a little cock now and then?  Who doesn't?"

"Would you do something about her?"  Hermione appealed to Harry and, by the look of it, he kicked her under the table.  She was undeterred.

"I hate all of you," Ron muttered.  "And Krum would never look at me twice."

"Well," Pansy said, "there is that."

"It would have to be the luckiest night ever," Ron said.  He took a long swallow of his own drink.  "And so, no."

"Or," Draco said, the amused devil lurking in his eyes, "so yes."

"What?" Ron asked.

Draco shrugged. "Zabini brewed up a batch of felix felicis for Pans before she found true love with the chosen one.  When she didn't need it, he passed it around.   Goyle met some Muggle girl willing to give him the time of day, Theo took Percy home to meet dear old dad, and I saved mine."

"What did he do with his own vial?"  Pansy asked.  She'd used hers on a shopping run to Paris.  Designer shoes, on sale.  A diamond tiara that needed a little maintenance but which she got for a  song.  A suite at some fancy hotel that happened to be unexpectedly available. She still reminisced about this most perfect day.

"He said his life was already luckier than any man deserved and he wasn't going to jinx it," Draco said.   "He gave it to Goyle."

"Nauseatingly sweet," Pansy said.  "Though that explains bastard number two."

"You could take it," Draco said.  "Can't say it would guarantee anything, but if there was a chance, it would happen."

Ron mumbled something that sounded like, "Not that it's going to work, but give me the thing."

"It'll work,"  Draco said.

At Ginny's wedding Hermione leaned against Draco and watched Ron wave his hands around to make a point.  Victor Krum leaned in toward him, shaking his head as if he disagreed.  The space between them was too small for comfort but neither seemed to notice.  If anything, Ron edged forward.

"Looks like it worked," she said.

"Well," Draco said smugly, "you thought I'd be wrong?  Me?  I'm very clever about these things."

She kissed him to shut him up.